08 Illusion (36 page)

Until what? Until he denied every little treasure he’d found in the girl, every flame of hope she’d lit inside him, every undeniable fact he’d gleaned that anchored his heart to hers? Until he slapped himself awake from a dream he’d always wanted, that wonderful, wishful state of heart that came uninvited, unexpected, and brought cleansing joy to his darkened state of mind?

Such was love, he supposed. Love only made sense to a point, and beyond that, didn’t answer to logic or practicality, it just went on making people complete in its own mysterious way.

And where would he be without it? That answer was easy. He’d been there already, and going back was not a happy option.

As for what lay ahead, only God knew, so maybe he didn’t have to. It would all make sense someday.

As he slipped quietly in the back door, just being home made him want to see her again, even if she was dusting the shelves or running the vacuum in her same old shirt and work jeans, even if the topic was emptying the vacuum canister or rotating the garbage cans. This house—and he—needed the sound of her voice, the prodding of her plans and intentions, the promise of her friendship.

Her VW was parked outside. She had to be in the house somewhere.

The golden-haired lady in the full-length mirror, glorious in her blue gown and shimmering jewelry, was too lovely, too regal to be she. From wherever the lady had been—and it must have been many wonderful places—she looked back into the bedroom at the cleaning girl and whispered what seemed impossible: “Mandy Whitacre.”

And the cleaning girl whispered back, “I want to be you.”

She clutched a fold of the dress and gracefully lifted it, striking a pose as the belle of the ball, and circled in place, a hint of a waltz, her feet barely lifting from the floor. From somewhere in her memory, the strains of Offenbach’s “Belle Nuit, o Nuit d’Amour” began to play and she began to sing the melody, stepping lightly, eyes closed, dreaming …

There was a man in the doorway.

She jolted and yelped as with an electrical shock, hands trembling before her face, insides so stressed she felt sick. “Ohh …” she said, and thought,
I’m dead. Totally dead. Oh, God, I’ve ruined my life, I’ve ruined everything.

The sight stunned him speechless, motionless. She was trembling, a cornered animal, trying to cover herself with her arms as if to hide—and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, just as she’d always been. Memories of Mandy in that dress came flooding back—the shows they did, the dance numbers, the illusions, the curtain calls. He’d kept it just for those memories, and now …

She was back, standing right before him.

She was falling apart, as if she’d been assembled with nuts and bolts and every nut was coming loose, every bolt was falling out, and every piece of her—her mind, her heart, her hopes, her ability to put one doggoned sentence together—was clunking to the floor. Her hands, though they tried, could never conceal her, never hide her. They finally went to her face, closing her in and covering her shame. In the dark behind them, she managed a broken, high-pitched lament, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her hands slipped down, uncovering her eyes—he was still there, still looking at her. She said again, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say a word and hardly moved except to sink into a chair near the door, never taking his eyes off her. He didn’t look angry. He looked … lost … broken.

His lingering gaze made her look at herself, touch the lovely material, gently grasp and animate a fold of the skirt. “It’s just so pretty …”

Then, meeting his eyes again, she read it, sensed it: he was
looking
at her, in no unkind or improper way, but in a way, she just now realized, she would have wanted—did want, as if the mirror were telling the truth, as if she really were the beautiful lady, as if she really could be …

With a wag of his head and wonder in his eyes he said, “Mandy.”

He could have hit her in the forehead with a beanbag. Her head jerked up, her eyes widened, and she gasped. What was this, another yes to another question?

“I was going to tell you,” she said, her voice trembling.

He felt for her. She was scared and in trouble. He smiled, and that helped. She quit trembling, drew some breaths to steady herself, and then smiled ever so sheepishly, her fingers over her mouth, a nervous giggle bubbling out. With decorum and honesty he looked her up and down, cocked an eyebrow, and sent her an approving nod. Those also helped. She let go a breath in what had to be relief, her smile broadening but still apologetic. Lifting a fold of the dress with each hand, she rotated once around, letting the dress rustle and billow in ladylike, ballroom fashion. She completed the turn with a repentant shrug, eyes anxious and asking.

And how else could he tell her?

He rose from the chair and came to her, eyes gentle and voice safely academic. “As you can imagine, this dress is best suited for a waltz.”

Her left hand went to his shoulder by itself as his hand rested gently against her back. Her right hand took his left, and immediately, spirit-deep, she felt safe. The fear was gone.

“What was that tune you were humming?” he asked.

She sang it to him, and the steps just came, one-two-three, one-two-three, in a safe little box. He knew the tune as well, and sang it with her note for note as he widened the pattern into an idyllic carousel about the room. The steps flowed without a thought as she followed his lead, the walls, windows, and furniture of the room passing like scenery behind him.

When this room became many
rooms
, when her other worlds arose in this time and place with their shifting depths, bending dimensions, and blurring colors, his touch became her fortress, his shoulder a bulwark. From within his arms she could watch without fear where she was, where else she was, where she’d been, and where she’d be. Over his shoulder, for a fleeting shred of time, she saw her apartment—the windows, the kitchenette, her bed, and
her
watching them dance.
Full circle
, she thought.
The other side of the mirror. Hi, Eloise! It’s me, Mandy! You were right! I’m dancing in the dress, with
him!

Completeness. The other half of every emotion. All he’d lost so tangibly present, as if the past few months had never happened.

He might have drawn her in with an unconscious lead of his hand, she might have chosen it herself, but as the music faded from their voices and the waltz stilled from their awareness, her arm went around his neck, she rested her face against his shoulder, and he welcomed the firm closeness of her body against his, the curves of her waist and hips, the cashmere-soft warmth coming through her dress.

Not reliving, but
still
living; not like then, but like always.

She could have stayed here forever, real and timeless, no matter when or where or which world it was. The dance had fallen behind them, slipping into one of her forgotten pasts. While worlds and times swirled around them, she and Dane became the sun, the unmoving center of it all. She clung to him as to life, caressed his back and with a slight bow of her head kissed his hand, then kissed it again. He kissed her on the cheek.

And this time she only had to turn
her
head.

It was meant to be. It had to be. It
was
and he surrendered to it, incredulous and thrilled, remembering then, living now, lost in the taste of her lips and the scent of her hair, tracing the delicate shape of her neck, her ears, her face.

So this was what it was like. She had dreamed, but now she was there, embraced by love, carried by yearning, unable, unwilling to contain the feeling and finding a whole other side of herself who’d been here before, who knew, who pressed against him, gave herself to him. Oh, to be the one who shared her life, her love, her very being with this man …

She was just as when he first met her, newly blossomed, flawless and pure, delighting in life and love as her greatest adventure—

He stopped.

She opened her eyes, met his, then dropped her head, her hands still draped over his shoulders.

He took her hands from his shoulders, gave one a kiss, and let them go. He walked into the hall, escaping with deadening reluctance into the real world.

She came to rest against the closet doorpost, arms covering her because the wonderful blue gown made her feel naked.

She was framed in the doorway, her head down, her body wilted. With arms still covering her, she tried to form words but could only shake her head.

He gathered himself and said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m very, very sorry.”

She looked at him. The joy and wonder had died from her eyes. “I, I never meant to—”

“I know. You’re very young, and not at all to be blamed. The fault for all of this is mine. To put it simply, I’m very much in love, more than I realized, but not with you. I’m in love with my wife, and I guess I always will be.”

“And …” She dabbed some wetness from her nose. “I know I could never replace her.”

With a sad smile he replied, “That’s right.”

There was a silence as each waited, but there was nothing more to say.

“I guess I should leave.”

He nodded, making sure his face was kind. “For your sake, and for the whole wonderful life you still have ahead of you, yes, you should leave. You should leave right away and never come back.” He turned, then paused. “You can report your hours to Shirley and she’ll send you your check. I’ll see to it that Arnie has your contact information. I’ll be downstairs. Be sure to put everything away where you found it.”

He left her in his bedroom, wiping her eyes and leaning like a dying lily.

Downstairs, he lit a fire in the fireplace and sat on the couch to watch the flames. He heard her footsteps when she came down the stairs. She stood for a moment in the other end of the living room, but he couldn’t turn to say good-bye. He just watched the flames while she went out the door, started up her Bug, and drove down the long driveway.

He was still sitting there after the fire had died to embers and the embers to ashes.

chapter

32

B
lack television screen. Fade up.

Illuminated by a single, hard light source to the left of screen, white hair backlit to create a corona around his head, the bearded, sagelike face of Preston Gabriel turned toward the camera. In a low, rumbling voice reminiscent of Orson Welles, he spoke.

“Psychokinesis, the claimed power to affect matter by mind alone. Spoon bending, moving small objects, causing items to fall over or fly through the air solely by the power of the mind. Is it real, or is it illusion? Tonight we find the answers on …
Gabriel’s Magic
!”

Spooky, haunting music played. Blue and fiery red images collaged across the screen: Preston Gabriel, dressed in his signature black and looking much like a wizard himself, materializing a flute, then turning it into four doves in his bare hands, levitating a girl from a table, making money appear in a volunteer’s hand, vanishing a girl from a chair, lying on broken glass while a truck runs over him, producing a girl from an empty cabinet with a puff of smoke, stabbing a selected card with a knife from a cascade of falling cards in midair. Amazing moments, looks of astonishment, teasers of things to come bombarded the eyes as the music rose to a crescendo and a title burst from a tiny pixel to huge letters that filled the screen:
Gabriel’s Magic
.

The show’s intro cut to live cameras and a studio stage—a touch of stage smoke bringing out the bluish pin spots as the theme music played and an announcer said, “From Television World in Hollywood, ladies and gentlemen, this is Preston Gabriel.”

The studio audience cheered and applauded as the Man strode boldly into the floodlights, white mane shining, face pleasant, eyes steely. “Good evening. The art of magic is built upon a covenant between the performer and his audience: he will attempt to fool them, and they will let themselves be fooled in the full knowledge that the magician is only an actor pretending to be a magician, performing the impossible, but through trickery and illusion. Our ‘actors’ tonight: the amazing magical duo from Montreal, Canada, Torey and Abigail.” Applause. “And an astounding newcomer all the way from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho—I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Laughter. “The young, the beautiful, the talented Eloise Kramer.”

Mandy Whitacre, she thought, but didn’t say as the applause rang from the television in the green room. Mandy sat on a soft sofa, all made up, dressed up, and up against the full impact of this being her first time ever on television.

Arnie, sitting in a chair far from her, looked up from his laptop computer with an expression that said,
You asked for it, kid
.

She smiled at him the way she always did, wishing him well, hoping for friendship, and getting used to the idea that it was never going to happen. He was there to look after her, and he was doing a great job. He’d handled the whole booking, every detail from her flight to her hotel room, meals, schedule, the works, but he’d been honest with her, he was doing it for Dane, and their relationship was strictly professional.

In other words, they could never be friends.

So stick around, Arnie, I want to be alone
. She and her favor-paying agent hardly spoke to each other.

She looked over at—was it Dwight or Dwayne, she couldn’t quite remember, her brain was so occupied with the performance coming up. He was a young man decked out in a flowery martial arts outfit, and he didn’t smile much, if at all. He was watching the screen, eyes narrow and lips grim. She figured he was getting psyched up.

Preston Gabriel went on with his opener. “And then we have tonight’s million-dollar challenger, a man who claims not to be a pretender but to have a genuine ability to move and manipulate objects by the power of his mind. If he can demonstrate this power to the satisfaction of our judges and this master pretender”—pointing to himself—“he could be eligible for our prize of one million dollars, offered to anyone who can prove psychic powers under controlled conditions: Mr. Dwight Hoskins.” Applause.