by Mary Bowers
“Think the station will work it out with him?”
“Not a chance. He was lucky he got a second shot at it; he won’t get another. There are too many hotties out there, hungry for the camera, although a lot of them are just as useless as Treena. Also, I hear he set off another bomb at the studio when he realized he was really, really fired. Oh, not a literal bomb. Something worse. I can’t wait until I get back to Orlando to find out what it was. The station manager was cagey about it when I talked to her this morning, but she’ll give me all the gory details when I get back there. I can rely on her for stuff like that.”
I lazered in on her with my eyes. “Call me.”
“Oh, you bet I will.”
“And if Frane decides to arrest Jesse, I’ll call you.”
We did pinkie-links across the table, grinning, just as a dark shadow fell over us. We looked upwards like guilty children.
Grant Rosewood’s brother, Hank, was hanging over us like the prophet of doom, and right behind him was his niece, Carmen.
“You’re always in this diner,” he said to me. “Do you live in this booth?”
“It’s my home away from home,” I told him, scooting over. “Come on and join us, guys.”
They did. Carmen took the seat beside Lily, across the table, so I was uncomfortably close to her uncle, but at least I didn’t have to look at him.
“I’m treating my niece to lunch,” he told us. “I’m leaving town today, right after we finish eating.” He looked around, making a grim sweep of the cheerful diner. “It’s been like a visit to hell.”
“Oh, come on, Uncle Hank,” Carmen said. “Tropical Breeze isn’t that bad.”
“In this very booth,” he said.
“What’s that?” Carmen asked.
“I came in here and there she was, in this very booth.” He stared at Lily. “Right where you’re sitting. I can see her now.”
I’d about had it with the Old Prophet act.
“Well, you must talk to Dr. Darby-Deaver about that,” I said. “He’s a big help, when you’re troubled by ghosts.”
“I’m not troubled,” he said. “My conscience is clear. The woman got what she deserved.”
“Uncle Hank, we agreed we weren’t going to talk about her like this. She was my mother, after all.”
Apparently, this was an ongoing discussion with them, and before Hank could launch into Maida’s lack of maternal skills, Carmen stared him down. She didn’t have his bushy eyebrows or his dark and gloomy soul, but she was a Rosewood, and that side of her knew just how to deal with Uncle Hank. He subsided into a broody silence.
DeAnn came over to take our orders, and when she could catch my eye while nobody else was looking, she gave me an extra eyebrow wiggle. I popped my eyes at her in response, and she wrote down our orders and walked away.
Lily, trying to set a friendly tone, said, “We just finished doing that segment for Orlando Sizzles! over at Artwerks.”
“How did it go?” Carmen asked. “I haven’t seen Adam this morning, but I’m going over there as soon as we finish up here.”
“He was . . . .” Lily groped for words. “We may have to re-shoot. He’s pretty depressed, and it showed.”
“I don’t know why he should be depressed,” Hank said sourly. “He’s sitting pretty now.”
“Maida’s death has brought it all back to him,” Carmen said. “The suicide, the shock of it all. You know how he loved Grant.”
“Don’t try to defend him, and don’t let that man use you.”
“Adam doesn’t use people,” Carmen said.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
Hank took a furtive look at Lily and shot another one at me before he spoke. Then he turned back to his niece. “Little girl, you know I love you, but you’re never going to be the artist your father was. Especially not if you go on like this. Don’t let Adam Cody get you mass-producing junk for the tourists. It’ll ruin whatever chance you may have for a serious career, just for the sake of putting a famous name on whatever that man is selling. Grant made a mistake, there. Maida did too. You’re not really like either one of them, and I pray to God you won’t find yourself making the same mistakes they did.”
When she spoke, Carmen’s voice was very low and controlled. “Mistakes? Things have worked out exactly the way Grant would have wanted them to, Hank, and you know it. Whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t like it,” he snapped.
“Please, Uncle Hank.” She reached for his hand across the table, and he allowed her to touch it. “You’ll see. It’s all going to work out just fine. Just give it a chance.”
“I want to know nothing about it, young lady. I never did agree with this business of artists getting away with behavior that wouldn’t be tolerated in anybody else, and I’m not changing my mind about it now. It’s sick, that’s what it is, and I’ve done what I could as a Godfearing man to put it right. I can do no more.”
She withdrew her hand and settled back, and at that moment, the food came. DeAnn gave me an even wilder look this time, and nobody said anything.
After DeAnn walked away and we had all begun to eat, Carmen said, “Only time will tell, Uncle Hank. You’ll see. It’s all going to work out.”
He made a rude noise through his nostrils and said nothing.
* * *
When we were finished in the diner, we paused on the sidewalk outside. Hank’s sparkling-clean Audi was parked at the curb, and he stood there looking at it for a moment, seeming reluctant to get into it and drive away.
Finally, he turned to his niece and said, “We’re all that’s left of the family now, little Carmelita. It’s just you and me now.”
“I know,” she said, looking misty-eyed. “You know, it’s been at least fifteen years since you’ve called me that.”
“You’ll always be a little girl to me. Listen, the things I’ve said, I’ve only said them because I thought you needed to hear them. They weren’t easy to say. But I’ve said them, and now I’m done with it.”
He stopped and gazed at the new art gallery across the street. The In Memoriam displays were still in the front windows. He stared at Artwerks for so long I was about to say good-bye so Lily and I could break away from them, but suddenly he turned to me.
“You and Carmen are friends now, aren’t you.”
“I hope so,” I said.
He was still staring at me, and something was on his mind. I waited, and finally he said, “Look out for her, will you?”
“Uncle Hank,” Carmen said softly.
“She’s a smart lady,” he said about me while still staring at me. “She’s got wisdom that a youngster like you wouldn’t understand. You listen to her, Carmen.” Finally, he released me from his stare and looked directly at the person he was really talking to – his niece. “Before I go, I have to tell you this. I’ve been having dreams.”
“Nightmares?” Carmen said. “Well, with all that’s been going on, it’s only to be expected.”
“Not nightmares. Just strange. Strange music. Strange smells. And a lady. A lady with green eyes, and she’s talking to me, saying things that worry me, but when I wake up, I can’t make any sense out of it. I understand in the dream, though, and I know there’s something awful hanging over us.”
“Uncle Hank,” Carmen said, and now she took hold of his arm protectively. She looked very worried, and I think we all were, but for different reasons.
“What kind of smells?” I asked, and Carmen turned to stare at me.
“Spices. Spicy smells. The kind of spices that are red. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” I said slowly, “I have dreams like that myself.”
He looked at me silently for a moment. “Your eyes. It was your eyes. But it wasn’t you. And you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, even though I don’t.”
All of them were staring at me now, and I inhaled sharply and lifted my chin. Then, at
a loss for anything else, I asked the one question that was bothering me the most. “Why is she appearing to you?”
He moved his face closer to mine and I involuntarily backed up. “Because you won’t let her in. And I don’t want to see her anymore. Get over it, woman, and deal with it. I can’t take these dreams anymore.”
I could only blink at him, and when I turned to Lily, she wouldn’t even look at me.
Wiping a hand over the air as if it were a blackboard he was wiping clean, he turned back to Carmen. “You’re on the wrong path and you have to stop. But she’s going to figure it out sooner or later, and when she does, you must surrender yourself to the truth.”
“She’s going to figure out what?” Carmen asked warily.
“Everything. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. But some people are blessed more than they want to be. When she comes to you with given knowledge, you must submit. Do the right thing. She may be strong enough to do what needs to be done, when maybe I can’t. I’m strong,” he said, finally moving toward his car, “but I’m not that strong.”
Without a further word or backward look, Hank Rosewood got into his car, pulled it out of the parking space and drove away.
I waited for anything Carmen might have to add to that strange speech, but she didn’t say anything.
“Did you understand that?” Lily asked me quietly.
I tried to say no, but the muscles around my lips got tight. Finally, I said, “I’ve had dreams like the one he described. Maybe when he settles down, I should call him and try to help him work past them.”
“By talking about them?” Carmen said.
The way she said it was odd, and I asked her, “Don’t you want him to?”
“No. I want him to forget them. Don’t you think that would be for the best?”
“Maybe you’re right. I’ll let you decide. If he can’t let go of this thing, let me know and as a last-ditch effort, I’ll call him. You can give me his number then, but until that time, we’ll drop it. Agreed?”
“Agreed. In the meantime, I hope he was right about one thing: that we’re friends.”
“Of course we are.”
“Come over to the studio and see what I’m working on whenever you like.” She gave an almost bitter laugh. “It was nice to hear a little praise for a change, but don’t hesitate to be brutally honest. As you can see, I’ve been taking it on the chin for years. Drop by any time.”
“Thanks, I will. I think I’ll check in at Girlfriend’s now,” I said at last. “I guess this is good-bye for us, too, Lily, for a while at least.”
She nodded and gave me a hug. “I’m going to go over the Artwerks footage and see if we can possibly salvage anything. The only part where he seemed to come alive was when he was displaying the artwork that you had done, and I really want to give that a push,” she said to Carmen. “I want that as the story arc: from one generation to the next, passing on the artistic gifts without copying them. It’s a really good theme, the kind of thing we like to do on the show. But other than that, it was like Adam was at a funeral, and those window displays . . . .” She gestured across the street at them. “He insisted we record them, and I suppose they’re very well done, but we try to keep it upbeat on Orlando Sizzles! I don’t know what to do with that. I’ll run it by the executive producer and see what he thinks. He’s got really good instincts about things like that.”
“Well, I hope you can use them,” Carmen said. “They sum up my father’s life so eloquently. You know, unlike Uncle Hank, Grant wasn’t religious. He didn’t want any kind of memorial, not even a celebration of life, and he wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered on the beach. So now he’s gone. Just gone. Somehow, when Adam put those displays together it gave me the closure I couldn’t have when there was no funeral.”
“I’m glad for that,” she said, and Carmen and I watched Lily as she waved good-bye and walked across Locust Street to where her car was parked.
Now that Carmen and I were alone, I said, “Are you sure your uncle is going to be all right? Has he ever acted like that before?”
“It wasn’t totally out of character for him. Everything has to be epic with him; everything has to have a powerful significance. Having nightmares and reading something weird into them is just like him, although he’s never talked about his dreams to me before. I’m sure he’s going to be fine.”
“Good. There’s something else that’s been bothering me, and as long as we’re talking about your uncle, I may as well ask. That day, when Hank tracked your mother down to the diner, I had the feeling that he had something to say to her, but he changed his mind when he saw me there. He didn’t want to say whatever it was in front of a stranger.”
“You’re right.”
“Did he ever manage to get it off his chest?”
“I’m not sure what was on his mind that day,” Carmen said carefully. “If he said anything to Maida later, it died with her, so it doesn’t matter anymore. Hank and I spent the whole morning talking today, and we washed out all the dirty laundry we both had hanging in our mental closets. I think he’s got it all out of his system now, and I hope he never brings it up again.”
“I see. Well, that’s all right, then.”
I sounded unsatisfied and I knew it, but I couldn’t help it. “Well, thanks for the invitation to your studio. I’ll be sure to take you up on it. And I want you to have one of my cards. Feel free to call me anytime you want to talk. I feel like your uncle left you in my charge or something.”
I gave her one of my Orphans of the Storm business cards, and she gave me her cellphone number.
“I intend to add to my Carmen Rosewood private collection,” I told her.
“Thanks. I’m glad somebody appreciates my work.”
“I’m officially Fan #1, and more important, you’ve got an art dealer who appreciates your work. You’re on your way. By the way, how is Joy doing on the siege machine?”
Carmen laughed. “She isn’t going near it. She’s been gripped by a sudden inspiration, and she’s working on a tribute to Grant now. It’s already much better than the Peace thing is ever going to be. Maybe his death has helped her find her artistic soul after all.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I hope so. ‘Bye, Carmen.”
“See ya.” She strode across the street and headed for Artwerks.
At that moment, my phone signaled an incoming text, and I wasn’t surprised to see it was from Lily.
I want a report, it said. Everything you find out about what the heck he was talking about. Then there were two emojis: two hands doing a pinkie-link, and a black cat with its back arched up.
Will tell you all when I understand it myself, if ever, I answered. Then I added: Do not text while you’re driving.
Yes, Mommy, she answered, and I didn’t encourage her by replying.
Chapter 17 – Strange Dreams
I didn’t let myself think about Hank’s dreams until I was alone with myself again, which wasn’t until I got into bed that night and was sure that Michael was asleep. Then I arranged myself flat on my back, lay my arms along my sides and tried to drift. Float.
I’d been a coward. I had been blocking whatever had been trying to get in. As a result, following some cosmic rule that something’s got to give, and if it doesn’t pop up here it will pop up there, the dreams I had shied away from had found their way into another mind. I don’t know why I felt responsible for that. I had never asked for the dreams. But somehow, when Hank talked about his dreams, I knew that I had failed, and whatever my other faults, I’d never settled for failure.
My cat. My magic cat. Ever since Bastet had come to me, I’d been having dreams just like the one Hank described, but they weren’t constant. They didn’t come to me just any old time. Only when there was trouble, or I was trying hard to solve a problem. I’d decided that maybe they came from stress, a strange psychological reaction to things that were overwhelming me. Maybe even my own mind’s attempt to bring to the surface things
that I already knew.
In them, a woman came to me, and all I was ever able to see clearly was her eyes, her bright green eyes. The same green as my own eyes. That had to mean something too, didn’t it? The fact that those eyes were like mine – even Hank had said so – had to mean that the woman in the dream was only me, looking back at myself.
But she wasn’t like me, and I knew it. She was cold, distant. If people died, she didn’t care. She believed in justice, but over the millennia she had seen thousands die. It was nothing to her. She had the worldview of a goddess, the arrogance that notices you, but doesn’t relate to you. The arrogance I saw in my own cat, Bastet. With anybody else, Bastet acted like an ordinary cat. It was only with me that she behaved with that superiority one has in the presence of a servant.
I had never offered to be her servant. But somehow, sometimes, I was.
I didn’t really understand it, but I had begun to trust it. The dreams were always the beginning, and however hard the journey, it brought me where I needed to go.
So I calmed myself and tried not to try too hard. An empty mind is an open mind. Open objects are receptacles, waiting to be filled. But forcing yourself to think of nothing is harder than it sounds.
When that didn’t work, I actively dug down into my mind and felt for it.
But the dream still wouldn’t come. It just wouldn’t begin the way it had always begun, with the sounds and scents that Hank Rosewood had been describing.
I stopped trying and lay there in the dark, eyes open and getting dry. I was still resisting; I just didn’t want to go there, and I knew that was the problem. I glanced at the clock and realized to my shock that hours had gone by. It was nearly three in the morning already, and I didn’t remember being asleep, much less having a dream.