“Oh, Portia can tell you easy. She can just look at your colors. Do it, Portia. Look at his colors and see if he’s controlling.”
Nelson felt confused.
Portia was irritated. “Juliet, let’s not talk about this now, okay? It’s not appropriate.”
“Why not? It’s very interesting, Portia. Auras are okay to talk about. You told me that once. See, Nelson, she knows when she looks at you what kinda person you are by the colors of your aura,” Juliet said.
“Aura?” Nelson was mystified. “Colors? What sort of colors?”
“Juliet, Nelson is not interested in auras….”
But Juliet was determined to explain. “Portia sees the colors around people, like rainbows. Everybody has them. And she can tell lots of things about you just by how the colors look, can’t you, Portia? She always knows if I’m getting sick or whether I’m really mad or happy or worried, even. It’s called being psychic. Our mother’s psychic, too, but in a different way. I’m not psychic, but I have dreams sometimes just like picture shows, where I know what’s gonna happen, right, Portia? I knew that time the kitchen caught on fire that it was gonna happen. I told Mrs. Cousins, but she just said, ‘Don’t trouble trouble till trouble troubles you,’ and then the next day the grease caught on fire just like I saw in my dream, right, Portia?”
“Juliet, Nelson is going to take us out to lunch. Why don’t you tell him your favorite place and I’ll bet we can go there.”
“Where would you like to go, Juliet?” Nelson recognized the desperate note in Portia’s voice. Whatever this color thing was, it was definitely not something she wanted to discuss. And the last thing he wanted to do now that he had her with him was make her wish she wasn’t there. Adroitly, he led Juliet down a conversational path that had nothing whatever to do with colors. He asked her about her work at the bakery, and she gave him detailed instructions on how to load cookies on trays for baking.
IT WAS FIVE THAT EVENING by the time they dropped Juliet off at Harmony House, and Portia marveled at how quickly the hours had passed and how pleasurable they’d been.
They’d driven out to the trendy fishing village of Steveston and walked far out on the pier. They’d eaten at a fast-food chain, Juliet’s first choice, where Charlie had parked the limo in the lot and cheerfully joined them for burgers and fries and chocolate shakes. They’d stopped at a Sunday farmers’ market where Nelson bought Juliet the biggest pumpkin available—Halloween was coming.
The day had turned into a long, full one, and even Juliet’s homecoming took time, because after Portia and Charlie wrestled the pumpkin inside, Juliet insisted on bringing everyone in residence, including Mrs. Cousins, out to see the limo and meet Nelson. Charlie then cheerfully drove Juliet’s friends around the block several times.
Mrs. Cousins had declined. “Too rich for my blood,” she’d insisted with a sniff. “Doesn’t do to get a taste for the finer things in life when one can’t afford them.”
At last, after frantic hand-waving and repeated thank-yous, Charlie drove off, and in the back of the limo, Nelson and Portia were alone, for the first moment all day. Charlie had closed the partition to give them privacy, and they looked at each other and exchanged weary smiles.
“Have you ever been around mentally handicapped people before, Nelson?” Portia slumped in the seat, feeling the usual mix of emotions after spending an extended period with her sister. Of course she was utterly drained; Juliet’s frenetic energy and constant chatter were tiring, and there was always the slight anxiety of never knowing what she’d say or do next. There was guilty relief that she didn’t have to cope with her sister’s mood swings and stubborn attitudes on a day-to-day basis. And there was poignant sadness because her little sister hadn’t developed past childhood and nothing would ever be easy for Juliet.
“Not really, no.” Nelson had hesitated several moments before he’d answered. He gave Portia a wry grin. “I was scared to death at first that I’d do something stupid and wrong and hurt your feelings or hers. I hope Juliet didn’t notice I was nervous.”
“Not at all. She was far too excited. You were very kind and thoughtful. The pumpkin was a huge success.”
He nodded. “Yeah, well, you can’t really go wrong with a pumpkin, can you?” They laughed, and then Nelson was quiet for several moments.
“She’s very honest, isn’t she.”
Portia laughed because he was so tactful. Blunt would have been a better word for Juliet. “Yeah, she is. It’s a mixed blessing. She has no borders. She has no idea what’s acceptable in conversation and what’s not. So things get said that make people uncomfortable, like the stuff you really didn’t want to know about her and Stuart and how she’s planning to get pregnant so they can get married.” Portia sighed and shook her head. “That idea makes me want to lock her up somewhere until she’s safely through menopause.”
She’d felt like strangling Juliet when she’d repeated to Nelson and Charlie the whole discussion she and Portia had had that morning. Portia had tried to distract her, change the subject, but when something was on Juliet’s mind, it came out of her mouth.
“Sometimes there aren’t any simple solutions.” Nelson reached out and took Portia’s hand in his, using his thumb to stroke the back of her hand.
She didn’t pull away. She told herself the gesture was more sympathetic than romantic. But just feeling his fingers touching her skin was arousing.
“Where my sister’s concerned, there usually aren’t. She can be challenging, all right.” Portia glanced out the window. They didn’t seem to be heading toward her house.
“I really should go home,” she said. “Charlie must be sick of driving.” She’d talked a lot to Charlie during the day; had learned that she was a practical nurse as well as Nelson’s chauffeur, and that she thought he was one of the most considerate people she’d ever worked for. Charlie had a generous and easygoing way about her that Portia admired.
“I was hoping we could give her the rest of the day off,” Nelson said tentatively. “How about coming back to my condo for a drink and some dinner. We can order in—I haven’t quite mastered cooking yet from this chair. And the moment you want to go home, I’ll call you a cab.” He gave her a pleading look. “Please, Portia? Sunday evenings are lonely.”
Portia hesitated. She’d been with him for hours, but with Juliet present, they hadn’t had much real conversation. It seemed silly now to go back to her earlier decision to avoid him; she’d spent the day finding out things about him. He was thoughtful and kind and generous. He didn’t care one iota if people stared. He remembered exactly how she took her coffee. He laughed easily and often, at the same things that amused her. And he was dead right about Sunday evenings.
“Okay, for an hour or two. Then I really must get home.”
His smile flashed, and he leaned ahead and opened the glass partition to tell Charlie what they’d decided. When he settled back, he said, “In spite of the problems, it’s obvious how much you and Juliet care for each other.”
Portia smiled and shrugged. “She’s my sister. I’m around her more than my brothers are, but they do their best to care for her, too. We’re pretty close emotionally, all six of us, although we don’t see one another much.”
“I envy you your family. When I was growing up, I used to long for brothers and sisters.”
“You were an only child.” Portia remembered his having told her so. “It must have been a lonely way to grow up. I was always glad to have siblings, particularly because our parents were never around much.”
“Juliet said something earlier that I didn’t understand, about you and your mother being psychic.”
Damn and blast. Portia had hoped he’d forget that bit of information.
Why couldn’t her sister keep her mouth buttoned?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WAS NOTHING to do now except explain.
Portia sighed and said, “We are psychic. My mother’s good at finding people who are lost. Sh
e touches something that belongs to someone and she can usually tell where that person is, whether he’s dead or alive. She works with police departments here and in Europe, helping to locate missing people.”
“I’ve read about investigations where they used someone who could do that. I guess I always thought it was a hoax.”
“Nope, no hoax. Mom’s on the level. She’s helped with any number of cases that the police couldn’t have solved otherwise.”
“And you, Portia? Didn’t Juliet say you see colored lights around everyone?” He sounded perplexed.
Portia longed to deny it, but there was no point. “Yeah, I do. I’ve always seen auras.” Damn. She hated having to describe this. She always felt self-conscious when she did, as if she were some sort of mutation, different from the rest of humanity. “As a little kid, I just thought everyone saw them.”
He looked puzzled, and she tried to explain it so he’d understand. “Everyone has an energy field that surrounds them, called an aura, visible to weirdos like me. A person’s emotions and physical health determine the colors and the intensity. It’s like a shimmery rainbow composed of vibrant shafts of color, and there’s just a sort of knowing that’s difficult to explain. I can tell where there’s a major break in the light, which usually indicates injury. Or if the colors are muddy, I know there’s an illness, mental or physical.”
“Yeah? How come everyone doesn’t see them?”
“I don’t know. They’ve developed cameras that photograph the aura. And a great many people do see them, but it’s not something people like me usually talk about. We get pretty tired of being laughed at.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he hung on.
“Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m not laughing, Portia.” His blue eyes held her gaze, intense and interested. “I’m trying to understand, is all. It’s just that this whole idea of having a rainbow around me that I can’t see takes a bit of getting used to. So you can tell if somebody’s sick, you said?”
“Yeah, usually I can. I get a feeling about them.” She wished they’d never gotten into this conversation.
“It must make it easier to diagnose people at work. Is that why you became a doctor?”
He was relentless. Portia sighed and resigned herself to explaining as clearly as possible. Obviously, he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.
“Sometimes it makes it harder,” she admitted. “During medical training, I opted to trust the scientific method above my psychic ability, because I was making critical decisions that affected people’s lives. And of course the only mention of psychic abilities was in textbooks, and was labeled as a sign of profound psychological dysfunction. If I’d alluded to being able to read auras, I’d have been shipped off to a psych ward for an assessment. But when I started practicing, I realized that for all its strengths, the scientific method doesn’t always give you the whole story. So I started looking at people again, seeing what their colors indicated. I’ve relied on my ability a lot in the ER the last couple of years. But a few months ago I had a really bad experience, and I vowed never to use it again in diagnosis.”
He stared at her for a moment, and she could tell the exact second that recognition dawned. “But you did. You used it on me, didn’t you?” He sounded excited. “The day of the accident. That’s how you knew my spinal cord wasn’t injured. I couldn’t figure out how you could be so positive.”
Portia shrugged. “I did that day because Joanne asked me to. Joanne’s my friend, my mentor. She’s very dear to me, I’d do anything for her. But since then, I’ve tried my best not to.”
“Why not?” He sounded astonished. “I don’t get it. It was the best thing you could have done for me. Why not use it on other people?”
Portia hesitated, but only for an instant. Because of Juliet, he was already acquainted with certain intimate details of her life. It seemed natural and right now to tell him about the mistake she’d made with Betty Hegard, and the anguish and guilt that the girl’s death had caused her. She began slowly, but soon the words were tumbling out.
“With Betty, I could see that she’d had an abortion,” Portia explained. “I could see it was causing her terrible anxiety and guilt that in turn exacerbated her asthma. I should have realized she was much less emotionally stable than she appeared.”
“Isn’t that tough—being able to tell when somebody’s having emotional problems?”
Something in his voice told Portia that they were talking about more than just Betty. “Yeah, it is tough sometimes,” she agreed. “But that’s where this ability to see beyond the obvious comes in. I did pick up that Betty was disturbed, and why. Knowing this, I should have been much more cautious in what I suggested to her.”
He was thoughtful. “So you can actually see what’s going on in somebody’s head?”
“No, of course not. Not exactly.” Explaining so another person understood was so difficult. “What I see is a sort of gray cloud that dulls the natural brightness of their colors wherever something is wrong. In Betty’s case, the color disturbance was around the abdomen and in the reproductive area.”
“So what do you see around me?” His tone was challenging.
She’d anticipated the question. People were always curious and doubtful, needing for themselves some proof of her claims. As the car stopped and started, threading its way through busy streets, Portia allowed herself to look at him in the special way that gave her insights into things not obvious to an ordinary observer.
“Your physical injuries are healing really quickly,” she told him. She took a breath and wondered if she should leave it at that. But he’d asked, and she felt she should tell him the truth. “Something’s worrying you, however, something that involves your head, your—” she looked deeper “—your brain. Not that there’s any sign of disease there, just that you’re worried there might be. Whatever it is, it’s troubled you for a long time. I noticed it when you were brought into the ER that day, and it’s still there. You can’t shake it off.”
He blanched. She felt his fingers convulse on hers, and she noticed the effort he put into trying to control his shocked reaction.
“What is it you’re so afraid of, Nelson?” Her tone was gentle and insistent. “Tell me. I told you my secret. Now tell me yours.”
She really wanted to know. For some obscure reason, it was important to her. She had shared hers; surely she deserved to hear his.
His eyes slowly filled with tears, and he ducked his head. She tightened her grasp on his hand, trying to give him silent support. He drew a breath and then said in a flat voice, “You’re absolutely right about me being troubled. See, my father died at sixty-two of Huntington’s chorea.” He added, “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It’s not something I ever talk about. With anyone.”
Portia swallowed hard. She was, of course, familiar with the disease, and with the prognosis. She understood instantly what his fears were, and her heart ached for him. “And you think you’ll develop it, too, as you get older.”
He tried for a grin, but it came out more of a grimace. “Oh, yeah, I know I will.”
Her throat was dry, and she steeled herself for what he would tell her. “You’ve had the test? It was positive?”
He shook his head. “Nope. What’s the point of going through the agony of having it confirmed?”
She leaned toward him, took his other hand in hers and held it firmly. “You can’t know that for sure unless you’ve had the test, Nelson. There’s a fifty-fifty chance. Why shouldn’t you be lucky?”
“Because my dad wasn’t.” His voice was harsh. “Neither were two of my uncles. Me, I’d rather wait until it happens. Waiting is hell, but knowing without a single doubt that I’ve got it would be even worse. I—I’m not sure I could live with the knowledge.”
In some ways she agreed with him; when there was nothing medical science could do to treat a condition, a test could either set you free or make the years before the onset of the disease a living hell.
/> What would she do, given that awful choice? She had to admit she wasn’t certain, although she thought she’d probably have to know, one way or the other.
Charlie was pulling into an underground parking area, and for the next while there was no opportunity to talk privately as they all got out of the limo and rode in the elevator up to Nelson’s fifteenth-floor rooftop condo.
“Wow.” Portia wandered around the spacious living room while Charlie gathered up her things, preparing to leave. “What a great place!”
Nelson’s living space was large and luxuriously masculine, furnished in dark leather softened by lavish scatterings of Aztec-patterned goose down pillows, thick rugs and bookshelves stuffed with what looked like well-used volumes. Positioned around the room were unusual sculptures and paintings, which Portia guessed weren’t all reproductions. Decks opened out from sliding glass windows on two sides of the room, affording panoramic views of the North Shore and the inlet.
“Bye, Portia.” Charlie waved on her way out the door. “I enjoyed meeting your sister.” She touched Nelson on the shoulder. “Don’t overdo it, will you, sweetie? Call me when you need me. Remember what the physio said—only a few minutes out of the chair on your feet to start with. No doing the rumba or anything. And don’t be too stubborn to ask Portia for help if you need it, okay? See you in the morning.” She closed the door behind her.
“Is Charlie married?” Portia was suddenly very conscious of being alone with Nelson, and she snatched at the first thing that came into her mind. He transferred adroitly from the wheelchair to a corner of the sofa, propping his casts up on a huge padded footstool before he answered.
“Nope. She’s just divorced her third husband.”
“Three husbands? She sounds a bit like my mom.”
“First one died.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Second one ran off with her best friend. Third and last wouldn’t work, and she got tired of supporting him so she booted him out.”
“Smart lady. I guess there’re any number of reasons people split up,” Portia added thoughtfully.
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