The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

  Rather than getting into things she hadn’t even worked through in her mind, she nodded. “Thank you, Marco.”

  He sighed, pushing off the wall. “All right, well now that you broke my heart, the least you can do is let me drive you home.” He walked to her, offering her his arm.

  Clara smiled. Marco might be disappointed that she wouldn’t date him, but she highly doubted his heart was anywhere near broken. “You sure?”

  “Very. Come on.”

  Clara and Marco chatted about the upcoming performance as he drove her home, their rapport suddenly effortless. He was a nice guy, and she felt guilty for judging him more harshly than she should have. He might be a player, but he had a sensitive side too, and someday he’d find that woman who made him want to commit to only her if that’s what he ultimately wanted.

  In any case, his romantic life wasn’t her business. She didn’t feel even an eighth of the magnetism toward him that she’d felt for Jonah even through a layer of rock.

  But the situation with Marco also made her consider the ways in which she might have written off the other dancers in the ballet as she’d done with him.

  She had been quick to judge others because she'd often felt judged in the past. And yes, girls could be gossipy, but perhaps it was she who'd been remiss in making more of an effort at friendship, she who'd always left quickly, who avoided the social activities she'd overheard being planned.

  Maybe she could apply some of the fault to herself. Perhaps she could benefit from a little self-reflection when it came to the friendships she might have enjoyed if only she'd put herself out there a little bit more. And she vowed to do better in that regard.

  When Marco dropped her at her apartment, she thanked him again and then waved, watching as he drove away.

  How could she have thought—even momentarily—that the fortune teller was referencing Marco? If there was even any credibility to Madame Catoire’s words, the only man who held the power to truly and irrevocably hurt her was Jonah. A small tremble moved down her spine. Oh no, she thought dejectedly, please let me be wrong about that.

  Her cell phone began ringing and Clara pulled it from her pocket, the number on the screen making her heart skip a nervous beat. “Hello?”

  “Clara, dear, it’s Jan Lovett.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Lovett. Is everything okay?” Clara had spoken to her father briefly a few days before but he hadn’t known her name. That was always so hard, to have the joy of his voice in her ear, but the heartache of explaining who she was again and again.

  “Yes, dear, it’s great. Your father is here and he’d like to speak to you.”

  Clara had let herself into her apartment as she spoke and now she stopped on the other side of the doorway, her heart soaring. “Really?”

  Mrs. Lovett laughed. “Really.”

  She heard some soft scuffling and then her father’s voice in the background. “I told you I could make a call on my own. I’m not helpless.”

  “Oh, stop being a pain. Your daughter’s waiting on the line.”

  “Clara?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey there, Tiny Dancer. How’s my girl?”

  So much emotion flooded Clara’s chest and so suddenly, that she let out a tiny hiccup. “I’m good, Dad. It’s so wonderful to hear your voice.” She made her best effort to pull herself together. The last thing she wanted to do was make her Dad sad on this rare occasion that his mind was lucid. But, to hear him say her name. To have him know her was a gift beyond measure. “I have so much to tell you.”

  Her dad chuckled. “Start with the important part. You know I like to get right to the good stuff first.”

  Clara let out a soggy-sounding laugh. “Okay then.” Clara pulled in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. “I’m in love.”

  There was a very short pause and then her dad asked, “Is he a good man?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “He’s a very good man, Dad. Like you. He’s kind and he’s valiant and he cares about others.” Clara paused for a moment, wanting to sum up the situation with Jonah for her dad in a way that cut straight to the chase without going through every detail of their story.

  Clara was very conscious of time when it came to conversations with her dad. He had told the truth when he said he’d always liked to get right to the heart of a matter, but now, it was a necessity. Their time was limited and she was mindful of every second.

  “But he doesn’t believe in himself as strongly as I do, Dad, and I worry that, in the end, he won’t let me love him the way he deserves to be loved.” In the light. Out in the open. In front of the world. Free from guilt.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That is a challenge. If he doesn’t have faith in himself, he’s going to find it difficult to have faith in you. He’ll hurt you if you let him.”

  “I . . . I know, Dad. That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “So don’t let him.”

  Clara let out a tearful laugh. Her sweet dad had so much faith in her, he thought she could do anything, convince anyone, rule the world. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too. You’re extraordinary, Tiny Dancer. And that young man of yours must be extraordinary in many ways too if he’s won your heart.”

  “He is. He really is. I wish so much you could meet him.”

  “Me, too. I miss you, sweetheart.” There was a short pause. “Do you want to go to the zoo tomorrow? I know you love the giraffes, Tiny Dancer.”

  Clara’s heart sank, pain ricocheting through her. “Yes, Dad,” she said on a whispery breath. “I’d like that.”

  She heard some shuffling sounds and then it was Mrs. Lovett’s voice on the phone. “Sorry, dear. I was hoping he’d be with you longer than that.”

  A tear ran down Clara’s cheek and she swiped at it as she smiled. Happiness mingled with sadness and it was almost too much to bear. “It’s okay, Mrs. Lovett. I’m so grateful for those few minutes. Thank you for calling me.”

  “Of course, dear. You be well.”

  She hung up the phone and sat on her couch for a few minutes longer, a smile on her lips as several more tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said to herself, her voice echoing back to her in the small, underground space. How many more moments like tonight would she get? How long until he didn’t remember her at all?

  After a minute she got up and went outside. She needed to feel the breeze on her face, to look at the sky and remind herself there was beauty and joy and magic and mystery in this great wide world, and she wouldn’t ever stop remembering that even when she was hurting. Especially then.

  It was a beautiful night, clear and quiet, a million shards of diamond stars scattered across the sky.

  Clara looked down the block toward Mrs. Guillot’s but her porch light was off and there was no light coming from the front room of her house either.

  She remembered back to the moment several days before when she’d seen Jonah on the news as she sat in Mrs. Guillot’s and a smile played at her lips. Jonah.

  Clara leaned back against the brick next to her door.

  He must be extraordinary in many ways if he’s won your heart, Tiny Dancer.

  Oh yes.

  As she stared in the direction of Mrs. Guillot’s porch, the place where she’d first heard about Windisle Plantation, about Angelina Loreaux, her tired, emotionally taxed mind began drifting. It felt good to allow her thoughts to float away, to swirl around, weightless.

  Her experiences, the intriguing stories and bits of information she’d received over the past few months mixed together and she let it, not stopping to examine any of it, simply letting the words and memories tumble aimlessly inside of her brain . . . Angelina and John, she and Jonah, the mystery, the curse, the riddle . . .

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.

  I just regret. I've made a career of it, here, behind this wall.

  If Angelina lingers, she lingers for him. For the so
ldier man.

  Vague knowledge drifted just out of her reach, as nebulous as early morning fog. She let it go, not attempting to grasp it . . .

  The note. John's betrayal . . .

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.

  My mama, she didn't know how to read, but oh, did she know how to sing.

  Clara’s eyes widened as she stood up straight, blinking into the quiet street in front of her. She didn’t know how to read. Mrs. Guillot’s mama hadn’t known how to read . . .

  Clara pulled out her phone, dialing Jonah’s number.

  “Clara.”

  “Jonah, hi.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong? You sound upset.”

  Clara shook her head. “No, no. I mean, I talked to my father, but it was wonderful. It made me sad, too, but, no, the reason I’m calling is, how common do you think it was for slaves to know how to read?"

  "Read? I . . . I guess . . . rare. Why?"

  Clara paced, something taking shape in her mind, information repeating, forming. "John's family delivered the note he wrote to Angelina, right?"

  "From what I know."

  "Would his family have approved of him and Angelina? A wealthy Southern family?"

  "I . . ." He paused for a long moment, obviously thinking. "No."

  "Right? And how likely do you think it was that Angelina knew how to read?"

  He was silent again. "Probably not very likely."

  "But what if . . . Oh my God, Jonah. What if they lied about what his letter said? She wouldn't know, would she?"

  Excitement made Clara’s heart beat faster. She felt it in her gut. She was right about this.

  "You could be right. But how would it ever be proven?"

  "The note. We need the note."

  "The note's long gone, Clara. No one's ever found it. If his family did lie about what it said, they probably took it with them."

  Clara’s excitement dipped and her shoulders sagged. "But they might have left it, thinking it wouldn't matter since she couldn't read it, and no one she was close to could read it either . . ."

  “They might have, but if they did, Angelina herself probably disposed of it. Believe me, if that thing existed, it would have been in my brother’s file.”

  Crap. Clara let out a disappointed sigh. “You’re probably right.” Still, the idea that she’d connected several of the puzzle pieces persisted. Maybe it couldn’t ever be proven, but Clara believed she was right, and the possibility was both exciting and so horribly tragic. They’d lied to Angelina, stealing every last piece of her hope. Had they planned on blackmailing John into marrying Astrid when he arrived home from the war with a threat to Angelina’s safety? Her life? Oh how easy that would have been. A sharp pang tore through Clara’s heart.

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ll dig through the attic a little bit tomorrow, okay? See what I can find.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “I’d do just about anything for you.” His voice was suddenly gritty, his tone so serious it made Clara’s breath catch.

  Just about. She made note of the caveat, but happiness infused her anyway. She’d received a maybe from him the night before when she’d asked about candlelight. Maybe . . . Such a beautiful word when previously it had always been no and never.

  “Maybe you could come over tomorrow night. I don’t have to get up early the next morning.”

  Although a little lost sleep was worth it to Clara, she did have early practice the next day and the performance season was drawing so close. She needed to be at her best at rehearsal. “I’d . . . I’d leave the lights off.”

  Jonah hesitated for only a moment. “No, Clara, I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  The stab of disappointment that hit Clara was very small and fleeting. Truthfully, she just wanted to see him. Or, well, feel him. She just wanted to be with him, and if that meant she only went to him for a while, that was okay. “I understand, Jonah.”

  She heard the smile in his voice as he asked her about her day and they began to speak of both mundane and important things. The things couples spoke of. The small details of their lives that were only shared with each other.

  She told Jonah about her conversation with her father, and he sounded both happy and sad for her. Clara stared at the darkness of the sky, closing her eyes as her wish collector’s velvety voice filled her ear and her heart. Although somewhere in the back of her mind, that ticking grew louder, stronger, more insistent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Did you order something?” Myrtle asked. “This was in your PO box.”

  Jonah turned toward her where he stood at the sink, rinsing his dishes from lunch. Myrtle placed a small package on the counter as Jonah dried his hands. He peered at the label. The item had come from somewhere in Kansas. Ah, the charger he’d ordered from eBay. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Myrtle eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

  “I saw Clara leaving the other morning.”

  Jonah grinned. He couldn’t help it. It just spilled over his face like sunshine at the mention of her name and because she’d left his bed that morning.

  He tried unsuccessfully to wipe it away, clearing his throat and squinting at the ceiling as he tried to distract himself from thoughts of her. “She was, er, visiting. It got late. She was tired.”

  “Mm-hmm. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck, Jonah Chamberlain.” Worry creased the lines of her face, and she leaned in close, adjusting her thick glasses. “I heard you leave your room hours before she did.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Myrtle reached a hand out tentatively, and Jonah instinctively pulled back, turning the damaged side of his face away from her touch. Shrinking.

  Myrtle halted but then brought her fingers slowly closer, the way one might when reaching out to offer solace to an injured animal.

  Jonah watched her, unmoving now as she grazed her fingers over his scarred cheek. He released a pent-up breath, closing his eyes at the feel of another person touching that ruined part of him for the first time since he’d left the hospital.

  “You have to allow her to love all of you.”

  He flinched, turning away, her fingers falling into the empty space he’d created. “What if she can’t?”

  “What if she can?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Myrtle. What if she can, but what if I’m still not able to give her the life she deserves?” Jonah turned away, looking out the window at the brightness of the day.

  “I have faith in you, my boy. But you already know that. You need to find faith in yourself.”

  He turned toward her, the happiness that had flooded through him moments before crumbling to doubt. “Maybe it’s not about me, Myrtle. This town, hell, the world at large, isn’t going to be accepting of me just because I decide to walk out into it.”

  “It’s always about you, Jonah. It’s always been about you. The world will react the way the world will react. That’s not your business. You have faith in your own worth and the world won’t matter.”

  “I don’t think I know how to do that,” he murmured.

  “You do, sweet boy. And if you need a hand to hold, you got old Myrtle. I might walk you right into a tree before I walk you into the world, but I’ll be there by your side.”

  Jonah laughed, love for her filling his heart. “Thanks, Myrtle.”

  Myrtle nodded on a smile as she picked up the grocery bags she’d brought in along with the mail and began unpacking them.

  Jonah took the package, unwrapping the charger and stopping in his room where he plugged Amanda Kershaw’s phone in before putting on his running clothes.

  As he ran through the trees, doing his familiar loop among the cabins, peace infused him, a sort of unfamiliar . . . bliss tripping through his system.

  He started to recite the names of the victims who’d died that day on the courthouse steps, the lives he’d felt responsible for, for so long, but they kept drifting away from him.

  He attempted to catch them a
t first, to start at the beginning, the first name on the list he’d thought was tattooed on his brain, but he kept losing focus, losing track, a certain . . . peace attempting to claim the space, pushing its way inside as the names floated away.

  It almost felt as if those names were living, breathing entities and they wanted to be set free, wanted to disappear into the clouds above, like maybe his holding on had kept them trapped like him.

  He’d run this path for so many years with the same syllables chanting through his mind, but now . . . now there was suddenly room for . . . more. There was suddenly so much space, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  What he did know was that he was in love. Desperately, irrevocably in love. Clara, Clara, Clara. Her name echoed through him, and he raised his face to the sun and found the muted rays that had filtered through the breaks in the trees.

  Clara. Beautiful, thoughtful Clara. God, Justin would have liked the hell out of her. She was so giving, so determined to right a wrong that actually bore no reference to her own life.

  It had all started with her. Everything good that had happened to him in the last few months was because she had shown up at the weeping wall that day.

  Yes, he’d fallen in love with her, but even more than that, he’d sought and received forgiveness, done some good for a few people in need, found friends in the members of the Angels.

  He was disappointed he wouldn’t be able to patrol with them anymore now that the media was looking to make a story out of him. Unless he . . . Jonah brought his hand to the bare skin of his face, running his palm over his scars . . . unless he found the courage to take the mask off. Maybe.

  Again, that tiny yet immense word.

  Jonah came to a stop, pushing his sweat-drenched hair back and walking in a slow circle in front of the main door to the manor. He considered the porch, seeing in his mind’s eye a rocking chair and a man sitting upon it, rocking a little girl on his knee. Angelina. Had Robert Chamberlain taught her to read? Or had he allowed her to remain illiterate? Only seen her as a slave girl who happened to share his DNA?

  He’d promised Clara he’d dig through the attic to see what he could find. He highly doubted he’d locate a letter dating back to 1861, but he’d check anyway. For her.