“You should drink a cup every day,” Rose says.
“Because my great-great-grandfather did?”
“That’s right. And he lived to be a ripe old age. Considering the times.”
“How did he die?”
“That’s for you to look up.”
“How is it you know so much about my ancestors?”
“How is it you know so little about them?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Then she says, “I’ve sent you two presents over the years. From the past.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Think about it.”
“I’m tryin’ to think but nuttin’ happens!” I say, imitating Curly, from the Three Stooges.
“One of the gifts is in your pocket as we speak.”
I reach in my pocket and feel the silver dollar my grandfather gave me all those years ago.
“Unless you’re my grandfather, I think you’re wrong.”
“Someone had to give it to him,” she says.
Like I say, she’s an odd one, this Rose.
“Where’s the second gift?”
She frowns. “You squandered it.”
“Do tell,” I say, sarcastically.
“I sent you a cannonball.”
I recall the cannonball. But it wasn’t a gift. It fell from the sky during a horrific hail storm and crashed into the back of a truck I was sitting in.
…In St. Alban’s Beach, Florida.
I look her over, carefully, and remember a hallucination I saw just before the cannonball struck. There had been a store near the truck. Through the rain I could barely see, but there appeared to be a young woman standing on the roof of that store, laughing. She had jet black hair, and eyes that glowed yellow, with a vertical black line in the center, like a jungle cat. If Rose’s eyes looked like that, I’d haul ass and never look back.
But like I say, it was an apparition, something I imagined. Because when I blinked my eyes a single time, she was gone.
I don’t recall telling anyone about the cannonball, but there were several men with me that day, and the guy who owned the truck kept it as a souvenir. If Rose has spent any time in St. Alban’s, it’s quite possible she could have heard about the cannonball.
And everyone who knows me knows about the silver dollar.
And there’s this: she knows C.H., my elfin researcher. Charlie.
How’s that possible? A woodland creature from centuries ago?
Obviously a bullshit story.
And yet it’s clear they know each other from somewhere.
I think it over. Charlie’s one of my top researchers. He certainly knows everything about my family tree. If he’s been communicating with Rose over time, he might have told her about my heritage. My gut feeling says Rose isn’t dangerous. She’s grandmotherly, in a strange way. And yet I wonder if she’s up to something. If so, I might have to find out the hard way.
How would it feel to torture someone who gives off a sweet grandmother vibe?
That afternoon, Rose leaves for New York. Callie and I finally find ourselves alone.
“Is there any such thing as too much love?” she asks, dreamily.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I say. Then add, “I know the true cost of love.”
“Tell me,” she says.
“Power.”
She frowns. “Excuse me?”
“All love comes from power.”
“You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“I’ve read a lot of romance poems,” Callie says.
“You have?”
“Don’t act surprised. But the sentiment that all love comes from power was never posited by Emily Dickinson.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite.”
“Should I explain?”
“Only if you wish to maintain the slightest hope of getting in my pants.”
“That might actually happen today?”
“After our jog.”
I smile. “Funny.”
I start to speak, but she places her index finger over her lips and says, “Think this through, okay? Don’t screw it up.”
“Okay.”
She waits a moment, then says, “Ready?”
“I am.”
She nods. “Okay then. Say what you mean.”
“Every drop of love you give costs a drop of your power. The more power you lose, the more vulnerable you become.”
“What’s the power you’re giving up?”
“The power to not be hurt.”
“You’re saying the more you love someone, the more power you give them to hurt you?”
“Exactly.”
“And that’s why you don’t fall in love easily.”
“That’s right.”
“And this is all part of your abandonment issues?”
“Probably.”
She looks down long enough to make me wonder what she could possibly be thinking. When she finally looks back up, there are tears in her eyes.
Lots of tears.
But there’s something else going on in her face I’ve never seen before.
Hope.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes. Very.”
She motions me closer, then slaps my face so hard it knocks me back.
“What the hell?”
Callie breaks into a huge grin and says “Omigod, Donovan!”
“What?”
“I just slapped your face! Again!”
“So?”
“You never saw it coming!”
“What, your hand?”
“A month ago you would’ve blocked that slap in your sleep.”
“I’ve heard this before. What’s your point?”
“You love me!”
“I already told you that! Are you going to keep slapping me every time you question my love?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“So even if I see it coming, I have to allow it?”
“You’re the one who said that bullshit about giving me the power to hurt you.”
She laughs. But there are still tears. She’s laughing and crying at the same time.
“You love me!” she says. “You honestly, seriously, love me!”
I frown, thinking about the slap. “Try it again,” I say.
She bursts into laughter. When it dies down, all that’s left on her flawless face is her radiant smile.
“You love me,” she says, “and it’s okay.”
“It is?”
“Uh huh. Because I love you, too.”
“You do? Still?”
“With all my heart.”
“What about Gwen?”
Callie laughs. “You need to work on that.”
“On what?”
“Romance.”
“What are you talking about? I’m romantic.”
“Being romantic isn’t the same as romance.”
“It’s not?”
She says, “I just told you I loved you, and you said, ‘What about Gwen’?”
“It’s a fair question. You’re living with Gwen.”
“What about your ex-wife, Janet?”
“What about her?”
“When you said you loved me I didn’t ask, ‘What about Janet?’”
“That’s different. You live with Gwen. She shares your bed!”
Callie smiles. “Not after today.”
She lets that comment hang in the air between us like a giant, heart-shaped balloon.
I reach for her hand and kiss it. Then slap her face.
“Ow!” She yelps. Then says, “I could’ve blocked that, if I wanted to.”
Then she says, “What are you grinning at?”
I smile. “You love me too, Callie.”
She rubs her cheek and smiles and says, “I know.”
55.
Two Weeks Later.
Cincinnati.
“YOU DON’T LOOK like a claims adjustor,” Connie says.
“No?”
“You look like a movie star.”
We’re sitting in Connie’s living room, on her L-shaped sofa. She’s on the sofa, I’m on the L-shaped section. Our knees are a foot apart. She’s a bit over-dressed for the occasion, wearing an Alexander Wang V-neck sleeveless wrap dress, and black zip-front wedge sandals. I have no idea why she thinks a claims adjustor would be talking to her about her late husband’s life insurance policy. All I said on the phone was I needed to get some additional information before the insurance company could pay the death benefit.