Jack shrugged. “Seeing? Oh, of course. Do me a favor, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“Shut your mouth.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my first conversation with a figment of my imagination, and I can’t say I care for it very much.”
He raised the wineglass to his lips but staring through it, saw that the woman had crawled from the bed and was now approaching. She seemed angry.
She stopped directly in front of him. Jack eyed her coolly.
“I’m not part of some dream, Jack,” the woman said as if offended by the very idea.
Jack chuckled mildly. “What do you want me to do? Believe you just fell out of that painting and began crawling around my bedroom?”
She paused. “Does this feel like a dream to you, Jack?”
He chuckled again, incredulous. “What are you trying to do? Convince me that this is really happening?”
“This is really happening,” she said plainly.
Jack smiled, smelled his drink once more. “If this is really happening, then that means you must have a name. What is it?”
“Rose.”
“Rose? Maybe you’re right,” he joked. “I don’t recall knowing any Rose’s in my lifetime. My mind probably wouldn’t make that part up. Of course it could have something to do with the color of your dress.”
She ignored him. Her eyes narrowed a bit. She seemed to be studying him carefully.
“See something interesting?” Jack asked.
“Yes. I do,” she said.
“What?”
She peered a moment longer. Finally, she said: “No. You don’t believe you’re dreaming. Not entirely.”
“How the hell would you know what I believe?”
She blinked up at him. “Because unlike Portia, I can tell when you’re lying.”
Jack eyed her callously. He raised the wineglass to his lips, intending the gesture to not only reflect his disdain for her comment, but her very presence. Before he could take a drink, however, she reached up and, in one swift move, snatched the glass from his hand. With a toss of her head, she swallowed its contents whole.
That embittered Jack. “I’m really going to enjoy tomorrow morning.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’ll be back in the painting, back where you belong.”
Keeping her eyes trained on him, she took hold of the wine bottle and refilled the glass. She feigned taking another drink but instead lightly grasped Jack’s shoulder with her free hand and pressed the glass to his lips.
At first he resisted, refusing to open his mouth, but she kept the glass there, tilting it more. The wine settled against his upper lip and, tasting some of its sweetness, he finally capitulated and opened.
“Good?” the woman asked, pulling the glass down and thumbing away some of the spill from his mouth.
“Good,” he replied reluctantly.
“How is that possible?”
“How is what possible?”
“That you’re able to taste wine, and yet you think you’re dreaming?”
She quickly pressed the glass back to his lips, as if to underscore her point, but Jack calmly took her wrist and lowered it away.
“I guess you have me then. You’re right. I shouldn’t be able to taste wine if I’m only dreaming. But you’re forgetting something.”
“And what would that be?”
“A dream never feels like one when you’re dreaming it. It’s only after you’re fully awake that you realize none of it really happened. Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up and realize that you never came out of the painting. I only imagined you did. I’ll realize the slap you gave me never really hurt. I only imagined it did. And most of all, I’ll realize that I never actually tasted the wine. I only imagined I did.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jack.”
“If I believed this was real… that’s exactly what I’d be.”
The woman eyed him harshly, then broke into a devilish smile. “Tell me something, Jack. Do you believe in omens?”
“Omens? You mean like signs and wonders?”
“So to speak.”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Good,” she said cheerfully.
“Why is that good?”
“Because I’m going to show you something.”
“Show me something? You mean to prove your existence?”
“Yes.”
“What could you possibly show me to prove you’re real?”
“Nothing. At least, not right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because you believe you’re dreaming. Anything I show you you’d only pass off as part of that dream. But if I show you later, when you’re awake…” She trailed off.
Jack nodded agreeably. “Now that intrigues me. A sign to prove your existence.”
“I don’t want to. You could have made this so much easier by just accepting what’s taking place. But since you insist.”
Jack wore a haughty grin. He found the entire exchange rather amusing. “So what kind of sign should I expect: a face in a cloud, lights in the sky, crop circles?”
“You should expect,” she paused, “something beautiful. You do still love beautiful things, don’t you?”
Jack grinned, noting the familiarity of the question. “Yes. Always.”
“Good.”
“And exactly how will I know this sign, this omen, is from you?”
“Oh, I don’t think there will be any mistaking that.”
Jack peered at her. He was almost certain he could detect something about her face, something he’d seen countless times in scores of other women. “You want something from me, don’t you?”
“Just your attention.”
Jack shook his head. “No. You want much more than that.”
The woman said nothing, only extended the glass up to him. He took it, raising it to his mouth and taking another drink. The flavor was overwhelming.
As he lowered it away, he was struck by the woman’s rather large and brilliant smile. His face flattened in amazement. It was Portia’s smile.
CHAPTER 6 – GLIMPSING
At one moment Jack was entranced with that wondrous smile, Portia’s smile, and the next there was blackness, nothingness. That seemed to last for perhaps two or three seconds, and then he found himself opening his eyes to the flowery patterns of his bedroom ceiling.
He lay there confused, only slowly realizing that he had just awakened from his dream. He tried to sit up but his body fought him, moving in slow slothful agony, his joints popping and whining like an old screen door. Coming semi-erect, he reached back and heaped together several large pillows. He settled back against them, sighing deeply.
He peered at himself in the great mirror opposite the bed. The room’s thick curtains kept out much of the morning’s glare, leaving his reflected form softly shaded. He looked awful. His hair was a ridiculous mangle of short, black spikes. Dark creases had formed beneath his eyes. Everything else was either grungy or puffy or both. His skull ached as if it had been quartered by a lead pipe.
He turned and looked at the answering machine. 8:05am. He’d overslept, grossly. Looking away, he began mashing his palms into his face, trying to massage away the fatigue. When he had stopped, something to his left caught his eye. He smiled thinly. It was the vivid red of Rose’s dress. There you are, he gloated. Right where I said you’d be.
He lay there, taking in Rose’s seductive image with all the shallow glee of a carnival prize winner. Everything was back to normal. Last night’s encounter with the woman—which actually felt like mere seconds ago—really had been nothing but a dream.
Then he noticed something that seemed to cast doubt on that thought. The pile of satin sheets sprawling beside him was empty. Gabrielle was not in bed.
He peered down the hallway, looking out toward the bathroom for any sign of her. He quieted his breathing, listening carefully for the slightest sound withi
n the house. Everything was perfectly still.
Rose’s grim proclamation that he had sent her home wandered into his mind, but he stayed the thought, reminding himself that this was the first time Gabrielle had spent the entire night. As such, he was completely unaware of her morning rituals. She might have gotten up early and ventured down to the lower level for a dip in the pool, or taken a stroll out along the elaborate pathways behind the house. She may even have sneaked off to the East wing, shut herself in the theater room, and was now comfortably enjoying a movie. Who knew where she was, and frankly who cared. Whatever the reason for her absence, it had nothing to do with the comments of some figment from a dream.
Then Jack did hear something: the light tapping sound of shoes as they ascended the staircase. He retrained his eyes down the hallway, fully expecting Gabrielle to appear at the top of the staircase—although for an unsettling instant he imagined it was Rose, rising to prove her reality. To his surprise, however, the woman that appeared was neither Gabrielle nor Rose. It was a plump fifty-something woman with streaky gray hair that was pulled back into a particularly tight bun. Her name was Janice. She was his housekeeper.
He watched quietly as she strolled down the hall, a feather duster in one hand, a white cloth in the other. On entering the bedroom she immediately began adeptly whistling the chorus of Amazing Grace. She proceeded to the wet bar and began wiping it down.
Jack was both baffled and amused by the fact that she had not noticed him in bed. That amusement, however, became a bit of bewilderment when he saw the woman removing a half-empty bottle of wine from the countertop. She tapped its cork back in place and slid it into the wine rack. Taking hold of an empty wine glass sitting nearby, she moved it to the edge of the bar, probably so she’d remember to take it with her when she left. The white cloth she left resting beside it.
She moved away and began dusting the decorative ledge in front of the great mirror. Having finished, she began toward the gallery. Only then did Jack decide to make his presence known.
“Hey!” he blurted.
Janice gasped, jumping so badly that she dropped the feather duster to the floor. What she’d heard sounded more like the hoarse croak of some dying animal than a human being. She snapped her head in Jack’s direction and, seeing the catty smile on his face, solidly planted both fists on her hips. “Have you gone mad?” she fumed. “You could have given me a heart attack.”
Jack was grunting laughter.
Janice bent and picked up the feather duster. “Quite the prankster, aren’t you?”
Jack’s laughter had disintegrated to a barking cough. When he had finished, he calmly folded his hands behind his head in a gesture of ultimate satisfaction. Janice glared at him hotly.
She turned and detoured toward one of the two floor-to-ceiling windows. “What are you still doing here?” she offered conversationally. “Too much carousing last night to get up and go to work?”
“Apparently,” Jack replied carelessly.
“That’s not like you. You’re usually up by 5:30, no matter how late you go to bed.”
“Yes, I guess I didn’t sleep well.”
“That or you’ve finally gone over the hill.” As if to punctuate this dry bit of humor, she snatched together two fistfuls of curtain and yanked them apart, blasting Jack’s eyes with sunshine. He grimaced, removing one hand from behind his head and using it to shield his eyes. “Is everything okay?” Janice asked looking over her shoulder, her voice full of false concern. “I have to say you don’t look very well at all. You’re not sick, are you?” She began moving to the other set of curtains.
“I think I’m nursing a hangover…or something.”
“A hangover? Really?
“Yes. My head is splitting.”
“Well, I’ve got just the remedy.” She snatched open the other set of curtains, spraying Jack once more with glaring yellow light.
He snatched his other hand from behind his head and extended it in vain defense. “Damn it, Janice, take it easy.”
“That’ll teach you to frighten me,” she quipped, then briskly walked away.
Janice had been Jack’s housekeeper for more than five years. The two had grown rather fond of one another, this despite her tendency to be motherly and overbearing. She had long chided him for his “womanizing,” a term he thought not only old-fashioned but hardly fitting. Nevertheless, on the third Friday of every month, he treated Janice and four friends of her choosing to dinner at any restaurant in the city. When time permitted, he’d accompany the group, which was usually comprised of several women from Janice’s church, none of whom could help but swoon over having dinner with one of New York City’s most notable bachelors.
“How much damage did they do?” Jack asked.
Janice was lightly dusting the picture frames in the gallery. “You mean the party guests?”
“Yes.”
“Not too bad. A few dishes here and there; some abandoned streamers. Apparently, someone wandered into the study with cake. They got icing on one of the books in your library. Was it a good time?”
“I enjoyed myself. I wish you would have come.”
“A housekeeper amongst the rich and famous? Not exactly my crowd.”
“Yes, you’re too good for them.”
Janice smiled, still dusting. “Get any interesting gifts?”
“I did. I… Oh, that reminds me. You didn’t happen to see Gabrielle downstairs, did you?”
Janice stopped dusting, turned. “Gabrielle?”
“Yes.”
She pointed the feather duster at the two photographs of her in the gallery. “That Gabrielle?”
“Yes.”
“Portia’s best friend, Gabrielle?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“No. I can’t say that I did. But why would she be stopping by so early in the morning?”
“She spent the night, Janice.”
Janice turned around fully. “Spent the night?”
“Not now,” Jack groaned. “I already told you I have a headache.”
“You’ll need brain surgery by the time I’m finished with you,” she snarled. “You two are actually involved?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, how long has this been going on?”
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Long enough.”
Janice pursed her lips, then glanced off to the images of Gabrielle. She studied them before turning back. “And this isn’t just some passing fling, is it? She’s special to you.”
Jack found himself suddenly annoyed. “What makes you say that?”
She looked at the gallery. “It’s obvious.”
“What do you mean it’s obvious?”
“Well for one, you collect models on your wall, not actresses. And yet there she is, sitting in the midst of them all.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jack said.
“Is it? Then how do you explain that she’s the only one with more than one image?”
Jack peered at the gallery as if for the first time.
Janice added, “And haven’t you recently placed a third picture of her in your den?”
Jack only kept staring at the gallery.
“Yes, I think you have,” Janice answered for him. “She’s different than the others, whether you want to admit that or not. You like her, and I don’t mean that lightly. You really like her.”
Jack was now even more annoyed, but he was being careful not to let it show. Doing so would only confirm the woman’s absurd notions. “Don’t get yourself too excited, Janice. She’s just another girl.”
Janice gazed down her nose at him. “Hardly.”
Jack stifled another reaction, although unconsciously he did clear his throat.
“Does Portia know what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Do you and Gabrielle intend to tell her?”
“Sooner or later.”
“Well when, a
fter the wedding bells?”
“Who the hell said anything about me marrying her?” Jack retorted, then realizing his blunder, tried to pull himself back. It was already too late, however, if Janice’s suddenly suspicious glower was any indication.
“If you’re going to insist on behaving this way, then the least you could do is be honest and let Portia know. If she found out some other way, she’d be…” She trailed off.
“She’d be what?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know. Matters such as this have a way of bringing out the worst in a person—even in someone as harmless as Portia.”
“When the time comes, I think I’ll be able to handle anything she wants to throw at me.”
Janice reared a bit. “Oh... Oh, I see. This affair is intentional. You actually want to hurt Portia.”
He held her gaze for a moment, and was about to speak when he saw Janice’s eyes flick away. She then began strolling toward the dresser, her eyes trained on the painting perched on top.
“What is this?” she said with a degree of wonder. She picked the painting up and gazed at it in amazement. “Portia? Is this… Portia?”
“More or less,” Jack said.
“Did you have this made?”
“No. Portia gave it to me herself.”
“Well, who painted it?”
“She did. At least that’s what she claims.”
“It’s lovely. I had no idea she was an artist.”
“I’m not sure anyone did.”
“But… it’s so strange. I can’t imagine why she would want to portray herself like this, so dark and seductive. It’s completely out of character for her.”
“Maybe she wasn’t always the saint you assume her to be.” He rose from the bed, made his way to Janice’s side, and looked at the painting along with her. “She did it when she was eighteen.”
“That long ago? Why in the world would she want you to have it?”
“She said she wanted me to have something to remember her by.”
“She’s not over you?” Janice asked. But Jack didn’t seem to hear the question. He had reached out and was letting his fingers glide along the woman’s face. Noticing this, Janice added, “Or is it the other way around.” Still, he did not hear her.
“Her name is Rose,” Jack said as if touched by some kind of awe.
The Glimpsing Page 5