by Gayle Lynds
"Julia! What a concert!" It was an English voice she didn't recognize.
"Viva! Viva Julia Austrian!" Spanish now.
Elated, Julia walked off the Albert Hall stage the final time, and congratulations and the kind of excited scrutiny that followed an artistic success erupted all around her. Her listeners were exhilarated, and so was she. But now it wasn't just the fine performance. Overpowering everything was her jubilation at her returned sight
She could see! But was it permanent? Could she be sure?
Of course not. It could disappear in an instant as it had in Warsaw.
She couldn't tell anyone. All those years ago when she'd first awakened to discover herself blind and her mother had told her that her father had died in a car accident while she and her mother slept, they'd been frantic with grief. Still, Marguerite had swung into action, making the necessary calls, shepherding her from doctor to doctor as they tried to find what had caused such abrupt blindness. The doctors had put Julia through endless tests—ophthalmoscopy, tonometry, slit-lamp examination, perimetry, fluorescein angiography. She'd developed a close personal relationship with machines—CT, MRI, ultrasound. But there was no sign of a physical problem.
When her uncle Creighton Redmond recommended one of the world's top psychiatrists, she'd refused, and Marguerite had been outraged at the suggestion Julia might have an emotional problem that had caused her blindness.
But time passed, and desperation set in, and Creighton's generous offer had been all they'd had left. The psychiatrist was Dr. Walter Dupuy, renowned not only in the United States but in Europe, with a new clinic in Paris. His fees were as substantial as his reputation, but the Austrians could easily afford them. So Julia went. Dr. Dupuy patiently questioned and listened until at last he had a diagnosis: He labeled her blindness conversion disorder. He explained it was an official diagnosis of the American Psychiatric Association.
Julia had always been nervous about her audiences, at times almost terrified by their explosive enthusiasm. The night of her debut the sea of expectant, impatient faces had loosed lightning bolts of fear through her. Stage fright, jitters, even vomiting before every concert weren't uncommon among performers, but according to Dr. Dupuy she'd taken her anxiety one step farther. That night she'd been overwhelmed by the multitude of faces and their booming applause, and knowing—fearing—she'd have to face this monster of faces and voices the rest of her life, she'd gone blind.
Seeing their shock and disbelief, Dr. Dupuy had read them the official clinical explanation from The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: " . . . the individual's . . . symptom represents a symbolic resolution of an unconscious psychological conflict, reducing anxiety and serving to keep the conflict out of awareness. . . . The symptoms are not intentionally produced. . . ."
She'd "converted" her fear of audiences into blindness. She'd gone to bed that night and awakened with her problem "solved." She hadn't done it deliberately, and only her sight was affected. She was the same person, had the same talents and intellect, and could perform any physical activity she chose. Except see.
Dr. Dupuy had understood their doubts. He'd sent them to two colleagues, one in Vienna and the other in Los Angeles. Both had examined her and, although each was clearly eager to find a flaw in Dupuy's diagnosis, confirmed it. After that she'd gone to Dr. Dupuy often, her sessions fitted around her recitals and concerts. But after years of talk and drugs and no progress, she came to believe her best hope was to perform and give time a chance to heal her. He'd told her that since nothing was physically wrong, a spontaneous return of her sight was always possible.
Now after everything that'd happened, Julia couldn't give her mother false hope. So she kept her joy close, treasuring every sight, waiting until she was certain.
Smiling, wearing her usual tinted glasses, she greeted the admirers who crowded into her dressing room. Excited chatter and the aromas of fine perfumes and cigars filled the air. As she spoke with each one, her secret gaze drank excitedly of colors, textures, shapes.
Faces. Movement.
A casual kiss on an upturned cheek.
A smile that radiated understanding.
Julia had seen nothing in more than a decade, and the sweetness of it all—anything she laid her gaze upon—was miraculous to her.
Then pain stabbed her. She remembered how swiftly, how easily her vision had disappeared in Warsaw.
Blink. She could be blind again.
Julia let her mother lead her out into the elated Albert Hall throng for the usual postconcert reception. Many performers disliked these receptions, but they were an important part of the international music scene, a time for music lovers to meet the artist and for advocates to raise donations to pay for future concerts. Julia had grown to enjoy them, but her wonderful new sight made tonight's party special.
A parade of socialites, industrialists, and professionals came to greet her—
The woman whose scent was White Diamonds: "What music! Did you sign a contract with Lucifer? If you did, dear, it was worth every pound!"
The jovial barrister from Kent: "Ms. Austrian, do you know the difference between a Toyota and a viola?" When she admitted she didn't, he laughed heartily: "You can tune a Toyota!"
As Julia laughed, she saw Marguerite move toward a delivery man who'd arrived at a nearby door with a brown-paper packet about half the size of a manila envelope. Head cocked, good-humored, Marguerite carried her Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. She signed for the packet and dropped it onto the clutter in the big bag. As he disappeared, she turned back into the party's swirl.
Captivated by her mother's face, Julia was silent as she approached, hiding her new vision behind her tinted glasses. The small group drifted away, and in the respite she saw with a shock how much her mother had changed. Once she'd been an elegantly assured woman with a firm chin, handsome cheekbones, and a level gaze that never lowered against argument or mistake. But now what had been somewhat cold and hard was softer, more complex. Compassion had welded with the iron strength. Her mother had aged, learned, and become more. More lovely. More sensitive. More human.
Julia smiled deep within herself.
"How odd," Marguerite told her. "I just received a package that could be from Dad." She patted her shoulder bag and smiled. Through the years she'd distanced herself from her family and their controlling ways, but she still felt a deep connection to her father, who was now in a nursing home. "There's no return name or address, but the delivery company's stamp says it's from Armonk. The handwriting's wobbly, so it could be his. We'll open it back at the hotel. Maybe he's better." She paused, feeling guilty for being gone so much with Julia that she'd missed her father's decline from power and robust charm into senility. "Are you having a good time, dear?"
Julia chuckled, unable to contain her happiness. To be able to talk to her mother and see her at the same time was marvelous. "I'm having a great time."
"That's fine." Marguerite's lapis lazuli eyes narrowed. "How are your hands?"
Julia held them up. "Both here and, I'm happy to report, feeling fine. The soreness is gone. Must've been all the exercise at the keyboard."
Marguerite smiled. It was what she'd hoped to hear. She was no musician, but she knew enough to be certain no pianist could play Liszt's twelve études without serious pain if even the smallest tendon were weak. A broken bone or a bruised muscle would've stopped the recital quickly. The études were punishing exercise.
As she studied her daughter, Marguerite realized she was feeling nostalgic. When she thought about the passage of the years, it seemed as if they'd dragged her along with little enthusiasm on her part. Yet she liked her life. If she could've had only one gift, it would've been to bring back Jonathan. With every fiber of her being she wished he could've heard their daughter play tonight. But then, she often felt his loss, still saw him in the shadows of their apartment, and ached for him in her empty bed. To have one of their long, intimate talks was the heaven for which she year
ned. Life wasn't empty so much as missing the vital ingredient that promised joy in all things, great and small. Jonathan.
She had relatives back in New York—the Redmonds, a big, Irish Catholic family—colorful, opinionated, warm, and occasionally contentious as they wielded their great wealth and power with chilling nonchalance. Her spirit had drifted away from them long ago, and now her only child, Julia, was her life. Still, she'd give up her place at Julia's side if Julia could find a good man to love. Marguerite wished for her all the satisfaction and happiness she'd had with Jonathan. Everyone deserved that.
As she studied her daughter now—the long brown hair with the hints of gold, the deep blue eyes that were the color of her own, the oval face that sadness had touched far more deeply than it should—she thought about the future and prayed Julia could lay to rest the fiend that had struck her blind.
She smiled. "I admired your fall, dear. Perhaps one of your most graceful ones."
"Thank you. It's all the practice."
Marguerite laughed aloud, enjoying her daughter's lively spirit.
As the two stood there together, momentarily protected by a bubble of privacy while the celebration whirled around, Julia memorized her mother—the soft lines, the elegant tilt to her head, and the mass of dark hair piled back high and thick. Her beacon in the night. Then with an icy chill she remembered—
Blink. Her vision could disappear as quickly as it'd arrived, and her mother could vanish into darkness once more.
A suave Italian in expensive evening clothes bowed low over Julia's hand: He had flashing, chocolate-brown eyes and wealth—judging from his grooming and elaborate jewelry. He appraised her with the kind of easygoing lust that at its best was charming and at its worst made a woman want to take a long, hot shower with lots of soap.
But he was chivalrous, and she had the advantage of sight. She knew he was hitting on her. Those brown, flashing eyes were unmistakably practiced at visualizing the body under a gown, and he couldn't know she saw he was doing that to her right now. And obviously enjoying himself.
"Remarkable, signorina!" he enthused. "Even Toscanini would have wished you on his stage." It was a compliment to think the great maestro, Arturo Toscanini, might have respected her enough to invite her to play in one of his programs, and her debonair, would-be seducer knew it. Toscanini had been a perfectionist who'd driven his artists mercilessly and died saying he'd never had five minutes of real musical fulfillment.
"Grazie," she told him politely. "I'm honored." And then she moved away.
"But signorina—" He followed, took her arm, turned her to face him. He smelled of some designer cologne. "Perhaps you would join me for a glass of wine. Or some fine cognac. Delizioso. I understand you had a great triumph in Warsaw. We can talk. You are such a beautiful lady. So talented. Sensazionale!"
She froze. All evening she'd relished everything, intent on the music and her sight. The past and future had hardly existed. But as this handsome stranger cajoled, she couldn't tear herself away from his voracious gaze. His hand clasped her naked arm and scorched her skin. She had an acute sense her clothes were peeling off. And it was all because she could see him, understand him with her eyes.
In her blindness, she probably would've been attracted to him. But her vision revealed his advances as too intense, intimate. Gut-churning.
And the sight of him reminded her of—
Evan . . . her boyfriend at Juilliard—a violinist with a hard, compact body and bristling energy. The magnetic appeal of his brilliant talent and vast enthusiasm for life. Evan had loved her, and she'd been attracted like a young animal to the sun. She'd basked in his admiration. In the endless talk of music and the future. Of great performances. Of his hands all over her body.
She tried to push the memories away. . . but right now, at this very minute, she could feel his supple fingers under her clothes spreading flames just with their touch. Evan.
Her breath intensified. She'd loved him. Whenever her parents had been away, she'd sneaked him past the maids and into her bed. She remembered the cool sheets and his hot body.
The explosive sex—
She felt her heart pound.
She didn't want to think about him. She'd sent him away after she'd gone blind—
Because in pity there was no room for love or respect. She couldn't stand his pity.
Evan had found another love and married her. He'd moved with her to Chicago and was exceedingly happy, a mutual acquaintance had told her with a malicious laugh.
So she'd taken another man—a nice, gentle soul who'd fallen in love with her music, not with her. And when she'd broken that off, there'd been a final man who'd wanted to turn her into a national phenomenon with television appearances, posters, T-shirts, and movie deals. The Beautiful Blind Pianist.
It'd made her stomach ache, and she'd kicked him out. She needed no men in her life.
With a firm hand, she removed the Italian's grip from her bare arm. "Signore, you want a different woman. Not me."
The ravenous dark eyes bored into her, yanking her to him, kissing her deeply. He licked his lips, all pretense of chivalry gone. "There is no one here like you, Julia. May I call you 'Julia'? No one as charming, as desirable, as luscious—"
She turned away. "Take a picture. It'll last longer."
She moved toward a group of fellow musicians, erasing from her mind the shock on his face. He was a man accustomed to getting what—and whom—he wanted.
She wouldn't be one of them. With relief, she smiled. Then she remembered.
Blink. Without her sight she might've been captured by his duplicitous charm. Her smile vanished.
It was time. She'd held off from looking into windows or mirrors, but she had to do it. Especially now. Especially after the Italian. The past was closing in rapidly.
Sweat collected on her forehead. She had to see what she looked like.
There was something about the intimacy of one's own face, not just the bones and flesh one inherited, but how time and experience had shaped it. Sighted people took so much for granted, watching daily changes in their mirrors without realizing their good fortunes. From one decade to the next, their faces were their companions, as casually close as the beat of their hearts.
But her face could belong to a stranger. After so many years, would it "look" like her? Would she recognize herself?
Alone in the bathroom, Julia ran to the gold-gilt mirror. Her heart thudded against her rib cage. She peeled off her glasses, leaned forward, and stared.
At first she saw no surprises. She had clear skin and large oval eyes the deep blue color of lapis lazuli. She touched her lips, noting how full and round they were. Her nose was straight and slender, giving her features a sense of perfect symmetry that she didn't remember. Her hair was honey brown, thick and glossy as it curled down to her shoulders. She stood stunned. This face could've just finished a photo shoot for the cover of Cosmopolitan magazine. The large blue eyes, the slender nose, the pouty, sexy lips, the etched cheekbones. For a moment it seemed as if she weren't herself, as if this beautiful woman couldn't be her.
And there was more. . . . At eighteen, when she'd gone blind, she'd been unformed, a canvas awaiting the painter. Now at twenty-eight, she was like a da Vinci, full of buried knowledge and secrets. They infused her molded cheekbones, high forehead, slightly parted full lips, and deceptively open eyes.
Her face surprised her. She saw more pain than she was aware of ever feeling. How could she have painful secrets she didn't know? Chills surged across her skin. Memories seemed to flicker on the periphery of her sight, and inside her mind she smelled an odd, strong odor she couldn't quite name. It was familiar. She shivered. She studied herself again. She was suddenly afraid. But of what?
12:01 AM, SATURDAY
As the reception ended, her mother led Julia out into the clear, frigid London night toward the black-beetle taxi that would take them to their hotel in Belgravia. Julia tilted back her head and gazed up with the ex
citement of new-minted eyes. The sky was a black, dramatic canopy flush with shimmering stars. She drank in the splendor. Next she studied the street, streaked with car lights and movement. The lights made shadows dart like elves along the edges, among trees, bushes, and pedestrians.
As she steeped herself in the remarkable evening, she silently vowed she'd always remember the fragility of life. She'd stop to enjoy sunsets and sunrises, smiling faces, and everything else she'd missed so long. Her heart swelled with gratitude.
But as they reached the taxi, she felt guilty. She'd had her sight back four hours. No longer could she convince herself it was a fluke, an accident, an unkind trick. She had to tell her mother.
"Mom—"
"Mind the step up, ladies." The taximan swung open the back door and touched his finger to his cap.
Julia settled into the leathery aroma of the backseat, and her mother climbed in after. The driver got behind the wheel and closed the window between front seat and back. They were alone.
"Mom, let me look at you."
Marguerite Austrian didn't get the implication of Julia's words.
She turned, a half smile on her lips. "It was a divine concert again. Extraordinary, Julia. Something's changed in you. Take pity on me. I'm old. I'm ignorant. Let me in on your secret."
"Like hell you're old and ignorant." Then Julia grinned. "I can see."
"What?" In the gloom, her mother's face was confused. "What do you mean?"
"I can see." Julia laughed, full of exuberance. "It happened first in Warsaw, the night I played the Bartók sonata. And it happened tonight just before I started the études. I don't know why. But that's what the psychiatrist said, isn't it? If my sight came back, it could be sudden. Just like the way I went blind. The first time I could see again—in Warsaw—it went away immediately. Tonight it didn't. I can still see!"
Marguerite was stunned. It was the one gift she'd tried to buy but couldn't. As the taxi prowled ahead, looked for an opening, and then slid into traffic, emotions ricocheted across her face—shock, disbelief, worry. She'd long ago given up believing in miracles. And yet—