by Mia Sheridan
Clara regarded him, recalling his words. 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.
"You didn’t steal anything from me, because you're wrong," she said, and it surprised her to hear the surety, the strength in her own voice, because she still felt so hollow inside, so desperate to convince him.
Jonah seemed to pause, tilting his head in that way of his to peer at her more closely from his good eye. He blinked in confusion as though he’d expected her to sound hurt and wasn’t sure what to make of the reason she did not.
But she realized then, that his words, meant to be harsh, had only made her more confident in her conviction. "There is magic. Us. We're magic. Two lonely people who found each other despite the barricade between us. I felt your heart, Jonah, even through a wall made of rock. We're magic, but you're too blind to see it. Choose to continue hiding behind the wall if you want, but don’t ever tell me there’s no magic. You’re the one who’s chosen to shut it out.”
Clara’s gaze went to the cabins in front of her, outlined in the dim light. Again, she had that feeling that everything around her was stilled . . . hushed. Waiting for something that might or might not happen.
She envisioned them again, the men and women and children who had called this place home once upon a time.
She pictured Angelina herself, making her way from the grandeur of the big house to the dirt paths that led to the squalor of these small cabins.
She wondered if John had ever seen this place, if perhaps it was there where they’d met in secret and fallen in love. And her heart bled for all of it.
“They would have done anything to have the ability to leave this plantation together,” she mused softly, to herself maybe as much as to the man sitting on the bench willing to watch her walk away. “To walk through the streets hand in hand, to claim their freedom.” Her eyes moved to him. “And you, you dishonor them and yourself by staying locked away by choice.”
Jonah didn’t answer, but she could see in his posture, in the way his shoulders hunched, that he was suffering too. But if he wouldn’t do anything about it, she couldn’t force him to. She could only love him. And offer him grace. But this time, from afar.
“What would they say to you?” she asked before turning and walking away. It was her closing argument. She left him to answer the question on his own.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The bar/restaurant was bright and crowded, the sounds of raucous chatter barely making its way to Jonah’s ears where he stood against the building across the street.
He watched her hungrily as she laughed at something the male dancer he’d seen her dance with at the masquerade ball said. Jonah was unable to hear the sound from where he stood, but the sweet memory of it lived inside of his soul, and it wove through him then, causing him to suffer. Causing him to pine. Causing jealousy to rip a jagged path down his spine.
Why was that guy touching her? Did he think that because he was her dance partner, he was allowed to touch her anytime he wanted? As though he had some right to her body?
His hands fisted at his sides. Didn’t the stupid bastard know she belonged to Jonah?
Only she didn’t. His fists uncurled. She didn’t belong to Jonah, because he’d pushed her away. He’d told her to leave, demanded she stay away. And then as though that hadn’t been bad enough, he’d tried to steal the magic that brought her such joy. But she hadn’t let him and wasn’t that just like Clara? To hold on to something that held no basis in reality? We’re magic. Us.
God, he was used to pain, or so he’d thought, but this was of a level he hadn’t even known existed. He closed his eyes as a raw groan moved up his throat.
Why was he doing this to himself? To prove that he’d been right, that he could never offer her the life she deserved to live? The one she was living right then under the bright lights of the restaurant with a group of friends in a very public place.
She seemed to be enjoying more social activities lately. As she should. As a young, vibrant, beautiful woman like Clara was meant to do.
Clara wandered away from the group, peering out of the large glass window, and for a second he swore their eyes met. She saw him, he felt it, or even if she didn’t, she still knew he was there. But she wouldn’t come to him. He knew that as surely as he knew his own name. She’s already done it twice—two times more than he deserved—and that was all he was going to get.
Clara looked away, smiling at something a girl said as she came up beside her, turning her back on Jonah.
Clara had fought for him, she really had. He’d recognized that, and it’d made his heart throb with love for her and his insides twist into a knot of fiery longing.
She thought she knew how it would be, but she didn’t know. All eyes on him, whispering ugly words, clamoring to get pictures, to make insinuations, to publish the first shot of what Jonah Chamberlain had become. He knew. He would not put her through it. Keep your eyes on me, she’d said, but they’d make that impossible. Yes, he knew. He remembered well.
He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he’d been used, lied to, manipulated. The knowledge was like a dagger lodged painfully in his heart. He’d thought . . . well, he’d thought there was a chance he could resume some sort of normal life. Clara had helped him believe it. But hell, maybe he didn’t even want to be part of a world that operated that way.
Even if that’s where Clara is?
Keep your eyes on me.
He could have asked her to keep coming to Windisle. He wouldn’t have to wear a mask anymore, not now that she’d seen him and accepted him for what he was. Maybe he could even go to her sometimes in the dark of night. But what kind of life was that? And what kind of bastard would he be if he asked her to accept it?
Clara deserved spotlights, and candlelit parties, well-lit restaurants, and days washed in sunshine.
He turned away, pulling his scarf up and his hat down, ducking his head as he walked, promising he wouldn’t follow her anymore. There was no point.
And yet he couldn’t seem to help himself.
He followed her to rehearsal in the morning and home at night, his jaw clenching as he watched her ride that damn bus. How many months had it been? Hadn’t she saved up enough for a decent down payment by now, for the love of Christ? What kind of pittance did the New Orleans Ballet pay their dancers anyway?
He would have left her alone, he told himself, if he didn’t have to worry over her damn safety every day of the week.
He’d buy her a car if he thought she’d accept it, but he knew very well she wouldn’t. And hadn’t it been him who’d told her it wasn’t brave to throw money at something?
Jonah wound up the music box she’d given him for his birthday, watching forlornly as the tiny dancer spun. He had resisted sneaking into the theater and watching her dance. He could put himself through a lot, but that amount of suffering felt un-survivable. He couldn’t watch her dance and then walk away, return home to his lonely world behind Windisle’s wall. He couldn’t do it.
At night he dreamed he was atop a horse, its footfalls pounding the earth as they flew through the darkness. Hurry, hurry. Don’t let it be too late. A river rose in the distance, its dark, shimmery path drawing him forward, his heart soaring. I’m almost there. And then a scream ripped through the night, causing his horse to rear up beneath him as he yelled, falling backward onto the hard ground. He rose, dust filling his lungs as he stumbled blearily, the iron of a gate flashing under the moonlight as the screeching wail continued. Oh God, no, no. No—
He woke up night after night, a yell on his own lips, his limbs shaking with the power of the dream.
He was barely sleeping.
The music in his hand came to a stop, the silence hanging heavy over Jonah, just before he heard what sounded like a slew of footsteps walking through the house below. What the hell?
The
re was a knock at Jonah’s door, followed by Myrtle’s head peeking in. “There are some men here to see you,” she announced. “They have a couple of dogs with them that they tied up outside. One of the men has tattoos on his face, and they’re asking to see you.” The Brass Angels were at his house. Myrtle didn’t sound surprised, which meant she wasn’t. Which meant either she or Cecil were behind this.
Christ. “Tell them I’ll be down in a minute.”
She left the room, and Jonah eyed the mask sitting on top of his dresser. The men welcomed into his house right that second had never seen his face uncovered. But he stopped himself from reaching for it.
He didn’t have to go out into the world and brave the stares, the whispers, the judgment of those he didn’t know. But fuck he was weary of covering up. He was plain exhausted. And maybe he could at least brave being uncovered here, behind his own walls, in front of men who wore scars of their own, inside and out.
Jonah walked slowly to the living room where he heard them talking, heard Myrtle offer them a beverage before her footsteps retreated.
He entered, standing in the doorway, his heart thumping, waiting for them to turn their heads and get a look at him. Augustus turned first, raising one eyebrow. “Is that meant to be a dramatic entrance?”
“Who called you?”
“The old man.”
Cecil. What was this? Calling in reinforcements? Some sort of intervention?
Jonah narrowed his eyes, turning to Ruben. “Hey man,” Ruben said, exhibiting no reaction whatsoever to Jonah’s scarred face, sitting down on the couch and bouncing on it slightly as if testing the springs. But Ruben had gang tattoos on his face so of course he wasn’t going to be fazed by someone else’s messed-up mug.
His gaze moved to Eddy who was staring, but not with horror, more with interest. “So that’s what you look like,” he finally said.
“Yeah. This is what I look like.”
Eddy nodded. “It’s better than the mask.”
Jonah let out a humorless huff of breath.
“Kinda badass, actually,” Ruben offered. But again, he had tattoos all over his face—amateur ones—so . . .
“Also,” Eddy said, “my buddies, the ones who didn’t make it home because a bomb blew up underneath them?” Grief passed over his young features, Jonah recognized it immediately for what it was, and it caused his heart to clench in sympathy for what he’d lost, the very obvious toll it’d taken. “If only they had come home with a few burns. If only.” His two final words were spoken gruffly as though he’d had to force them out. If only. Jonah had far more than a “few burns,” but he got the guy’s point. Yeah, he was scarred, but he wasn’t dead.
Jonah entered the room, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. “Why’d you come?”
“Well,” Augustus said, stepping forward, “other than the fact that your family’s worried about you, so were we. We haven’t seen you in weeks, and the old man said he thought you were planning on keeping it that way.”
Your family. Jonah didn’t bother to correct Augustus, not that there was really anything to correct. Cecil and Myrtle were family, perhaps not by blood, but something stronger. By loyalty. By love. However, Jonah didn’t especially appreciate the old man’s meddling at the moment. He’d been doing just fine skulking through the halls of his own home night after night, thank you very much.
“What else did the old man tell you?”
“That you were betrayed, lied to, used. That you’re ashamed of your scars because you think they tell the story of your character.”
Jonah huffed out a breath. That was a succinct summation. Seemed everyone had him figured out. He couldn’t argue with it. Come to think of it, he hadn’t put up much of an argument to the points Clara had made either. And he was supposed to be a great arguer?
Maybe because your arguments on this matter are weak, an inner voice chided.
“You didn’t know what was going on, did you?”
Jonah shook his head slowly, understanding that Augustus was talking about the corruption within his firm. “No.” The word was rough, grated. “I was blind.”
“But now you see.”
Jonah laughed though it was laced with pain. “Yeah, now I see. At least mostly. This eye doesn’t work so well anymore.” He offered an ironic tilt of his lips, turning his head slightly, indicating his damaged left eye, the skin pulled downward at the corner.
Augustus smiled. “Still better than being blind.”
“I guess.”
“I know.” He paused. “You have nothing to be ashamed about, man. You should tell your story, whatever it is. Out in the open.”
“I don’t think so. I have no interest in being dragged through the mud. Let them speculate.”
“Maybe after you tell your side, yeah. Once that’s out there, let them say what they say, Jonah. They’re going to anyway. But what I know is that you helped a whole slew of people who might have the opportunity to travel a better path now because of you.”
Something expanded in Jonah’s chest. He wasn’t sure if it was pain or pride. Maybe a mix of both. Clara had said basically the same thing to him. You give those people too much importance and not enough to the ones who matter. He expelled a breath. He did, he knew he did. He just didn’t know how to let go of the shame.
Keep your eyes on me.
“What do you think about my face?” Ruben asked.
“He thinks it’s butt ugly like the rest of us,” Augustus said.
Ruben shot him a dirty look but then grinned. “Your mama didn’t seem to mind last night.”
“Man, do you even know how old I am? My mama’s been dead for fifteen years, you sick gravedigger.”
Despite himself, Jonah laughed.
Ruben’s grin faded, his expression becoming serious after a moment. “It’s not easy,” Ruben said, sitting up on the couch and gesturing to his own marred face. “Wearing your mistakes and regrets on the outside where others can judge them. But, man, the problem is not that others judge you harshly, it’s that you believe what they say.”
Jonah sighed. All of his well-laid plans were beginning to crumble. He could feel it like a quaking inside. First Clara had chipped away at his long-held beliefs, creating so many cracks he was barely holding himself together, and now these men—these friends when he hadn’t had friends in so long—were knocking over the few final sections of stability he’d managed to maintain.
So maybe his plans weren’t so well laid after all.
He eyed Ruben for a minute, his eyes running over the rough, poorly drawn art that must tell a story, though he didn’t know what. “You ever consider getting that removed?” he asked. “I’ve got the money if you need it, and I’ve sorta got this thing about granting wishes.” He attempted a smile, but it felt shaky.
Ruben chuckled. “Nah. These tattoos remind me who I was, and who I’ve fought to become. They might not be pretty, but I’m proud of them.” He paused. “Spend that wish granting on your woman. Or hell, better yet, spend one on yourself.”
The men stood, Augustus patting him on his shoulder as he passed by, leaning in to say, “You have more friends than you realize, man. Think about that.”
Jonah nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, too many thoughts and questions raging through him to begin to put in order.
Ruben gave him a fist bump and Eddy stopped on his way out. “If anyone understands the desire to end your own life, it’s me. We met at the edge of a bridge, remember? You helped me believe that life is worth living again.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Eddy. I’m not planning to end my life.”
“Aren’t you?” He looked right into Jonah’s eyes. “Locking yourself back here, isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” Eddy gave him one final meaningful look and then followed Augustus.
The men filed out, leaving him alone again. Jonah sank down on the couch. God, Eddy was right. He had come to Windisle to end his life. Not in the same way Angelina h
ad, but for the same reasons—a complete lack of hope.
Angelina hadn’t had the same opportunities he had to make a different choice. The reasons for her hopelessness had been deep and powerful and all-consuming. Unchangeable. Held in place by so many others.
What would they say to you? Clara had asked. And he suddenly knew, sitting right there in the quiet of Windisle where Angelina herself had once stood. He knew. She’d tell him to find a way to keep on living.
A sound in the hall right outside of the room caused Jonah to look up where Cecil was standing observing him silently, the expression on his face disapproving, the same way it’d been for the past couple of weeks.
“I suppose you’ve got your own piece of advice for me too, old man?”
“Yeah. Get your daggum shit together.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Savannah Hammond read the last line of the article she’d just completed, saving the file and quickly composing an email to her boss before forwarding it on.
She sighed. A playoff between little league teams. God, the topic was so boring she’d almost fallen asleep trying to write the piece. So instead of focusing on the teams, cute though they were, she’d written the article to highlight the unbelievable behavior she’d witnessed from the parents.
Competitive didn’t begin to cover it. Their antics were downright disgusting. Over a kids sport team? They were supposed to be adults and they acted like angry psychotics. Their kids were going to be on anxiety meds by the time they were twelve.
No doubt the article would get returned to her with a note to rewrite, but what the hell? It was worth a try. And at least writing it hadn’t put her to sleep.
It was frustrating. She’d been working for the online newspaper for almost nine years now, and she was still writing junk articles that changed no one’s life for the better.
Close to a decade, and she was little more than a cub reporter. Sometimes she felt like quitting. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for the business. Only . . . she was. She felt it like a fire burning in her belly. If only she were given the right opportunity.