Mirror of My Soul (45 page)

“Will you stop loving me if I become so different from the person you knew?”

“It has nothing to do with who you are today, tomorrow or yesterday, angel. It’s about who your soul has always been, always will be.”

When she took his hand, he saw her holding him in her eyes, in her heart.

“Will Josh be waiting for us?”

“No. I wanted to give it to you when we were alone as man and wife.”

Her expression always became tender, bemused when he referred to her that way, so he did it often. Now he squeezed her as they walked companionably through the trellis, the one under which they’d taken their vows. He’d moved it to the opening of this new part of his garden. It was a transition point for the area, which he knew she would understand, being a student of Japanese tea ceremonies. He’d become somewhat of one himself this past year, as well as an avid apprentice of Japanese gardening.

Marguerite noted this area was more intimate than her favored Aphrodite area. The vegetation here was all Japanese gardening style. Delicate maples, a rock garden with the tiny bamboo rake, the sand arranged in ripples to look like water. On the side of the clearing was a wisteria arbor, whose meaning she immediately recognized. Tyler had created an outdoor
machiai
, a waiting room for guests to cleanse and prepare themselves before entering the teahouse. Passing through the arbor, the circular area that followed contained a mat of greenery and soft low ground cover which could become a dew garden with the water mister, concealed as a tiny statue of a rabbit. Guests would stand there to clean their feet before they would turn to the stone basin on a pedestal next to it, a
tsukubai
, to wash their fingers and mouths, further purifying themselves before their host or hostess led them into the teahouse. A stone bench was here for them to seat themselves to wait for that host or hostess.

And the teahouse was perfect. Simple, natural materials. No nails, all peg

construction. Small, intimate, for the preferred two to four guests.

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Mirror of My Soul

“I thought you might finally decide to perform a Japanese ceremony for me. Inside, right now, there’s a tea set with one cup. For us to share as the samurai did, to emphasize the bonds that exist between family. I thought we might go in there in a few minutes, share a cup together, make it official.”

Family. She and Tyler were a family.

“I didn’t know Josh was doing construction now.”

“He isn’t. Robert and I handled this part.” He leaned forward to kiss her, holding his lips against hers in a quiet way as the cicadas buzzed and the breeze whispered through the garden area. Then he pulled back, turned her away from the teahouse, facing her toward an angle of the garden not visible until one stood here.

“This is what Josh was doing.”

For a long moment she simply stood, staring at it. Not believing what she was

seeing. Fragile dark green ferns clustered at the base of the sculpture that had been placed by a small waterfall crafted of round smooth stones. There was another rock garden here as well. Tyler released her hand, his fingers caressing hers a moment before he let her go. She felt him watching her as she went closer. A small bench was in front of the statue, a simple square wooden piece that could serve as a kneeling bench for prayer, a place to sit while one made designs in the rock garden, or a place for solitary contemplation. She stepped up onto it to bring herself closer to the statue’s face, reach out to it with trembling fingers.

In the mortal world she’d never known him as an adult, but she knew this was how he would have looked. It was all there, the structure of his face, the intentness of his eyes, even the manner in which he stood. Alert, turning as if he was about to respond to her, a light smile on his lips.

She stepped down. When she turned to face her husband, the question was in her eyes, but she was unable to speak.

“I tried to tell you several times,” he said. “But we’d get interrupted, or the timing would be wrong. There seemed no way to say it until I could show you, like this.”

“H-How could you…”

“When I drove up that day…” Shadows gathered in his eyes. Because she knew the memory still haunted him, she reached out and he took her hand. Sitting down on the bench, he kissed her fingers. “When I jumped out of the car I looked up, looking for you. And I saw something.”

Tyler turned his attention to the statue, remembering. “You leaped with Natalie in your arms, your father with you and then… It was like sunlight, only it was raining.

Mac remembers it as the sun breaking through the clouds for just a moment, but I saw something else. Wings.” He met her gaze. “A face, a length of leg. When your chute came out, he was all over it, pulling it out, open. He held on to it a moment, probably decelerating you a bit. Then he was gone as if that was all he was allowed to do. If I saw what I thought I saw, I’m sure he would have seen you all the way to the ground if he could have.”

229

Joey W. Hill

Marguerite stared at him. Her attention shifted back to the other prominent feature of the statue. She’d thought it had been Tyler’s compliment to her brother’s spirit, but she now recognized it as an attempt to reconstruct a memory. This older version of her brother had a pair of wings coming out of his back, all of it sculpted in bronze, every feather textured and separate. The smooth musculature of his arms and legs was defined well, though his body was clothed in a simple tunic. Marguerite was sure that was due to the fact he was her brother, since Josh’s work rarely displayed clothing for the purpose of modesty. However, he had not hesitated to show in sensual detail what a beautiful mortal man David would have been. Making her heart hurt, wishing he had lived to enjoy the love of a woman, to give some woman the gift of himself.

“I thought about it a long time, not sure of my own mind on it,” Tyler continued.

“Then, the night you went sleepwalking in my house, when you got up on the balcony, I saw him again. He woke me up, saved your life. That time I got just a quick glimpse of his face. He has a hell of an arm. Just about knocked me out of the bed.” Tyler smiled, though his eyes remained serious. “And I haven’t seen him since. I guess he knew his work was done.”

She nodded mutely, sinking down on his knee. Tyler put an arm around her waist, steadying her with a palm on her hip as they looked at the statue together.

“All those years in the field, remembering every detail of a person based on just a flash impression, paid off. I described him to Josh. Komal had pictures of your brother, so between that and my recollection he came up with his face, the body type and stance.

I hope we did well.”

“It’s him.” The words came out thickly. Tears began to fall, her expression torn between grief and joy. “Oh, God, Tyler. You…” She shook her head and he pressed his face to her throat, wrapping both arms around her.

“No, angel, I didn’t want you to cry.”

“Yes, you did. In a good way. And this is a good way, I promise. You just…you

understand so much about me, more every day. And this…if you keep giving me gifts like this, I’ll be the first person whose heart broke out of too much happiness.”

“I’ll be here to put it back together, angel. Every time. I promise.”

* * * * *

Robert slipped into the garden as they strolled back up the path, smiling a little at their absorption in each other, remembering his and Sarah’s days as newlyweds. He turned at a shadow, a rush of wings as if a heron had taken flight close by. Seeing nothing but the delicate pointed leaves of the Japanese maple quivering, he shrugged, bent to retrieve his garden tools and went to the statue to clip back some of the weeds trying to poke their heads out among the ferns at the base.

He discovered a feather there. Large enough to be a heron’s, only herons didn’t have feathers like this. Long and white with gilding on the tips like the touch of gold and silver mixed. Holding it in his hand, Robert felt a warmth sweep through him, a 230

Mirror of My Soul

sense of peace, of the type of spiritual tranquility he often felt in his garden. He felt thanks sweep him. For the day, for Sarah. For Mr. and Mrs. Winterman. For the beauty of green things and flowers. For life.

Leaving his weeding tools for the moment, he went to find Sarah. He wanted to

give her the feather, sensing that it was the perfect gift for the woman who’d agreed to be his for the rest of their lives.

The End

231

About the Author

I’ve always had an aversion to reading, watching or hearing interviews of favorite actors, authors, or musicians because so often you find that the real person does not measure up to the beauty of the art they produce. You find their politics or religion distasteful, or you find they’re shallow and self-absorbed, or a vacuous mophead without a lick of sense. And from then on, though you still may appreciate their craft or art, it has somehow been tarnished. Therefore, whenever I’m asked to provide personal information about myself for readers, a ball of anxiety forms in my stomach as I think,

“Okay, the next couple of paragraphs can change forever the way someone views my stories.” Why on earth does a reader want to know about me? It’s the story that’s important.

So here it is. I’ve been given more blessings in my life than any one person has a right to have. Despite that, I’m a Type A, borderline obsessive-compulsive paranoiac who worries that I will never live up to expectations. I’ve got more phobias than anyone (including myself) has patience to read about. I can’t stand talking on the phone, I dread social commitments, and the idea of living in monastic solitude with my husband, a few animals, books and writing is as close an idea to paradise as I can imagine. I love chocolate, but with that deeply ingrained, irrational female belief that weight equals worth, I manage to keep it down to a minor addiction. I adore good movies. I’m told I work too much. Every day is spent trying to get through the never ending “to do” list to snatch a few minutes to write.

This is because, despite all these mediocre and typical qualities, for some

miraculous reason, these wonderful characters well up out of my soul with stories to tell. When I manage to find enough time to write, sufficient enough that the precious

“stillness” required rises up and calms all the competing voices in my head, I can step into their lives, hear what these characters are saying, what they’re feeling, and put it down on paper. It’s a magic beyond description, akin to truly believing that my husband loves me, winning the trust of an animal who has known only fear or apathy, making a true connection with someone else, or knowing for certain that I’ve given a reader a moment of magic through those written words. It’s a magic that reassures me that there is Someone, far wiser than myself, who knows the permanent path to that garden of stillness, where there is only love, acceptance and a pen waiting for hours and hours of uninterrupted, blissful use.

If only I could finish that darned “to do” list.

Joey welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

Also by Joey W. Hill

Behind the Mask
anthology

Enchained
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Forgotten Wishes
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Holding The Cards

Ice Queen

If Wishes Were Horses

Make Her Dreams Come True

Natural Law

Snow Angel

Virtual Reality

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on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

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