Crossing Stars

by Nicole Williams

  “How did you manage this?” I asked Mrs. Bailey.

  The sales girl smiled at me. She told me to take as much time as I liked and to try on as many gowns as I desired. Even in a store like this—one that might not have been owned or run by Italians—my father’s name held sway. The mayor ran the city, but my father owned it. At least this half of it.

  “Well, I didn’t. Your mother did.” Mrs. Bailey brushed a silk gown. “I asked her, and she made the call. Besides, do you think I’ve ever been in a store like this? I wouldn’t know where to call when a wealthy young lady needs a fancy dress.” Lifting the sides of her brown tweed skirt, she curtsied. “I’m more of a Goodwill girl myself.”

  “Then we’re getting something for you as well,” I said, pulling out a midnight blue lace gown and holding it up to her.

  Laughing, she shoved it away. “If young men wanted to admire an old woman in a silk nightie, more of them would visit old folks’ homes. I’ll stick to my matronly garb, thank you very much.”

  Hanging the dress back up, I paused. My shadow did the same. “I don’t think the dresses are much danger to me, Luca. Could I have a few minutes of pretending my life is semi-normal?”

  Luca waved at the closest rack of gowns. “You’re a young woman. Shopping. With her parent’s credit card. How much more normal does it get?”

  I crossed my arms. “Complete with a half dozen armed guards? Normal that isn’t, but maybe if I try really hard, I can pretend.”

  He nodded once. “Pretend away then.”

  As I took a few steps toward another rack, I felt him glide after me. “Pretending would be a lot easier if you weren’t six inches from my heels everywhere I move.” I waited, ready to go a few more rounds, but after a few moments, he let out something between a grunt and a groan.

  “Fine. I’ll stay back,” he said. “But I’ll be—”

  “Right here if you need me,” I filled in, wondering how many hundreds of times I’d heard those words from him alone. I flashed him a thumbs up and a smile as I meandered across the store toward Mrs. Bailey, who was thumbing through a round rack of dresses.

  “What about this one?” She pulled out a knee-length white dress and held it in front of me.

  “What about what happened Friday night?” I said in a hushed voice followed by, “I’ll try it on,” in a louder voice.

  The sales girl sprang up beside us and took the dress to put it in a dressing room. Her smile hadn’t dimmed from the moment we’d entered—it was almost as bright as the light coming from the chandeliers.

  Mrs. Bailey continued inspecting the rack while throwing a sideways look at Luca, who was the closest of the five guards. “He was there. Waiting like you said he’d be.”

  My hands clapped together, and I came so close to shrieking in delight, my throat burned from keeping it down. “What did he say?”

  Mrs. Bailey huffed, pulling out another dress. I promptly shook my head at it. What I was going to wear for the White Party was the furthest thing from my mind.

  “What didn’t he say is more the question.” Her voice was so quiet, I had to lean in closer to hear her. “He wanted to know where you were. How you were. Who you were. Who I was. When he could see you again. If he could see you again. How you felt about him. If you were safe. If you were in danger. If you had someone special in your life. If you wanted someone special in your life.” She paused long enough to take a breath. “And then he repeated those questions all over again.”

  Hearing what he’d said, even paraphrased, made me feel close to him. At least as close as two strangers who knew so little about each other could feel. “What did you tell him?” I whispered, followed by, “I’ll try this one on too,” when Mrs. Bailey pulled another white gown from the rack.

  The ever-eager sales girl was there in half a wink. After she left, Mrs. Bailey wandered to another rack, putting us even farther out of Luca’s earshot.

  “I told him as little as I could to satisfy him, although it was still more than I would have liked,” she confessed.

  “Did you tell him my real name?”

  Her eyes widened. “If you think I’m that large of a fool, you’re an even bigger one for sending me.” When Luca glanced our way, Mrs. Bailey glanced back at the dresses. “I told him your name was ‘Jay,’ although he clearly believed that as much as I believed he was no one of importance when I asked who he was involved with on the Irish side of The Line.” She rolled her eyes and pulled another dress that was almost as matronly as her outfit. After taking a closer look, she shoved it back onto the rack.

  “Did you tell him anything else?”

  “Only that I thought you both were being overly cavalier with the risks you were willing to take to meet with a person you barely knew.”

  I followed her around the rack. “What did he say to that?”

  She exhaled sharply. “Only that his life wasn’t too much to risk to get to be with you again. He’s a fool if he really believes that, and you’re one too if you feel the same.”

  When she looked at me, I tried to wipe the grin off my face. It didn’t work. “If I’m to believe you, everyone’s a fool, so I might as well pick something like love to be a fool over.”

  “Love.” Mrs. Bailey barked a sharp laugh. “How can you know you love this boy?”

  I raised a shoulder. “How can I know I don’t? Or that I couldn’t one day?”

  The sales girl appeared in front of me again, holding two white dresses for my inspection. I nodded at both, although I didn’t really see either.

  “How did he look?” I whispered after Mrs. Bailey traveled to another rack. It was loaded with gowns coated in so much sparkle and glitter, I’d wind up a human disco ball if I actually wore one.

  “You know exactly how he looked,” she said with a knowing look.

  A not-so-innocent smile dawned on my face. “I suppose I do. But what did you think?”

  Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. “I’m a red-blooded woman. What do you think I thought?”

  “That he’s more god than man?” I slid closer and nudged her.

  “Yes, he’s a fine-looking young man, and yes, he’s probably starred in more women’s fantasies than you or I need to know . . . but let’s hope there’s more to him than his looks.”

  “There is,” I said, with an eye roll of my own. “But I sense there’s something you’re trying to tell me, so what is it?”

  Mrs. Bailey started for the dressing room. “There’s no crime in looking. Just make sure that’s not all you see.”

  Before slipping inside the dressing room, I paused to stare at that gold band on her finger. “You are like some great love Buddha, Mrs. Bailey, you know that?”

  “I’ve just lived and learned is all,” she replied as I closed the dressing room curtain.

  Inside the dressing room that was more posh than functional, I inspected the dresses lined up for me to try on. A couple I couldn’t believe had wound up in the possible pile—one had actual feathers for a skirt. I must have been more distracted than I’d thought. After heaping a few into the no pile without even taking them off the hanger, I slid into a cocktail dress. I promptly slid out of it when I realized it was more appropriate for a picnic in the park than a formal party.

  “You’re awfully quiet out there,” I called to her as I slipped into a second dress.

  “That’s because I don’t have anything else to say,” Mrs. Bailey replied.

  That got my attention. I knew Mrs. Bailey was many things, but I’d never known her to be a woman of few words. I stuck my head out from behind the curtain. “Really?”

  She was leaning against the dressing room wall and worrying something out on her lip . . . which meant she had plenty more to say.

  “What?” I prompted. “Tell me.”

  “It’s not my place,” she answered.

  “You’ve been my teacher and stand-in mom for twelve years. If anyone has a place to tell me something, it’s you.” I did another scan of the gu
ards. All were still at their posts, almost twitching in anticipation. Luca, of course, was the closest, but he was still giving me the space I’d requested.

  “It’s about Rylan,” I stated. I didn’t want to hear disapproval from a person I looked up to, but I wouldn’t turn a blind eye either. Knowing the truth was better than living a lie. I hoped . . .

  Mrs. Bailey’s head shook once.

  The skin between my eyebrows creased. “It’s about me then?”

  One more shake, and her eyes locked on mine. “It’s about you and him.”

  “What do you mean?” Trying not to get defensive was difficult, but I reminded myself that whatever Mrs. Bailey said would come from a good place. Whatever her opinion, she wanted the best for me.

  “Look at it from my perspective. Or anyone on the outside’s perspective,” she began, moving closer. “You two have only just met, only been together once, and already I can see the way you feel about him. Like he’s taken root inside of you, and there’s nothing man or god could do to make you give him up. That worried me, seeing you so consumed by a person you hadn’t even known existed ten days ago. I was hoping that by meeting him, I’d be able to determine if he felt the same or was only pretending to feel the same. It’s a hard truth but a real one that nearly one hundred percent of men claiming to lay down their life for a woman they’ve just met are only saying so to get her to lay down and give up something of her own.”

  I’d lived vicariously through enough of Serena’s escapades to know Mrs. Bailey wasn’t exaggerating. “And what did you determine after meeting him? That all he wants from me is one night?” The possibility didn’t bowl me over like it should have. Maybe I was confident it wasn’t true, or maybe I was simply an idiot.

  “I saw that he feels the same way for you as you do for him,” Mrs. Bailey said quietly, confessing it like it was the worst possible outcome.

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Not bad, but dangerous.” She rubbed her forehead like she had a headache. “When you fall this hard and this fast for a person, the heartache and break is just as strong. When you let someone become a part of you so suddenly and without reservation, you wear their name on your heart for the rest of your life. Others may come and go, but none will be able to cut through the scar tissue left over from something like this.”

  “I don’t want any others. I want him.” My voice went up a few decibels, getting some attention from the guards.

  “And I want 1985 back and for there to be no such thing as death,” she whispered. “But we can’t waste our lives wanting things we can never have.”

  “Why can’t I have him?” This time, I kept my voice muffled, although those words warranted shouts and screams.

  Her maternal look met me again. I’d been getting a lot of those this week. “How can you ask that question and expect me to treat you like a woman who’s thought this out and is prepared for the consequences and dangers that come with a man like him?”

  “You mean because he’s from the Irish side of The Line, and I’m from the Italian side?”

  “Yes, there’s that minor thing”—even in a hushed voice, she could pack a punch of sarcasm—“there’s also your age, personality, experience, et cetera. I mean, my goodness, what kind of a threat must he be that a handful of men I wouldn’t want to live in the same zip code with give him a wide berth as they pass him on the sidewalk? What kind of a man wears a gun I’m not sure I could lift, let alone fire, like it’s an extension of his body? What does a man like that see in an innocent, sheltered girl like you?”

  I cleared my throat of the emotion choking it. “It’s not so much about seeing; it’s more to do with a feeling.”

  “A bird can feel all it wants for a fish, and the fish in return. But where would they live?”

  I felt my eyes burn, but I wouldn’t cry. Crying was like admitting defeat, and I was a long ways from that. “They’d find a way. Somehow. If they were really meant to be together, they’d find a way.”

  Mrs. Bailey gave me a sad smile, looking like she wanted to wrap me up in her arms. “If the world wanted them to be together, it would have created a place for them to be with each other.”

  I felt doubt attacking me, kicking and beating at my walls, doing everything it could to tear them apart.

  “I know you care about this boy, and I know he cares about you. But what, other than tragedy and pain, can come from a union like this? Wouldn’t it be better to sever the bond before it winds any tighter? Why chance heaping heartbreak on yourself when you can end it today?”

  Doubt didn’t stop tearing at me, but I crushed it. “It’s not a chance, it’s a choice. And I choose him.”

  MAKING THE CHOICE was easy. Living with it was difficult.

  I didn’t have any way to contact him, and I knew better than to just cross The Line and hope he’d find me before another pack of brand-happy thugs did. The rest of the week, all I could do was cling to what I felt and what he felt, given what Mrs. Bailey had said. When Friday came, it took all of my willpower to slip into my dress for the White Party instead of slipping away to our spot on The Line.

  I could hear the roar from the festivities out on the lawn, but I stayed a bit longer in my room. As Salvatore Costa’s daughter, I was expected to put in an appearance, but tonight, that almost seemed like too much work. After a couple of weeks of mostly sleepless nights and days of relentless thoughts and emotions, I was exhausted. The thought of painting on a smile and milling about the hundreds of my father’s employees and their families made me want to crawl back into bed and throw the comforter over my head. I’d grown up knowing those men and their families. At previous White Parties, I’d been able to see past the scrubbed-off blood on their hands, but tonight, I kept envisioning that blood on their hands being Rylan’s.

  An hour later, the party was in high gear when a knock sounded at my door. “Miss Costa. It’s really time we made it down. Your father’s noticed your absence.”

  With a sigh, I rolled my shoulders back and headed for the door. “Coming, Luca.”

  When I pulled the door open, he spared me a smile. “You look all ready for a party.”

  I ran my hands down the dress I’d picked with Mrs. Bailey. It was a floor-length silk chiffon with a braided rope of satin winding from my shoulders to my hips in a Grecian style. If nothing else, the dress was ready for a party. “If only I felt the same way.” I smiled when I noticed his standard dark-gray suit had been exchanged for a blinding white one with a gleaming white bow tie. “Looking good, Luca. Too bad you’re on duty. The women would eat you up out there.”

  Luca’s dark skin hid his blush, but I thought I saw it creeping up his neck. “I feel like a constipated polar bear in this thing.”

  Before I knew it, I was laughing. “I get the polar bear part, but why a constipated one?”

  As Luca fell in line behind me, he shifted uncomfortably. “Because this thing is painful to move in.”

  I wanted to laugh again, but I didn’t want him to think I was making fun of his suit or discomfort. “Why don’t you take a couple of breaks tonight to enjoy the party? I think I’ll be safe enough with the entire Costa Famiglia around.” Since Luca worked Fridays through Mondays, he’d missed out on nearly every party my father had thrown for his men during the five years Luca had been assigned to me.

  “Thank you, but I can’t do that. My job is to protect you, which means staying close, which means not taking breaks.”

  I glanced back as we headed down the stairs. “The only danger to me tonight is the hem of this dress.” As a reminder, I lifted my dress as I stepped onto the main floor. “I think I can handle it on my own.”

  “I think you can too, but a duty is a duty.”

  I knew better than to push the issue. My father had hired his guards for good reasons, and dutiful topped the list. If Luca wanted to stay a constipated polar bear one step behind me all night, that was his prerogative.

  When we passed the dining ro
om, I kept my eyes straight ahead and pretended it wasn’t there—or more like pretended what had happened inside of it last week hadn’t happened. Since the night my father had betrothed me to the son he’d never had—who was probably on the FBI’s Most Wanted list—I’d seen him twice. Once had been on the staircase, although I’m not sure my father even knew I was there, and the second time was when I’d been sitting on my balcony and he’d met a few of his men out on the lawn. Each man’s dress shirt was speckled in red and the only words I’d heard of the hushed conversation were We got the bastard.

  That night, I’d had nightmares they’d gotten Rylan. That it was his blood splattered across their shirts.

  I wasn’t sure what my father would say to me tonight—or if he’d say anything—but the thought had crossed my mind more than once that this White Party was a cover for something else. All I knew was that if I found Constantine propped beside an altar, I was diving into the lake and swimming until I reached Wisconsin.

  When I stepped outside, giddiness and awe hit me like it had at every White Party before. My father was a man of excess and show, and the White Party was the encapsulation of that. There was a different theme every year; the only thing that remained the same was the color. This year, the party had taken on an almost whimsical carnival feel.

  A Ferris wheel had been brought in, along with a merry-go-round, a haunted house, concession stands, and carnival games. In addition to the standard cotton candy and corn dogs were stands displaying so many different kinds of Italian dishes that the whole country was represented. I saw ring toss and balloon dart games as well as dagger throwing and pistol shooting. Everything shimmered white in the gentle glow of the lights strung above it all. It was like a dream pulled from a child’s imagination.

  In front of the whimsy of the carnival was a large white marble dance floor that butted right up against the lake. An orchestra played on one side of it, and the other two sides were bordered by tables where people were drinking, eating, and laughing. It was a warm night with just a hint of a breeze—the perfect night for an outdoor party. Knowing the Blue Krait’s sway, he’d probably paid someone off to make sure the weather cooperated.