Reckoning (9 page)

Rachel drives me home while I stare out the window, hoping for road construction or a stalled car or malfunctioning traffic light. But miraculously, for the first time in recorded history, we hit every green light. There isn’t even another car at any of the four-way stop signs. Fate is definitely working against me.

Rachel stops in front of my house and I sit there numbly, lost in thought, while she talks about dodging brick staples in hilly chairs. Or maybe it was delivering fabric samples in the neighborhood of Cherry Hills. I’m really not listening.

“Hello! Earth to Kat!” Rachel waves her hand in front of my face. “Jeez, what is with you today, Kat? It’s like you’re on some other planet!”

“Sorry.” I give my head a quick shake. “Just thinking about something I have to do.”

“Well it must be pretty important if you’re thinking that hard on it.”

“No, not really. Actually, it’s something I don’t
want
to do.”

“Yeah? What?”

I debate on whether or not to say anything, but then decide that maybe the more people who know where I’ll be, the better. “I have to go antiques shopping with our new neighbor.”

“So? You like that kind of thing, right?” She plucks a can of Sprite from the cup holder and takes a sip, her green nail polish blending perfectly with the can.

“Usually. I’m just not in the mood for it today.”

“Well, maybe he’ll buy you something out of appreciation. Bonus!”

“Maybe,” I say, without much enthusiasm. I really don’t want anything from Lovell.

A moment later, he walks out of his house and heads across the grass to my front door. He is wearing dark-washed jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt.

Rachel’s eyes widen as the can slowly descends from her lips. “Oh, my God. Is
that
your neighbor?”

I take a deep breath and sigh. Not Rachel, too. “Yep. That’s him.”

“And you don’t want to go shopping with him? Are you
crazy
?” Rachel tears her eyes away from Lovell long enough to give me an appalled look. “Hey, if you don’t want to go, I will. I can fake my way through an antiques store any day.”

“That’s OK. I’ll manage.” I can’t help but smile as she turns back to stare at Lovell. “I better go. Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow.” I grab my book bag and step out of the car.

Rachel leans over and gives me a wink through the open window. “
Enjoy
!” She starts the car, murmuring, “I have
got
to learn about antiques.”

I lift my hand in a last wave as she drives off. Reluctantly, I turn to my house and head up the walkway. Lovell raises his arm, finger pointed at the doorbell, when he turns at the sound of my approach.

“Hi!” he says, smiling seductively. His dark hair shimmers in the afternoon sun. “You ready to go?”

“Sure,” I say. “Just let me drop this inside.” I unlock the door and toss the bag inside. Pushing the key back into the pocket of my jeans, I turn and smile. If I want information, I may as well be as friendly as possible.

“So, do you have a car…or something?” I hadn’t thought of it until now. “I mean, we can walk, but it might be hard getting stuff back.”

“No problem.” He holds up a key. “It showed up today. Thank goodness. I was getting a little worried.”

I look toward the street. And stare. A sleek, silver Range Rover is parked in front of his house. I look at him in disbelief. “It
showed up
today? What, you had it shipped or something?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Driving cross country isn’t exactly my favorite thing.”

Although I’ve never done it before, I can’t imagine it’s much fun. So maybe he has a point. But a
Range Rover?
What kind of money does he have? Or does it belong to his parents? Do world relief workers get paid that much?

I push aside the questions tumbling through my head as he opens the door for me. I’m just about to step in, when I feel it. A prickling sensation that creeps up my arm and down my back. I jerk my head to the right, scanning the houses and front yards. Nothing. I look the other way. A gentle breeze rustles the trees. I strain my ears, listening.

“Everything OK?” Lovell asks, his hand on the door.

“Yeah. Fine.” My eyes sweep across the houses again. “I was just…um…trying to remember if I re-locked the front door.”

“You did. I watched you.”

I look back at him.
I’m sure you did
, I think.

Running a hand through my hair, I ignore the prickling on my scalp and step up into the truck. Lovell closes the door. He walks around the front and slides easily into the driver’s seat. In spite of my reservations, I steal a glance at him. I have to admit he looks good behind the wheel; his knees spread apart, shoulders pressed into the black leather seat while he adjusts his seat belt. Thin, long-fingered hands grip the steering wheel. Artistic, musical hands.

Stop it, Kat
.

He starts the engine and turns to me. “You direct. I’ll drive.”

I take a deep breath and we pull away from the curb.

_________

The antiques store is divided into long rows of individual booths. Some of them are large enough to accommodate tables, chairs, china cabinets and battered bookshelves, with miscellaneous pieces of porcelain and crystal displayed on nearly every surface. Others are small, packed with books, old photographs, mismatched pieces of china and cheap knickknacks. I could spend hours sorting through it all, but there is no time for that today.

Besides Lovell and myself, there are only a few other people roaming the aisles. Music that was probably popular in the 1930’s drifts softly from speakers located somewhere near the ceiling. Mr. Camenson, the owner of the store, recognizes me and lifts his hand in greeting.

“So what are you looking for, specifically?” I ask, as we begin slowly wandering down an aisle.

Lovell stops and looks into a booth containing nothing but old children’s toys. “I don’t know for sure. I’m thinking lamps, vases, maybe a chair or two. That kind of thing. I’ll worry about the bigger stuff later.” He picks up the caboose from a model train set, turning it over in his hands. “This is nice.”

“Did you have one of those as a kid?”

“What?” He phrases the question as though he’s not sure what I’m referring to.

“The train.” I nod toward the remaining cars and track along the shelf.

“Oh. Um, no.” He sets the caboose back down. “I didn’t have a lot of toys. Too hard to pack and move.”

“What did you play with?”

Lovell moves to the next booth. “I had a few things. Like Lego’s and Tinker Toys and those little plastic army men. Essentially anything that would fit into a small box. But mostly I read. Or drew. I got to be a pretty good artist.”

“Really?” I think of his hands and I’m not surprised. “I like to draw, too.” I bite the inside of my lower lip, not sure why I’ve just told him that.

“Yeah?” He turns to me, and smiles. “What do you draw?”

“Oh, mostly just made up, imaginary stuff.” I’m reluctant to tell him my drawings consist of fairies and angels. And weird, otherworldly things that have no name.

“What kind of imaginary stuff?” he asks.

I shrug, trying to think of an answer. “Oh, just odd designs. Nothing special.” I step away, picking up an old, plastic doll with one permanently closed eye. “What about you?”

“Mainly landscapes. And people sometimes.”

“Do you put people in your landscapes?”

He laughs. “Sometimes.” He pauses, then adds, “I’d like to see your drawings.”

A shiver ripples over my skin. Ignoring it, I clear my throat and change the subject. “What about this?” Spying an art deco floor lamp across the aisle, I reach for the tag. “It says circa 1930.” It has a wrought iron base that spirals upward to a frosted glass shade. “It fits with the age of the house.”

Lovell steps closer and examines it. “Yeah. That’s cool. I like it.”

“I’ll set it up front and we can keep looking.” I leave the lamp with Mr. Camenson. He glances at Lovell, then smiles and winks knowingly, his pale blue eyes glinting mischievously. Ignoring him, I continue down the aisle trying to think of ways to get information out of Lovell. Without being obvious.

We near the end of the first row and enter a booth containing nothing but musical instruments, including an old upright piano that sits against the far wall. I run my fingers lightly over the chipped ivory keys and glance at Lovell. “Do you play?”

He sets aside a spiral bound copy of
Easy Piano Classics
before answering. “The piano? Yeah, I do. Or used to, anyway. It’s been a while. But the cello was my main instrument.”

“Really?” I say, shocked. “I love the cello.”

“I did, too.”

“Did? You don’t play any more?”

A wry smile crosses his face. “I haven’t for a long time. It’s hard to stay in practice when you’re moving around a lot.”

“What about the piano?”

He looks at me for a moment, something unfathomable flickering behind his eyes. Then he turns and slides onto the bench in front of the piano. His fingers run smoothly up and down the scales, and he grimaces at the tinny sound. Pausing, he scratches the back of his neck. His eyes travel to mine, and a look I can’t decipher crosses his face. Then he starts to play. It is
The Swan
, the beautiful, haunting movement from Saint-Saens,
The Carnival of the Animals.
It is one of my favorite pieces and I’m entranced, amazed by the depth and emotion of his playing. I watch Lovell as he plays, and the notes begin to flow over me, transporting me away from the antiques store, away from home, away from everything I know. The walls of the small cubicle begin to fade. I close my eyes.

And float.

The small canoe glides smoothly, the gentle splash of water against the sides lulling me into a lazy, dreamlike state. I stretch out one arm, my fingers trailing across the sparkling surface. The water is cool, sliding silkily between my fingers. Sunlight glints through the tops of the trees, reflecting off the water with dazzling brilliance. I am warm. Filled with peace and contentment. I could stay like this for hours, days. There is nowhere else I want to be.

I lay back, closing my eyes against the bright rays of the sun. The boat rocks gently and a shadow falls across my closed eyelids. Opening my eyes, I squint into the glare. He leans down to me, the hint of a smile playing across his lips…

“It’s better on the cello,” Lovell says softly. “And on a piano that’s in tune.”

I snap my eyes open, feeling completely disoriented, as though I’ve fallen asleep and woken in a new location. Struggling to bring some order to my thoughts, I take a deep breath and force a smile onto my face. “That was beautiful,” I say, hoping my confusion doesn’t show. “You’re a gifted pianist.” I rub my thumb over my fingertips, half-expecting them to still be wet from the water. Running a hand through my hair, I ask, “How did you manage to learn both the cello and the piano when you moved so much?”

“I spent a lot of time with relatives. They were nice enough to get me to my lessons.”

“You must have hated having your parents gone all the time. Did you get to see them very often, or travel with them?”

“They came home a few times every year,” he says, standing and moving away from the piano. “And sometimes I’d go with them during summer vacation or spring break.”

I imagine a dark-haired little boy, staring out the window. Lonely. Insecure. Abandoned. I quickly push the thought away.

“Any brothers or sisters?” I ask, trying to probe further into his past.

“Nope. Just me.”

“It sounds like a lonely childhood.”

“No, not really.” I hadn’t noticed before, but at some point in the conversation, he has moved closer to me. “No more than anyone else’s.”

I look at him, transfixed. With his nearness, comes a scent. It isn’t cologne or aftershave. It’s something else. Fresh, yet seductive. I like it.

“What about you?” he asks, softly.

“Me?”

“Instruments. Do you play any?”

“Oh,” I say, taken off guard. I step away, wanting to put some distance between us. “No. I wish I did. But I have absolutely
no
musical talent.” And it’s true. Although I’m fanatical about music, I can’t play or sing a note. But it isn’t for lack of trying. I’ve tried everything from the flute, to the clarinet to the guitar. All without success. And after stumbling through ten months of piano lessons in sixth grade, I’ve finally given up.

“Let me see your hands,” he says, moving towards me.

“What?” I exclaim, surprised by the request.

“Let me see your hands,” he repeats.

Confused, I hold out my hands, wondering what his intentions are. He turns them over, spreading my palms flat, while his thumbs traces slow tracks across the surface. Tingling tremors shoot through my wrists and up my arms. Resisting the urge to pull back, I stand there stiffly, watching the gentle, gliding movement of his fingers.

“You have gifts other than music,” he says.

My brows draw together in puzzlement. “What do you mean? How can you tell?”

“Look. See this mark?” He points to a small line on the side of my palm. “It’s called the Line of Mars. It means you have great courage.”

I stifle the urge to laugh. Me? Great courage?
You should have seen me the other night
, I think,
jumping out of my skin at the touch of my cat
. Then I immediately sober. Maybe he did.

His finger moves lower, towards my wrist. “And you have a voyage line. It means you might abandon everything. To go on a journey. Or for love.” He looks up at me.

“Hmm,” I reply nonchalantly, hoping he can’t feel the racing of my pulse. “Not likely. Where did you learn this, anyway?”

“A Hindu priest in India taught me. A long time ago. I’ve never known it to be wrong.” He bends his head back to my hands. “And this is interesting.”

“What?”

His finger traces what looks like an ‘X’ right below my ring finger. “You have the Mystic Cross.” His eyes move back up to mine, holding me with their blue intensity.

“What does that mean?” I ask softly.

“It means you have strong psychic abilities.” His middle finger glides across my palm and a shiver runs down my spine. “Not everybody has that, you know. It makes you special.”