A Season of Miracles (25 page)

Robert looked at Jillian. “Marry me,” he said softly.

“Now?” she asked, laughing as if he were joking.

“Yes, it's already November. You're the Christmas fanatic, and I want a wife for Christmas. By then, I want to let everyone know. I want to chop down a tree with you. Have dinner in that house as if I belong.”

“I meant, are you asking me to marry you right now?”

“When better?” he asked softly.

“But it's late Friday night.”

“You can call Henry and tell him you're not coming home. We'll fly to Vegas. Done deal.”

“That's insane.”

“Yes, totally. Let's do it.”

She inhaled sharply, staring at him. “All right.”

 

Jillian looked at the ring on her finger, unable to believe what she had just done. They'd stopped by the house, where Douglas had been poring over the final edits of the commercial with Henry; Amelia had joined him at the house for dinner, and they were all discussing the new campaign.

In her room, she packed a small bag, feeling odd about leaving with a man, with all of them there, yet not ready to tell them what she was doing.

When she went back downstairs, Robert had joined the conversation as if he'd known them all forever. She noticed that Douglas seemed much better. The doctor had assured them earlier that his flu hadn't taken a turn toward pneumonia.

Jillian had kissed him goodbye, a little uneasy at the way Amelia seemed to be watching with a strange hostility. Then they headed straight for the airport, jumping on a flight to Vegas, where they had chosen the first, tackiest, most awful place for a wedding, but it hadn't mattered. One day they would do it all again in the church in Connecticut, and everyone would be there.

But for now…

She had done it. Married Robert. And standing in the chapel, under the awful fluorescent light in the middle of the night, she had looked up at him, at the strong lines of his face, at the tenderness in the cobalt darkness of his eyes, and she'd been glad.

They spent the entire night making love, sipping champagne and ordering room service. They had chosen an absolutely tasteless and ostentatious hotel room, as well, complete with heart-shaped bed and heart-shaped Jacuzzi. None of it had mattered. They'd had each other. They barely slept for twenty-four hours. They laughed, talked, ate and made love again.

“Do you feel like you know me yet?” he asked her at one point.

She sobered, telling him, “I feel like I've known you forever. Honestly. As if…” “What?”

“I don't know. As if I loved you before. As if I loved you more than life itself.”

To her surprise, he drew away from her and walked to the window. It was daytime. He was splendid, standing there, tall, bronzed, muscles honed to perfection.
Great buns,
as Connie would have said. Jillian did love him. From head to toe, she adored him. There were just these strange moments when…

She was still afraid.

“The tarot card reader told me that we had lived before,” he said, looking out on the dazzling sunlight.

“And you believed her?” she asked skeptically. “You don't believe in anything!”

He turned back to her then, coming to her, kneeling down before her passionately. “I believe in you,” he told her.

She touched the top of his head, ran her fingers through his hair, moved by his words. “And I believe in you,” she said.

He smiled, and then she was in his arms, the two of them passionately entwined once again.

Later, near noon on Sunday, he suggested that they get ready early for their flight back. He had a surprise for her.

It turned out to be a small store that specialized in Christmas items year 'round. She was delighted, buying up half the place, telling him which things would go best at the house in Connecticut and what would look great in the artist's cabin in the woods. He was glad.

When they returned to the city, Jillian checked with Henry about her grandfather's health. He'd been doing great all weekend; Amelia had stayed, and they'd decided not to go into the office that week but head straight out to Connecticut to stay until the Thanksgiving holiday. Douglas's doctor wanted him to take it easy, and in Connecticut he could get his rest and still stay in touch with the office easily, thanks to modern technology—and Amelia, who could have kept the office running from the North Pole.

They stayed at his apartment that night. And at two a.m., Jillian woke up screaming.

He held her, told her over and over again that there was no fire.

“I could feel it,” she cried, sobbing. “I could feel it on my flesh.”

“I won't let fire come anywhere near you,” he vowed.

“You're a liar!” she suddenly accused him. “You promise me everything, but when the time comes, you won't be there.”

“Jillian…”

But she jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door against him.

 

Monday, at the office, Daniel Llewellyn walked in on Robert, tense, still angry. “Every bit of rat poison is out of here, Marston. Every bit.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Daniel suddenly slammed a fist down on the desk. “She's my family, damn it! I would never hurt her. None of us would.” The passion in his voice seemed real.

“I hope not,” Robert said. “I hope not.”

 

Jillian entered Connie's cubicle. “What are your lunch plans?”

Connie looked up. “Plans? A sandwich, I guess.”

“We're going to school.”

“What?”

“I just talked to the bartender at Hennessey's. Madame Zena's real name is Shelley Millet. And guess what?”

“What?”

“She taught school with Milo.”

“Really?” Connie said, surprised. “So,” she said carefully, “we're going to go see Madame Zena—at school?”

Jillian nodded. “But don't say anything. To anyone.”

“No, of course not.”

 

Jillian got absolutely nothing done that morning. She was upset by what she had done to Robert, she was also determined to find out what was going on. And she was afraid that if he knew what she was up to, he would stop her. She knew that Connie thought she was crazy—Madame Zena had screamed at her, calling her a witch, upsetting her. But she needed to see her.

And she had to stop waking up screaming. She knew it upset Robert. She loved Robert with her whole heart. She didn't intend to lose him.

She was so nervous that someone in the office would try to stop her from leaving that she whisked Connie out of the building just after eleven-thirty. They shopped, had coffee, then went to the school early, waiting outside Shelley's classroom.

Shelley Millet, minus her costume, was tall, regal, and striking. Jillian expected her to be surprised and possibly also annoyed to see them.

She wasn't surprised, and if she was annoyed she didn't show it. “Miss Millet, I'm really sorry to track you down this way,” Jillian began, but Shelley Millet put up a hand to stop her.

“It's all right. I expected you before now, actually.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can we take you for a drink, a snack, coffee—anything?”

“There's a place just down the street. Quiet, private.”

A few minutes later they were sharing a booth at the small luncheonette. It wasn't dark, there were no beads, and there was nothing spooky about the place whatsoever. Jillian haltingly explained about meeting Robert on Halloween, right after “Madame Zena” had called her a witch, and how she had passed out. Now she was having constant dreams of fire and waking up, screaming.

Shelley Millet stirred her coffee, nodding. “You are in grave danger.”

“She is?” Connie said. “But how…”

“It was in the cards. And Milo told me.”

Looking into the woman's copper eyes, Jillian shivered. “Milo?” she whispered. “My—Robert has mentioned talking to Milo, too. In his dreams.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?”

“Mr. Marston is on his way here now.”

Jillian stiffened. “I came to you for help. Why would Robert come to you? He doesn't believe in anything out of the ordinary.”

“How many people do?” Shelley Millet asked her, smiling. “Oh, when we're children, we believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus…in fact, we're willing to believe in a lot when we're young. Then we grow up and we forget to have faith. Even in God. If we can't see it, it doesn't exist.”

“Well…” Jillian moistened her lips, wishing for a moment that she hadn't brought Connie. “Madame Zena—Shelley, I love him. Robert, I mean. It was very quick, ridiculously quick. I'm sure there are people who could say that I can't really know how I feel, but I do. I love him. I want to be with him, I want to be happy, make him happy, but every once in a while, suddenly, out of the blue, I'm afraid. Terrified. And he thinks someone in my family is out to hurt me.”

“No!” Connie gasped. “Why?”

“Because of Llewellyn Enterprises. Because of my grandfather.”

“Jillian, I think that someone is out to hurt you, and so does Milo,” Shelley said.

“Why doesn't Milo come to me?” she asked, feeling an aching in her heart, a strange poignancy.

“Let's cut to the chase here,” Shelley said. “You and Milo were friends, right? Really good friends. You married him to give him access to the Llewellyn money, right?”

Jillian sucked in her breath. “Well…his HMO sucked! The cancer ward was like a zoo.”

Shelley smiled. “That's understandable. But he was your
friend.
Never really your
lover.
”

“I loved Milo. I loved him with my whole heart.”

“That isn't exactly the same, is it?” Shelley said softly. “Your husband is coming,” she added suddenly.

“Your husband?” Connie gasped. “You mean he's here now? Milo's ghost is with us? I don't feel cold or anything.”

“Not Milo's ghost. Robert Marston is here.”

“You married him?” Connie said incredulously, staring at Jillian as if she'd been stabbed in the back.

“Shush. We're not telling anyone yet.”

“Yes, well, I can see you not telling
anyone
—but you didn't tell
me!
”

“Do you tell me everything that's going on with you?” Jillian demanded.

Connie stared at her, biting her lip. As Shelley had said, Robert was on his way in. He stared at her almost as accusingly as Connie had as he slid into the booth next to Madame Zena.

“Hi,” Jillian murmured weakly.

He nodded curtly to her, then turned to Shelley. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“My pleasure. But there's something you all have to understand. I can only tell you what I see, what I believe, then you have to take it from there.”

“So why am I dreaming about burning?” Jillian asked.

“It's from your past life,” Shelley said.

“A past life?” Robert repeated.

“You said your mind was going to be open.” Shelley hesitated. “You said that Milo Anderson was haunting your dreams.”

“Yeah. But only at the house in Connecticut. Only in the room where he died. Except that—” He broke off, as if he didn't believe what he was saying himself. “I think he was in Florida.”

“What?” Jillian and Connie cried in unison.

“A branch fell, nearly crushing Jillian. I ran to push her out of the way. I made it, but I still think…I don't know. It looked as if she was being pushed out of the way even before I reached her.”

He looked away, shaking his head. He was saying these things, but he couldn't accept them.

Shelley Millet raised her hands, forming a circle with her long fingers. “Energy,” she said softly. “All life is energy. Energy doesn't die. There is, in my mind, in my being, in my soul, no doubt that there is a supreme being. To us, he is God, to others he is Allah, to some he is the very spirit of the earth. The Vikings called him Odin; the ancient Romans named him Jupiter; the Greeks called him Zeus. Study mythology, the Old Testament, the battles of the angels, and it will shock you just how much of what we believe is similar to what we call legend, ancient stories, far too archaic for our modern sophistication. Christmas, Jillian. Think about it. A virgin birth, the son of God among men—nailed to a cross. But we believe, and our beliefs do not make us foolish, they make us rise above both the evil and the ordinary. The point is, I believe that the world is full of old souls. I think we get many chances. You knew one another before. You were in love with one another before. Something happened. Something horrible, to do with fire. Maybe someone back then was out to hurt you, Jillian, and perhaps Robert failed you.”