by Mia Sheridan
Perhaps all of that was the reason the bond she felt with Jonah meant so much to her.
She loved spending time with him, loved sharing parts of herself she hadn’t shared with anyone else. And she loved listening to him as well, loved the way he described his world. The way he added in small tidbits that she knew were only him, only his own vision of a certain something, like the way he likened Myrtle to a hedgehog: round and prickly at times, but ultimately the most loyal and lovable person you’d ever meet.
And though he hadn’t shared very many personal things with her by choice, she knew those were small pieces of him that he'd unwittingly given, and she grasped them and held them as precious gifts, the same way she held each minor comment Mrs. Guillot made about her deceased husband in the midst of a story.
Those were the tiny treasures all people doled out, but only to those they trusted, and Clara recognized them as such.
She’d been intrigued by Windisle when she’d arrived that first day, but Jonah had made her fall in love with it. He’d described it to her in such loving detail, his deep, accented drawl winding through the cracks in the wall, and weaving around her, lush and honeyed, like the blossom-heavy vines that climbed the gates, taking over the swirling iron until it looked to be created entirely of petals and greenery. That’s what he’d done to her, as she’d sat there, the colors in the sky bleeding together and melting into darkness. She’d felt consumed. Completely engulfed by something strong and sweet.
Jonah.
Her wish collector.
Her grit and velvet-voiced dream weaver.
Her fingers hovered uncertainly over the keys for a moment before she finally exhaled, lowering her hands and typing in his name.
So many hits came up immediately she barely knew where to start. She was shaking, she realized, and something unnamed was moving through her. This was going to change everything, of course. If the miniscule amount he’d given her—I killed my brother and I’m the monster behind the wall—hadn’t, this would. She felt it in her gut.
She clicked on images first and leaned toward the screen as he—Jonah Chamberlain—the voice behind the wall, became a flesh-and-blood man.
She sat back in her chair, blinking at his smiling photo. She hadn’t given too much thought to what she expected, but this, this was definitely not it.
Her gaze moved from his chiseled jaw to his full smiling lips to his high cheekbones and his light brown eyes topped by dark deep-set brows. Dear lord.
He had a face made for fantasy and fairy tales, created for artists, fashioned for stages and film screens and for dark, starlit nights. His hair, which he wore combed back, was wavy and a deep chocolaty brown, a widow’s peak dipping from his thick hairline and seeming to point to the perfection of his face.
She swallowed, chills breaking out over her skin. His beauty, formed from tiny pixels, and staring one-dimensional from a computer screen, felt painful to her somehow and why, she did not know.
Clara forced herself to scroll down the screen. The majority of the images were of Jonah in a suit, looking powerful and confident, as he leaned toward a microphone. Others were of him in what looked like a courtroom, and the close-up, the one that had first stopped her breath, was his photo from a law firm pamphlet. Jonah Chamberlain was a lawyer. Or he had been.
Clicking off the images, Clara opened the first article, and began to read, bile moving up her throat as horror gripped her.
An hour and a half later, Clara stood unsteadily from the computer terminal where she’d been glued to her seat. She reached with shaky hands to grab her duffle bag, knocking over the plastic cup of pencils in her jerky movements. They clattered across the surface of the desk and a woman sitting across from her shot her a glare.
Without taking the time to replace the pencils, Clara turned, fast-walking out of the library, drawing in a much-needed lungful of air as she ran across the street, away, away.
But she couldn’t escape the information she’d learned, and the photo of her grinning wish collector as he’d drunk champagne and toasted his success right before so many worlds would crumble—including his own—remained in vivid color in her mind’s eye.
**********
“You felt tense today.”
Marco lifted Clara’s bag and slung it over his shoulder as she stood. She reached for her bag, but he moved back, grinning his trademark grin and beginning to walk.
She sighed and took a few quick steps to catch up. “I pushed myself too hard yesterday. I just wanted to take it easy today so I didn’t pull something.”
He gave her a dubious look, raising one dark eyebrow as they pushed through the double doors to the parking lot. “Where are you parked?”
“I’m not. I bus it.”
He stopped, turning toward her. “You take the bus to and from the theater every day?”
“For now.” She shrugged. “I’m saving up for a car.”
He shook his head, muttering something in Italian she didn’t understand. Poor thing, maybe? Helpless female? Easy prey? Any of those were likely. Marco was the biggest ladies’ man in the ballet—and Clara was quite certain he didn’t limit himself to coworkers. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“No thanks.” Clara held her hand out for her duffle.
Marco opened his mouth and then closed it, and Clara almost chuckled at his perplexed expression. He was obviously unused to being turned down for anything.
From what she had witnessed, the other female dancers—and some of the males—went all googly eyed when he tossed them a glance.
Oh, he was attractive, she’d give him that. But he was also cocky and narcissistic and as a general rule, she didn’t date other dancers anyway. Now would be an especially bad time to break that rule; she was distracted enough.
She used his awkward pause to snag the bag from his shoulder and put it over hers as she turned away. “Bye,” she sang.
He caught up to her and she glanced at him as she sighed, speeding up her steps, though he kept up with her easily, and she knew exactly how. She was well acquainted with those long, muscled dancer’s legs of his. “You don’t think very highly of me.”
“I admire you very much, Marco. I think you’re an extremely talented dancer. But I don’t date other dancers.” And I’m distracted and sad and confused and . . . I just want to be alone.
“I didn’t ask you for a date. I just offered you a ride.”
That stopped Clara up short, a heated blush rising in her cheeks. He was right. She’d been presumptuous. In actuality, she’d thought too highly of herself. Sure, he was a ladies’ man, but that didn’t mean he was interested in every lady. It didn’t mean he was interested in her. She’d been selfish and rude. She grimaced. “Sorry, Marco, I—”
“Not that I don’t want to date you.” He dragged his gaze down her body and then back up to her eyes. “I was waiting to get you in the car before I put the real moves on.”
He gave her a wolfish stare, but she caught the small quirk of his lips. He was teasing her. Maybe only in part but it was enough to disarm her.
She laughed, glancing over his shoulder to where the cars were parked. “No moves, okay? But I’ll take the ride. Thank you very much. It’s nice of you to offer.”
Marco grinned. “Follow me.” He removed her bag from her shoulder again, and she let him, rolling her eyes as she did. Flirt.
As they were driving away, a group of fellow dancers exited the building, talking and laughing. They caught sight of Clara sitting in Marco’s passenger seat as they drove past, their chatter halting as every gaze followed. Clara looked away, focusing on the street ahead as Marco pulled out of the lot. Let the gossip commence, she thought. Awesome.
“So, Clara, what have you been doing for fun since you moved to New Orleans?”
“Fun? Who has time for fun?”
Marco chuckled, shooting her a grin. “We should all make time for a little fun. All work and no play . . .”
She raised a brow as his wor
ds tapered off, a particular whispery lilt to the word play. She understood exactly the type of fun Marco was referring to. “I have made a little time to get to know New Orleans.” And a man who keeps himself hidden behind a wall . . . a man who collects wishes, who has a voice that wraps around my bones . . . a man who played a part in such a terrible tragedy.
“Sightseeing? That’s what you consider fun?” Marco sighed. “It’s clear how much you need me, Clara.” He patted her knee then removed his hand. “If I’d have known it was such an emergency, I’d have come for you sooner.”
Clara was surprised at the laugh that bubbled up her throat after the sad direction of her thoughts only moments before. “I’ll bet.”
Marco gave her a crooked grin, and they drove on for a few minutes in silence, but it was comfortable.
Clara watched the city go by out the window and wondered what Jonah was doing in that moment and then made herself turn her mind away.
Even after two weeks, she still didn’t know how she should feel about the man who had become her friend, about the man she’d come to care about despite the stone wall that separated them.
“Do you have a date for the Masquerade Charity Ball yet?”
“No,” Clara answered. The Masquerade Charity Ball was an extravaganza that benefitted the ballet, and all dancers were expected to attend, but Clara hadn’t been planning on taking a date. And it was in two weeks. Which reminded Clara that she still needed to find a dress . . . and a mask, though she didn’t figure finding a mask in New Orleans would be a problem. The city was known for its love of dressing up, transforming from ordinary to extraordinary.
“Then it’s settled. I’ll escort you.”
Clara laughed. “I thought we agreed no moves.”
“I agreed to nothing. And if you think these are my moves, you don’t know me very well.”
Clara rolled her eyes but couldn’t resist a smile. “Anyway, that’s not necessary. We’ll all see each other there.”
He glanced at her. “And you don’t date other dancers.”
“That’s right. So really, Marco, I’m not worth your time.”
He smiled as he pulled up to the address he’d plugged into his GPS when they first got in the car. “I think, Clara, that might be exactly why you’re worth my time.”
He grinned as he got out of the car, and she let herself out as well. He came around, handing her the duffle bag he’d taken from the back seat and handing it to her. “I’ll pick you up at seven before the ball?” He inclined his head. “One coworker innocently escorting another.”
Clara opened her mouth to say no, but hesitated. She had a feeling Marco’s whole “one coworker innocently escorting another” shouldn’t be entirely trusted, but the truth was, she’d much rather be picked up by a friend, than take an Uber in a ball gown. That scenario sounded very lonely, and she’d had about all the lonely she could handle recently.
Despite her confusion and turmoil, she’d missed Jonah. She missed feeling like she wasn’t completely alone in this strange city. She missed their talks and their connection. She hadn’t simply imagined that they had one, or she wouldn’t miss it so much.
“All right. Seven. As coworker friends.” She gave him a measuring look.
“Perfect.” Marco turned and headed toward his car. “I’ll see you on Monday, friend.” He winked as he got inside and Clara shook her head on a small laugh as she watched him pull away.
Friend.
We’re friends, right? she’d asked Jonah, and he’d said yes, though so hesitantly she’d held her breath as she’d waited for his answer.
I just regret. I've made a career of it, here, behind this wall.
Oh, Jonah. She still couldn't mesh the man she’d read about, the man who’d sounded ruthless and self-serving with the sensitive man she’d shared her heart with all those weeks. He’d never once come across as selfish or uncaring, but rather intuitive and introspective.
Don’t come back.
And she hadn’t. He’d probably figured she wouldn’t, counted on it maybe. He hated himself; she’d heard the painful self-loathing in his voice as he’d told her a small part of what he’d done. What he felt responsible for. What she still couldn’t come to terms with.
And now that she hadn’t returned, did he think Clara agreed with his self-exile? Or was it self-imprisonment? Both, she guessed.
Rain began to fall, fat droplets that splattered the sidewalk and pinged on the metal roof of the porch. Clara stepped backward under the roof’s cover and watched as the world blurred into muted watercolors. Despite the downpour, rays of buttery sunshine peeked through the dark, heavy clouds, causing the sheets of water to glitter and glisten.
Clara began to step away from the porch and turn in the direction of her apartment when a sound broke through the whooshing rain. It was Mrs. Guillot’s voice that met her ears, the sweet spiciness falling over her like sprinkled sugar with a hint of pepper.
“Amazing Grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.”
A wretch.
That’s how Jonah thought of himself, she was certain. And he was, Clara supposed. Or . . . he had been.
“’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved.”
Grace. Forgiveness. Understanding. She’d always considered herself a forgiving person. But could she even begin to understand the things he’d done? The role he’d played?
Again, Clara began walking toward her apartment door, but decided against it, turning and running through the rain to Mrs. Guillot’s. When she got there, Mrs. Guillot stopped singing, smiling widely at Clara and ushering her under the covering of her porch.
“Well now, Clara darlin’, I haven’t seen you lately. How are you?”
Clara joined Mrs. Guillot on her porch, running a hand over her damp hair and sinking into the other rocker. Mrs. Guillot’s smile made her feel warmer inside than a freshly made cup of tea. “I’m okay.”
Mrs. Guillot’s smile wilted into a frown. “How’s your father?”
“About the same. I spoke with him a couple of days ago. Just for a minute, but still . . .”
“Well now, that’s wonderful. So why do you seem troubled, darlin’?”
Clara worried her lip. “Mrs. Guillot, do you think everyone deserves grace?”
Mrs. Guillot gave Clara a long look. “I’d say you’re asking less about everyone than about a certain someone. Am I right?”
Clara nodded. “Yes . . .”
“And is this someone a friend, sweet girl?”
“I thought so, Mrs. Guillot.” Clara paused, amending her answer. “Yes, he was a friend.” Was? Is? Oh, I’m so confused.
“Someone you trusted?”
“I . . . yes.”
Mrs. Guillot leaned forward and patted Clara’s knee. “I believe everyone deserves grace, Clara. What you will have to ask yourself is if you should offer that grace from near or from afar. Offering grace does not mean offering your heart. That, my darlin’, must be protected at all cost.”
Clara nodded slowly, taking Mrs. Guillot’s words in and turning them over. Yes, that was exactly what she’d been struggling with these past few weeks. Should she offer grace but stay away from Jonah, or should she offer grace and remain his friend? She still wasn’t sure . . . but talking about it for a moment with Mrs. Guillot had settled something inside of her.
She needed to go back to the weeping wall at least one final time. They’d been friends, and maybe they still could be.
She needed to speak to Jonah in person about what she’d read. She owed him that much, if nothing else.
CHAPTER NINE
The tree branches swayed in the slight breeze, creating a gentle hushing sound that might have lulled and calmed under ordinary circumstances. But Jonah was too heavy-hearted to be lulled. Too troubled to be calmed.
He stared at the trees in front of him, his eyes on the sliver of Windisle Manor that could be seen from where he sat.
H
e heard a vehicle approach and his heart jumped, settling into a quickened beat as a car door slammed and footsteps approached. But then he heard murmuring on the other side of the wall and a slip of paper landed on the grass to his right.
After a moment, the footsteps retreated and Jonah’s heart slowed, the disappointment he hated himself for feeling twisted through him like thick, noxious smoke that filled his lungs and made it hurt to breathe.
Why was he out here again anyway? To torture himself? To rub it in?
She’d never be back.
He reached for the wish, opening the folded piece of paper with one hand, and turning his head slightly so he could see the small, precise writing with his good eye. My little boy needs surgery and I can’t pay for it. Please help me find a way.
Fuck.
He hated when the wishes involved kids. It made him feel more depressed than he already was, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. So he just had to try not to think about the fact that there was some unknown woman out there with a sick kid she couldn’t help. God, if Justin were here, he would have—
Another vehicle pulled up, the car door closing with a soft click. Jonah drew air into his lungs and let it out slowly, evenly. He tilted his head and waited for a wish to fall through one of the cracks and instead heard the sound of the car pulling away. He tensed.
“Hi, Jonah,” she said, and he heard her slide down the wall as she took her usual seat, the one that had sat empty for the past two Sundays. He knew because he’d come anyway, forcing himself to sit alone and bear the loneliness that was so much worse than it’d been before her. Before Clara.
I won’t say a word. I won’t, he promised himself. He’d let her think he wasn’t there. He’d told her not to come back, so why would he let her know of his presence? That he was waiting like a pitiful fool for something he himself had put an end to?
And why in the hell was she there anyway? Had she not listened? Had she not looked him up after all?