Completeness. The other half of every emotion. All he’d lost so tangibly present, as if the past few months had never happened.
He might have drawn her in with an unconscious lead of his hand, she might have chosen it herself, but as the music faded from their voices and the waltz stilled from their awareness, her arm went around his neck, she rested her face against his shoulder, and he welcomed the firm closeness of her body against his, the curves of her waist and hips, the cashmere-soft warmth coming through her dress.
Not reliving, but stillliving; not like then, but like always.
She could have stayed here forever, real and timeless, no matter when or where or which world it was. The dance had fallen behind them, slipping into one of her forgotten pasts. While worlds and times swirled around them, she and Dane became the sun, the unmoving center of it all. She clung to him as to life, caressed his back and with a slight bow of her head kissed his hand, then kissed it again. He kissed her on the cheek.
And this time she only had to turn herhead.
It was meant to be. It had to be. It wasand he surrendered to it, incredulous and thrilled, remembering then, living now, lost in the taste of her lips and the scent of her hair, tracing the delicate shape of her neck, her ears, her face.
So this was what it was like. She had dreamed, but now she was there, embraced by love, carried by yearning, unable, unwilling to contain the feeling and finding a whole other side of herself who’d been here before, who knew, who pressed against him, gave herself to him. Oh, to be the one who shared her life, her love, her very being with this man …
She was just as when he first met her, newly blossomed, flawless and pure, delighting in life and love as her greatest adventure—
He stopped.
She opened her eyes, met his, then dropped her head, her hands still draped over his shoulders.
He took her hands from his shoulders, gave one a kiss, and let them go. He walked into the hall, escaping with deadening reluctance into the real world.
She came to rest against the closet doorpost, arms covering her because the wonderful blue gown made her feel naked.
She was framed in the doorway, her head down, her body wilted. With arms still covering her, she tried to form words but could only shake her head.
He gathered himself and said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m very, very sorry.”
She looked at him. The joy and wonder had died from her eyes. “I, I never meant to—”
“I know. You’re very young, and not at all to be blamed. The fault for all of this is mine. To put it simply, I’m very much in love, more than I realized, but not with you. I’m in love with my wife, and I guess I always will be.”
“And …” She dabbed some wetness from her nose. “I know I could never replace her.”
With a sad smile he replied, “That’s right.”
There was a silence as each waited, but there was nothing more to say.
“I guess I should leave.”
He nodded, making sure his face was kind. “For your sake, and for the whole wonderful life you still have ahead of you, yes, you should leave. You should leave right away and never come back.” He turned, then paused. “You can report your hours to Shirley and she’ll send you your check. I’ll see to it that Arnie has your contact information. I’ll be downstairs. Be sure to put everything away where you found it.”
He left her in his bedroom, wiping her eyes and leaning like a dying lily.
Downstairs, he lit a fire in the fireplace and sat on the couch to watch the flames. He heard her footsteps when she came down the stairs. She stood for a moment in the other end of the living room, but he couldn’t turn to say good-bye. He just watched the flames while she went out the door, started up her Bug, and drove down the long driveway.
He was still sitting there after the fire had died to embers and the embers to ashes.
chapter
32
Black television screen. Fade up.
Illuminated by a single, hard light source to the left of screen, white hair backlit to create a corona around his head, the bearded, sagelike face of Preston Gabriel turned toward the camera. In a low, rumbling voice reminiscent of Orson Welles, he spoke.
“Psychokinesis, the claimed power to affect matter by mind alone. Spoon bending, moving small objects, causing items to fall over or fly through the air solely by the power of the mind. Is it real, or is it illusion? Tonight we find the answers on … Gabriel’s Magic!”
Spooky, haunting music played. Blue and fiery red images collaged across the screen: Preston Gabriel, dressed in his signature black and looking much like a wizard himself, materializing a flute, then turning it into four doves in his bare hands, levitating a girl from a table, making money appear in a volunteer’s hand, vanishing a girl from a chair, lying on broken glass while a truck runs over him, producing a girl from an empty cabinet with a puff of smoke, stabbing a selected card with a knife from a cascade of falling cards in midair. Amazing moments, looks of astonishment, teasers of things to come bombarded the eyes as the music rose to a crescendo and a title burst from a tiny pixel to huge letters that filled the screen: Gabriel’s Magic.
The show’s intro cut to live cameras and a studio stage—a touch of stage smoke bringing out the bluish pin spots as the theme music played and an announcer said, “From Television World in Hollywood, ladies and gentlemen, this is Preston Gabriel.”
The studio audience cheered and applauded as the Man strode boldly into the floodlights, white mane shining, face pleasant, eyes steely. “Good evening. The art of magic is built upon a covenant between the performer and his audience: he will attempt to fool them, and they will let themselves be fooled in the full knowledge that the magician is only an actor pretending to be a magician, performing the impossible, but through trickery and illusion. Our ‘actors’ tonight: the amazing magical duo from Montreal, Canada, Torey and Abigail.” Applause. “And an astounding newcomer all the way from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho—I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Laughter. “The young, the beautiful, the talented Eloise Kramer.”
Mandy Whitacre, she thought, but didn’t say as the applause rang from the television in the green room. Mandy sat on a soft sofa, all made up, dressed up, and up against the full impact of this being her first time ever on television.
Arnie, sitting in a chair far from her, looked up from his laptop computer with an expression that said, You asked for it, kid.
She smiled at him the way she always did, wishing him well, hoping for friendship, and getting used to the idea that it was never going to happen. He was there to look after her, and he was doing a great job. He’d handled the whole booking, every detail from her flight to her hotel room, meals, schedule, the works, but he’d been honest with her, he was doing it for Dane, and their relationship was strictly professional.
In other words, they could never be friends.
So stick around, Arnie, I want to be alone. She and her favor-paying agent hardly spoke to each other.
She looked over at—was it Dwight or Dwayne, she couldn’t quite remember, her brain was so occupied with the performance coming up. He was a young man decked out in a flowery martial arts outfit, and he didn’t smile much, if at all. He was watching the screen, eyes narrow and lips grim. She figured he was getting psyched up.
Preston Gabriel went on with his opener. “And then we have tonight’s million-dollar challenger, a man who claims not to be a pretender but to have a genuine ability to move and manipulate objects by the power of his mind. If he can demonstrate this power to the satisfaction of our judges and this master pretender”—pointing to himself—“he could be eligible for our prize of one million dollars, offered to anyone who can prove psychic powers under controlled conditions: Mr. Dwight Hoskins.” Applause.