Half-Past Dawn (42 page)

“Hey, baby,” Jack whispered, the sound of his voice painting a broad smile on Hope’s face.

And with the sound of his voice, Sara stirred and rolled over. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Daddy’s going away for a bit.” Jack smiled.

“Where?” Hope asked.

“Not far, but always remember I’m with you,” he said as he reached out and touched their hearts.

“Where’s Mommy?”

“Mommy’s fine. She’s sleeping. You do me a favor and tell her I love her.”

Hope and Sara nodded in unison.

“Give me your hands,” Jack said as he took their small hands in his. Unfurling their fingers, he gently kissed their palms.

“A kissing hand, Daddy?” Hope giggled.

“A kissing hand, baby. When you miss me or need me, you just place that against your cheek, and you’ll feel me right beside you.”

Hope placed her palm against her cheek and smiled. “It’s warm.”

Sara mimicked her sister.

Jack smiled. “It always will be.”

J
ACK SAT ON
the edge of Mia’s hospital bed and ran his fingers through her hair.

Her eyes slowly drifted open. “Hi.”

“Hi back,” Jack said.

“You’re alive.”

Jack smiled.

“Ryan said …” Mia choked back her tears. “How’s it possible? What did you do?”

Jack touched the blue stone necklace around her neck. The words from Marijha Toulouse’s note echoed in his head, peace and love, healing and long life …

Jack stared at her a moment, memorizing her face. He leaned in and kissed her tenderly on the lips, all of his emotions pouring forth. He kissed her cheek, ran his hand through her hair.

“You know I can’t stay,” Jack whispered as the early rays of sunlight washed over his warm face.

“No, please, don’t leave me …” Mia could barely breathe through her quiet sobs.

“Mia,” Jack said softly as he took her face in his hands. “It’s OK.”

“Don’t you do it,” Mia pleaded with tear-filled eyes. “Don’t you leave me, Jack. I can’t survive without—Please.”

“Mia,” Jack said, his abbreviated smile creasing his cheeks, “you’re going to live. You’re going to be fine for a very long time. You need to love our girls, teach them the lessons that I would have. Teach them of me and my heart. But most of all, tell them of how I loved you so they may understand and find that most precious of things someday.” Jack looked into her eyes. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Give me your hand.”

She laid her hand in his, her palm open, facing up, and he kissed it with love, gently, forever, as if he was pouring his soul into her. And as forever came to an end, he grasped her fingers, curling them around the warmth he left within her palm. He enclosed her hand in his, holding tightly, and smiled.

Mia watched, crushed with grief, as he began slowly to slip away. Their eyes locked, his warm smile fading … and he was gone.

R
EALITY IS ALL
a matter of perspective,” Jack’s father said as they stood on the beach in front of their house, staring out at Trudeau Island. Jack was all of ten, holding his father’s hand.

Jack nodded.

A warm breeze flowed off the ocean as the sun crept up from the horizon, morning’s first light painting the sky.

“Are you ready to go?” Jack’s father said.

“No,” Jack said. He was an adult now, walking beside his father. “Why did you come back?”

“You know. Somebody’s got to watch out for you and because …” David looked at Jack and smiled. “because you’re my son.”

T
HE FUNERAL WAS
on Wednesday. Mia sat in the front right pew, her girls at her side. Frank’s widow, Lisa, was there, Jack’s mother, Mia’s parents, and Joy Todd.

Ryan McCourt gave the eulogy, speaking of faith, hope, love, and, as he looked at Mia, miracles.

Jack was buried in the Banksville Cemetery near his father. Only immediate family and friends were there as his casket was lowered into the earth under the warm rays of the summer sun.

Jack’s final act, his gift of love, had somehow saved Mia. She didn’t know how, whether it was a miracle, magic, or faith, but somehow Jack had saved her. Mia reached up, wrapped her hands around the blue necklace, and smiled.

A
S THE CROWD
began to disperse, leaving Mia and the girls to say their final good-byes, Joy walked over to Mia’s father. She took a moment, drying her eyes, allowing her presence to call his attention.

“Mr. Norris? My name is Joy Todd. I was Jack’s assistant. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Norris nodded.

“This is from Jack.” Joy handed an envelope to Norris. He stared at it, confused, as Joy walked away without another word.

S
AM
N
ORRIS WALKED
into his study. It was after 10:00 p.m. Mia and his two granddaughters were asleep upstairs. They would all be staying with him and his wife for the foreseeable future.

He reached into the breast pocket of his sportcoat and withdrew the envelope, tearing it open. He read the note once through and turned his attention to the large mahogany box that Jack had made and that Mia had filled with cheap fishing gear, giving it to him for his birthday—the night of their fateful accident.

He picked up the eighteen-inch-square box, turning it around. It was of excellent construction, pure, nearly invisible seams. He regretted not complimenting Jack on the impressive work. There was always such regret for things left unsaid when someone passed away.

Norris lifted the lid of the box and looked inside; he pulled out the lures and line and stared at the brass plaque that Jack had affixed:
Forever Young—7/1/38 to Eternity.
He let out a half-smile and closed it. He laid his hands on the left rear leg and the front right leg as the note had described. Each leg was only a half-inch tall, raising the case barely off the table.

He pushed them at the same time and heard a subtle click. He then reread the letter. And this time, did the same thing with the other two legs. A second click sounded from the inside. He lifted the lid as the written instructions stated, and the front of the case slid forth, allowing a large drawer to pop out like magic. Norris reached in and withdrew a large glassine bag marked
Evidence
.

There was a second note inside. He withdrew it and began to read.

Dear Sam,

If you are reading this, then something has happened. We never know the path of fate. Reality is all a matter of perspective. And sometimes the unexplainable occurs. We cannot see the road that our lives will take, but the contents of this box may beg to differ.

These items along with a gift of a blue necklace were sent to me by a Cotis priest.

He and I had an appointment, but for now obvious reasons, he never arrived. It seems he has died, a matter that is currently under investigation.

He had implored, speaking to me about his son, Nowaji Cristos, who was executed for the murders near the UN nearly eighteen months ago. As his son was executed as a result of my conviction, I felt I owed the man at least five minutes of my time. Over the phone, he spoke of knowing the future, of things to come, of warnings I should heed, a statement I immediately dismissed and surmised would be the topic of our future conversation.

The day after his death, I received these items
…

Norris thumbed through the two red leather books. The pages in the first were all in a language he couldn’t comprehend, while the second was half foreign, half English, with dates and times in a diary fashion. And on the final page were five names.

He closed them both.

Norris picked up the single detailed drawing; it was of Jack dead on the riverbank, a drawing from five days ago … predating the accident and his death.

I am unsure who killed the priest, but there is a nagging fear I have.

I ask that you look into this matter, using your utmost discretion, keep these items safe, and watch over Mia, as I know you will. I have and will love her forever and always.

Your son-in-law,
Jack

Norris looked at the writing on the top of the drawing. The lettering was cursive and rich, in an odd but beautiful language. His eyes fell on the text below it. It, too, was hand written, in cursive lettering, written in English.

Your future can be glimpsed in the magical hours at …

Half-past dawn.

L
IFE IS FAR MORE
enjoyable when you work with people you like and respect. I would personally like to thank the following:

Gene and Wanda Sgarlata, the owners of Womrath Bookstore in Bronxville, N.Y., for their continued support; without their friendship, you wouldn’t be reading these words.

Sarah Branham for making sense of it all and for performing a herculean task in record time. Peter Borland for your encouragement, insight, and that amazing ability to understand what I’m trying to say. I’m truly blessed to have you not only as my overseer but as my friend. Judith Curr, the most forward-thinking professional in the publishing world, and Louise Burke, for her unwavering support and belief. I could not be in better hands. Nick Simonds for keeping it all together; Dave Brown for getting people to sit up and take notice; and especially Joel Gotler, my Obi Wan guide in the West Coast cinematic world.

And heads and shoulders above all, Cynthia Manson. First and foremost for your continued friendship; it is something I truly treasure. Thank you for your innovative thinking, your continued faith in the face of adversity, and your unlimited tenacity. Your inspiration, guidance, and business acumen are exceeded by no one.

Thank you to my family:

To my children, you are the best part of my life. Richard, you are my mind, your brilliance and creativity know no bounds. Marguerite, you are my heart, constantly reminding me of what is important in life; your style, grace under pressure, and sense of humor are examples
to all. Isabelle, you are my soul; your laughter and inquisitive mind keep my eyes open to the magic of this world we live in.

Dad, for always being my dad and the voice of wisdom that forever rings in my ear. Mom, you were always my champion on terra firma, and you no doubt still are. How else can I explain my good fortune since your passing?

Most important, thank you, Virginia, for your love even when I don’t deserve it.

I marvel at how you are even more beautiful than the day I spied you in gym class.

You fill my heart with hope and possibilities, opening my eyes to the joys of living that can become so obscured by the trials, tribulations, and everyday distractions of life’s journey.

Thank you for making me laugh in the darkest of hours. Thank you for raising such amazing children; they are truly a reflection of you. Thank you for dancing; I marvel at your modesty, talent, and beauty as you lose yourself in the magic, achieve the impossible, and entertain the world around you. Thank you for making our life exceed my dreams.

Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for taking the time to read my stories, for reaching out through your notes, letters, and e-mails. Your kind words inspire and fill me with the responsibility never to let you down.

Richard

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