The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

  Clara nodded slowly, thinking of what Fabienne had said the last time she was in this shop. If Angelina lingers, she lingers for him. For the soldier man.

  Clara hadn’t been able to figure out why Angelina would linger for a man who’d broken her heart, a man who’d hurt her so terribly she’d taken her own life.

  But suppose what Fabienne had told her was true? In the afterlife, the veil had been lifted. The truth made clear. Angelina understood that John didn’t lie to her, that she was tricked.

  Then a curse was placed upon him so he couldn’t be with her in the afterlife and so they wandered aimlessly, blind to the presence of the other.

  And yet, perhaps they were able to feel each other as she’d felt Jonah through that thick layer of stone, forever separated, John by a curse, and Angelina because she refused to leave her beloved to wander alone.

  It was all so . . . fantastical. Such conjecture, something that could never be proven. And yet, a great sadness overwhelmed Clara. Even if it couldn’t be proven, the idea alone filled her with aching grief. What if she was right? What a heartbreaking tragedy made even worse.

  Clara glanced at Fabienne. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am.”

  Fabienne nodded. “If you come back in a month or so, this will be a coffee shop. The neighborhood’s getting better thanks to the Brass Angels. Crime is down. People feel safer. Businesses are opening again.” She shrugged. “I never was much for fortune telling, truth be told. But damn if I can’t brew a fine cup of coffee, and I can bake like nobody’s business. It feels like the right path for me.”

  Clara grinned. “I will be back. Thank you again.” She started to turn, then remembered something and turned back to Fabienne. “The theater where I’m performing is looking to hire a coffee shop to provide coffee and baked goods for the upcoming shows.” Clara shrugged. “You could hand out business cards. Could be a good way to start advertising while making some money at the same time. If you’re interested.”

  Fabienne didn’t say anything for a moment, but something had lit in her eyes. “That’d be great. Who should I call?”

  Clara dug in her purse quickly, pulling out an old receipt and a pen, scrawling Madame Fournier’s cell number on it, along with her own name. “Tell her I gave you her name. She’ll point you in the right direction.”

  “I will.” She paused. “Thank you very much.”

  Clara smiled on a nod, letting herself out of the shop. She checked her phone and sighed when she saw there had been no missed calls. The Uber driver she’d paid to wait outside was across the street and she jogged over to the car, hopping inside with a breathless thanks and giving him Jonah’s address.

  Enough is enough, Jonah Chamberlain, she decided.

  Clara knocked at the wooden side gate for a good ten minutes once she’d arrived, and, still receiving no answer, she stood back, her brow furrowing as she considered the barrier. It was high, but she was strong. If she held on with her arms, she could pull her body up and over. She had something to prove in the way of fences, anyway, she thought, grimacing at the reminder of the last time she’d attempted to climb one.

  A few minutes later she was standing on the other side, brushing her hands off. She allowed herself a moment of victory before she headed toward the house, knocking on the front door, but again, receiving no answer. Crap.

  For a moment, Clara stood uncertainly in the low light of the porch, before heading around the side of the house and peering into the darkness beyond.

  Maybe you like monsters. Is that it, Clara?

  She stepped out of the light, into the shadows, calling his name as she ventured forward.

  She could smell pine, hear the leaves crunching beneath her feet as though each one was an explosion of sound, and she knew she was amongst the trees. But she was quickly disoriented, fear settling in her chest. He wasn’t here, and she wasn’t going to know how to get back.

  She fumbled in her pocket, pulling her cell phone out and turning on the flashlight to its lowest setting.

  Her heartbeat slowed, calm descending along with the security of the light. She walked farther into the trees, keeping the light pointed down but able to make out the path between the cabins now, the path Jonah himself must have kept clean of debris as he ran the course day after day as he’d told her.

  “Put the light away.”

  Clara gasped, lowered the flashlight, and then turned it off.

  Darkness settled around her. She heard his footsteps coming toward her and her pulse quickened. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said as his hand brushed hers. “No one answered at your gate.”

  “Myrtle is helping her niece with something across town, and Cecil sleeps like the dead. How’d you get in?” That voice. God, it was like an aphrodisiac. He pulled her along and she followed.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “You scaled my fence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you did.” He didn’t sound displeased, just sort of . . . weary, and Clara felt confused and uneasy about his mood. The last time they’d spoken, his voice, the things he’d said, had been full of warmth. Full of love.

  “Jonah? What’s wrong?”

  She heard a door opening and then he was telling her to step up and she did, stumbling slightly, but recognizing the old wood smell of the cabin they’d been in before, the way the dim shaft of light flowed through the small, grimy window.

  Clara felt for the wall and leaned against it, needing to orient herself with something solid. She heard Jonah pacing in front of her, heard his exhale of breath.

  “It was all a setup.”

  “What? What was a setup?”

  “The case. My role. Everything. And worst of all, my brother knew. At least . . . some of it. He knew and didn’t tell me.”

  Clara heard the despair in his voice. She wanted to reach for him but was afraid he’d draw away. And so she remained standing, and she listened as he told her about Amanda Kershaw’s phone, and the sex club, Chandler Knowles, and the words scrawled on Justin Chamberlain’s legal pads, the words that had pierced Jonah’s heart, if Clara was right about what she heard in his voice.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice choked with emotion for him, with the blow that had obviously knocked him for a terrible loop, and no wonder. No wonder.

  All of these years, he’d tortured himself, and it’d all been a lie. A sick, dirty lie meant to cover other men’s evil deeds.

  “Jonah, it’s not your fault.”

  He laughed, but it sounded more as though he were choking. “Isn’t it though? Isn’t it my fault that I was so damn full of myself that I couldn’t see I was being used? What a fucking patsy. They must have laughed at me. God, they must have seen me as the biggest joke of all. Wasn’t it my fault that my own brother couldn’t trust me enough to shed light on the things he suspected?”

  Clara paused, trying to organize her thoughts. All of this was coming as such a shock, and she hadn’t even had a moment to think. Jonah had though. Here in the dark as he’d grieved and hidden and suffered all over again under the weight of things that were not his to carry.

  “What will you do?” He had some proof . . . the phone, the club, though it sounded as if those girls were there willingly even if they had been coerced, their weaknesses exploited. Anyone who would have corroborated what he now knew was dead, or very close to it.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe nothing.”

  She didn’t know what to say to make this better. She stepped away from the wall, reaching for him, but he moved away, into the center of the cabin or so it seemed. She was disoriented again, emotionally overwhelmed by the need to comfort, to soothe.

  “Jonah?”

  “You should go, Clara.”

  “Go? Jonah, you don’t have to bear this alone. I’m here to help you through it. I know it must be devastating. I do. But we can . . . we can work through it together. If you’ll let me.”

/>   “There’s no future for us.”

  “What? Why? Jonah, I know you’re hurting, but you’ve made so many strides. This doesn’t have to change how far you’ve come, how far—”

  Clara spun around, hearing a sound behind her and suddenly not knowing where he was, or if that had been him at all. Had he left? Had he left her there in the darkness? Her heart jumped, sweat breaking over her skin. She was alone in the middle of a dark room.

  She called his name again, taking a few steps, reaching for a wall, something, but only grabbing empty nothingness.

  “Jonah,” she implored again, reaching for her flashlight, just wanting to aim it at the floor, to get her bearings. But when the light came on, a hand clasped her shoulder and she let out a small scream, instinctively sweeping the light up and directly into his uncovered face.

  He’d been responding to her call, coming for her where she reached for him in the dark and now they both stood blinking at each other in the sudden light.

  Oh God, what had she done? She cringed, the shock of her mistaken act of betrayal crashing over her. Jonah recovered from the sudden light at the same time she did, opening his eyes on her horrified expression. His gaze did a quick scan of her face, his own registering deep despair. Clara swore she saw his heart break right in front of her, and the stark pain in his eyes was like a blade to her heart.

  “You promised,” he said brokenly.

  “Jonah,” she whispered, reaching for him, taking in the face she’d longed to see forever. For a frozen moment, Clara stared, but not because she was horrified. She stared in the same way anyone who sees something different about a person seeks to understand and then put aside. And this wasn’t just any person. This was Jonah, her beloved.

  In one sweeping moment, she saw that the damage to the left side of his face did more to highlight his beauty than anything.

  The bones on that side of his face were easier to see, the skin stretched over them the way it was, his features pulled downward in a perpetual frown. And because of that, the strong structure of his face, the masculine elegance of his creation, was all the more obvious.

  And not only that, but the scars and disfiguration on the one side only served to highlight the stunning nature of the other.

  He was beauty and pain, glory and suffering, vengeance and grace, and all things made stronger and more meaningful because they have an opposite.

  Jonah let out an animal sound of hurt, of devastation, turning from the light, from whatever was on Clara’s face that he’d surely misread.

  “Get out!” he bellowed.

  “Jonah, please. I didn’t mean to do that. You must know—”

  “Get out!” he yelled even louder, making Clara jump as a small whimper escaped her throat. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  “I’m so sorry, please, Jonah. It was a mistake.”

  “We were a mistake.” His back was to her now, his face down, still hidden though she’d already seen and accepted it. It’d only taken but a moment.

  “We were . . . No, you know that’s not true. We’re magic.” She reached for him but he stepped away.

  He laughed, and it was an ugly sound full of hurt and the desire to inflict the same pain he was feeling.

  “There's no magic, Clara.” He turned back to her, lifting his face to use as proof of his statement. “There are no ghosts in the garden. The wall doesn't weep. The stone absorbs water when it rains and then releases it as it dries. Jesus Christ. It's not magic. It's just science," he ended sharply. And with that, he turned again, walking away from her.

  The door slammed as he left her there, crying in the dark.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Clara darlin’ what’s wrong?”

  Clara stopped, turning toward Mrs. Guillot’s gate. She hadn’t seen the old woman because she’d been bent down, arranging several potted chrysanthemums near the front entrance.

  “Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I’m sorry, I was lost in my own head.”

  “I can see that. It doesn’t appear as if your thoughts are pleasant ones.”

  “No, Mrs. Guillot. I’m afraid they’re not.”

  Mrs. Guillot’s wrinkled forehead creased even more. “Things not going well with your masked gentleman?”

  Despite herself, Clara smiled. Masked gentleman. But then her smile slipped as she recalled the way she’d accidentally exposed him, and then the last words he’d yelled at her before she’d raced from his property, out of the gate and into the street beyond.

  She’d texted him another apology, a long message expressing her deep regret in the way she’d shined a light on him without his consent. But he hadn’t written back, and the silence that rang in her ears, his ignoring of her, was getting louder by the day. She was finding it harder and harder to take full breaths.

  “I made a mistake, Mrs. Guillot.” Clara hesitated, wanting to tell the truth to the old woman—her friend—about who Jonah really was, about his scars, about the reasons he wore the mask, but she couldn’t do it.

  She didn’t want to expose him any more than she already had, without his permission, even in any small way. “I . . . I hurt him. Deeply, I think. And he was already hurting.” A tear ran out of her eye before she could catch it. “It was a mistake, but he can’t forgive me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Guillot made a clucking sound. “He can forgive you. You’re a kind girl who made a mistake she regrets. Your heart is hurting just as much as his. He can forgive you,” she repeated. “You just have to convince him.”

  Clara sniffled on a small laugh. “That might be the tough part. He was a lawyer once. A very good one. He’s the convincing one. Not me.”

  “Even better. He’ll respond to a good argument. But honey, you don’t need the best presentation skills in the world to make him see the light. The truth. You just need to put the love I see in your eyes, behind your words. Make him listen to you. And if he still pushes you away, you know you did your very best, with every ounce of love in your heart. And that is where you will find your peace. He will have to find his peace on his own, in his way.”

  Clara stood straighter, feeling infused with the passion behind Mrs. Guillot’s words. She was right. And she’d reminded Clara that she’d never been one to give up—not on anything.

  Be wary of the man with two faces, the fortune teller had said. He’ll hurt you if you let him.

  Yes. Yes. Of course he would. Because broken people tended to break things, didn’t they?

  Clara’s father had repeated part of the fortune teller’s line. But then he’d added, so don’t let him, because he believed in her that strongly. He always, always had and because of that belief—that deep, abounding, fatherly love—Clara had striven to make her dreams come true no matter the obstacles.

  A shuddery breath went through Clara. She would not let him. She would fight for Jonah, and give him every reason to fight for himself, for them.

  Clara leaned forward, and despite the short gate between them, she threw her arms around Mrs. Guillot. “I’m so lucky to know you,” she whispered, kissing her on her soft cheek before pulling away.

  Mrs. Guillot laughed. “I’m lucky too, darlin’. And I’m here whenever you need me.”

  Clara thanked her again and then headed toward her apartment, a new purposeful spring in her step.

  Yes, Jonah had been a lawyer. He had argued for a living once upon a time. So I have to do better, she decided with conviction. She had to persuade him. She had to make him realize that she hadn’t meant to hurt him and his scars didn’t matter to her.

  She’d been picturing him for the last four days, the way he’d looked illuminated by the light, the whole of his face revealed to her.

  It’d taken a moment for her to merge the picture of the man he’d been, with the reality of his scarred and damaged face, but only a moment. He’d been beautiful to her and seeing him as he was hadn’t diminished her love for him, not in the least.
r />   Clara unlocked her apartment door, throwing her dance bag on her couch and heading for the shower.

  Even if he forgave her for what she’d done, Jonah was so convinced he’d be rejected if he walked through the world, that he wasn’t willing to budge. A good tactic for a lawyer who needed to exhibit passion and determination on the courtroom floor. A bad quality in a man who was wrong and needed to be willing to listen to someone else’s sound reasoning.

  After showering quickly and drying her hair, Clara called for a ride and then paced outside as she waited, going over the points she wanted to make.

  She wiped her hands down the sides of her hips, nerves cascading through her. It would take audacity to show up at his house again after he’d thrown her out.

  Fifteen minutes later she stood before his fence, traces of daylight fading to gloom, that hour that was easy to allow courage to melt into fear. Clara hesitated, taking one deep fortifying breath. Even the tall grass seemed to pause and hush, waiting to see what would happen when the wish collector realized the dauntless girl was back. At least . . . that’s what Clara tried to tell herself she was . . . though it could be argued she was less dauntless than pushy and foolhardy.

  So don’t let him.

  Okay. She brought her shoulders back. I can do this.

  She knocked, and a few minutes later she heard a door close and the sounds of footsteps trudging toward her. Myrtle opened the gate and didn’t look at all surprised to see her. “Hi, Clara.” She opened the gate wider, allowing her entrance.

  “Hi, Myrtle. I’m here to see Jonah. Though . . . he’s not expecting me.” She glanced to the side, fidgeting. “In fact, he’ll probably be less than pleased to know I’m here.”

  “Well,” she sighed, her eyes full of sadness. “I don’t know that he can get any less pleased than he’s been this past week, so I don’t reckon that’ll be an issue. He’s out back again. Seems he lives out there these days. That or he’s slinking through the halls of Windisle like some wounded animal. Do your worst, dear.”