“Portia told you that?”
He moved his hand away. “No. Rose told me that herself.”
Janice looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean last night, in a dream,” Jack said. “She said her name was Rose.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Only, it didn’t’ feel like a dream; it was very strange. I saw her lying right there on the floor.” He motioned with his hand toward the base of the bed. “I picked her up, put her in bed, and when I turned the light on, there she was, looking just the way you see her here: dark eyes, dark hair, red dress and all. I thought Portia had dyed her hair, changed her eyes, and broke into my house as some sort of gag. I didn’t even realize I was dreaming until later on, after Rose and I had been talking a while.”
“You mean you had a lucid dream?”
He looked at her. “What’s that?”
“It’s like waking up inside a dream that’s still going on. You know you’re dreaming, while you’re dreaming.”
“That’s exactly what it was.”
“Some people try to make themselves dream lucidly, feeling that if they know they’re dreaming they can take control of it. Can you imagine it? Being able to turn a nightmare into some more pleasant, or fly, or even make things appear out of thin air? Of course, I’ve never heard of it working. Still, it’s fascinating the way the mind can pluck something from the real world, in your case the woman in this painting, and make an entire story out of it.” She moved off to the dresser and carefully placed the painting back on top.
“Yes well, nothing about it seemed made up to me. It wasn’t hazy or ethereal in any way. In fact, all Rose kept trying to do was convince me that it was actually happening, that all of it was real.”
Janice had resumed dusting the photographs in the gallery. “Oh? And how was she trying to do that?”
“By getting me to drink wine.”
“Wine. That’s novel. What was that supposed to prove?”
“She thought my tasting it would prove I wasn’t dreaming.”
“And did you?”
“What, taste it?”
“Yes.”
Jack shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Janice’s dusting slowed. She then turned and looked over her shoulder. “You did?”
“Yes, why?.”
“You do know that’s impossible, don’t you. Your senses don’t work in a dream. You can’t taste, smell, even feel pain.”
“Well apparently that’s not true because I’m pretty sure I tasted something. Strangest part was when she slapped me. It was so hard she could have dislodged a tooth.”
“And did you feel that too?”
“Oh,” Jack said, raising his eyebrows, “there’s no question about that.”
Janice peered at him, studying his face for a moment. She made her way to him, put a hand to his chin, and nudged it left. There, on his cheek, was what appeared to be the pinkish imprint of a woman’s hand. She frowned, stupefied. “What in heaven’s name went on in here last night, Jack?”
“Nothing,” Jack said uncertainly.
“Something. There are marks on your face.”
Jack went to the mirror, looked up, and turned his head to the side. Seeing them, he ran his hand over his cheek, marveling.
Noticing the wine glass, Janice had made her way to the wet bar. She picked it up and sniffed inside, immediately catching the odor of wine. “Is this the glass you drank from in your dream?”
Jack stared at it. “Yes, I guess so.”
Janice grimaced.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
She hesitated, seemed about to speak, then hesitated again.
“What is it?” Jack repeated agitatedly.
“Nothing. It’s just that… well, I’m not so sure you were dreaming last night.”
“Then… what was I doing?”
“Glimpsing.”
“What?”
“Glimpsing, Jack.”
“What’s… glimpsing?”
“It’s momentarily seeing the world that surrounds our own.”
“What world?”
“The invisible one. The one we’re not normally permitted to see.”
Jack was shaking his head. “What are you saying, that I saw a ghost?”
“Not exactly. There are different forms of glimpsing, seeing a ghost or some other strange phenomenon is just one of them.”
“Then what kind of glimpsing was I doing?”
“The worst kind. The kind where you not only see an entity, you physically interact with it.”
“What do you mean physically interact?”
“I mean you can touch the entity.” She paused. “And more disturbingly, the entity can touch you back.”
Jack turned his head sideways at her. “That’s what you think was going on in here last night: that I was being visited by some damned entity?”
“Yes.”
“I don't believe that.”
“What you believe means nothing. Look at your face. Something very strange happened here last night.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Janice. I’m sure there's a logical explanation for all of this.”
“Like?”
“Like… I don't know. Maybe Gabrielle did it.”
“Did the two of you have a fight before you went to sleep?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Then obviously she had nothing to do with the marks on your face.”
“Maybe she did it accidentally, in her sleep.”
“She struck you hard enough to leave a mark and yet you didn't wake up from it? I seriously doubt that, Jack.”
He looked up into the mirror, studying the pinkish bruise again. “Why would I be glimpsing?” he asked sullenly.
"That's a very good question. Glimpsing is an extremely rare phenomenon. A person could live several lifetimes and never once have it happen to them.”
“Then why is it happening to me?”
“Because someone wants it to happen?”
Jack looked at her, puzzled. “Who?”
“Portia, of course.”
“Portia? Why would she want me to glimpse?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because she knows, Jack.”
"You mean about me and Gabrielle?”
“Yes.”
“She doesn't know," Jack said plainly.
"How can you be so sure?”
"Because I saw her. Late last night she came here. She wasn't angry or bitter about anything. In fact, she gave me the painting as a gift for my birthday. Does that sound like something she’d do if she knew I was having an affair with their best friend?"
"Jack, did it ever cross your mind that maybe Portia wanted you to have that painting."
"For what?"
"Because she knows it will cause you to glimpse.”
Jack glanced at the painting. “That? You think that’s what’s causing all of this?”
“Possibly. I think Portia brought it to you because she knew it would bring Rose out.”
Jack chuckled. “And what exactly is Rose supposed to do, kill me?”
"If Portia brought her here because she knows about you and Gabrielle, then you may have much more than that to fear.”
Jack gazed at Janice wordlessly for some time. Finally he said: "How do you know about glimpsing? You've had one yourself?"
"Me? No, never. As I told you, it’s extremely rare.”
“Then how do you know it even exists.”
“I was told about it in great detail by a woman I knew some time ago. Her name was Angela. She was very special."
"Special how? She had a glimpse."
"No, Angela didn't just have a glimpse.” She paused. “Angela glimpsed all the time."
Jack only stared.
"I know this is all very hard to believe. I had trouble believing it myself, at first. Angela had always been prone to seeing things. Everyone, including myself, just passed them off as wild hallucinations.
But in the course of time, I came to realize that she wasn’t hallucinating at all. The things she was seeing were real.”
"Where did you meet this… Angela?"
Janice seemed to falter. She remained silent.
“Where did you meet her?” Jack repeated, his suspicion rising.
“At Bedford,” Janice finally admitted.
“The mental institution?”
“Yes. I know how it sounds, Jack.”
“You couldn’t possibly,” Jack said with an air of amused disbelief. “This glimpsing business you’ve been telling me came from some lunatic?”
“She wasn’t a lunatic,” Janice insisted. “She was gifted.”
“She was crazy, Janice!”
“She was Portia’s mother, Jack!”
Jack’s face took on amazement. “Portia’s mother?”
“Yes. It’s very likely that she learned—”
“No more of this,” Jack said, interrupting her.
“Jack I—”
“No—more,” he repeated sternly. “I’ve heard enough fairy tales for one day.”
Janice grew silent.
He calmly walked to the dresser, retrieved the painting, and brought it back to Janice. “Now would you please do me a favor and find somewhere to hang this up.”
Janice started to protest, but Jack held the painting out to her. “Please.”
Janice gave a capitulating sigh, then took the painting.
He made his way to the end table and picked up the phone. Before dialing, he looked over his shoulder at Janice. “Don’t be afraid to take something down if you have to.” He then dialed Gabrielle’s cell and placed the phone to his ear. It rang several times before she answered.
“Yes.”
Already, Jack could detect tension in her voice. She sounded as if she were ready to end the conversation before it even began. “Where are you?”
“Home. Where else would I be?”
“What? When did you leave?”
There was a short pause. “Why are you calling me, Jack?”
“Why am I calling you? Why do you think I’m calling you? I’m trying to figure out where you went.”
Another pause, then Gabrielle spoke harshly. “Don’t play games with me, Jack.”
Janice was standing in the periphery, holding the painting up to the gallery.
“The last thing I’m in the mood for is games,” Jack said. “I want to know why you left.”
“You know full well why I left!”
“What’s gotten in to you?”
“Get the hell out.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you told me last night: get the hell out. Remember now?”
“No, I don’t,” Jack said, stifling his temper. “I’m afraid you’ll have to refresh my memory.”
“Okay. If you insist on taking me through it all again. You said it was over. That we were over. You shoved me, then told me to get my things and leave.”
Janice glanced over her shoulder, and when she saw that Jack was thoroughly engaged in conversation, she slyly removed one of Gabrielle’s images and replaced it with the painting of Rose.
“I never did those things to you,” Jack said.
Gabrielle began to weep. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You were right last night. It is over.”
“No it’s not,” Jack said as if commanding it not to be true. “We just need to talk.”
“I’m finished talking, Jack.”
“Meet me at Magnolia’s in one hour.”
“I will not! I told you, Jack. I can’t do this anymore.”
“One hour, Gabrielle. I’ll explain everything.”
Gabrielle said nothing.
“Gabrielle?”
Silence.
“Gabrielle!”
More silence. And then a soft click.
Jack looked at the receiver, then laid it back in its holder.
Janice was gazing at him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Jack did not respond immediately. He merely stood there, his head bowed slightly, baffled. “Gabrielle… she says I threw her out last night.”
“Did you?”
“No. Of course not. But… it’s funny.”
“What?”
“Rose, the first thing she told me… was that I’d sent Gabrielle home.”
Janice turned and peered at the painting. “You see, Jack.”
He looked at her dumbly.
“It’s beginning.”
The room fell silent. Jack brought his eyes up to Rose’s form. Somewhere, deep within the quiet of the bedroom, he thought he heard a distant sound. It was Rose. She was laughing playfully.
CHAPTER 7 – DREAD
She knew she should not have come, but she did so anyway. Because she had to know.
Gabrielle Saltair pushed the door open and stepped out onto the hot pavement of the restaurant patio. She moved slowly, absent of everything around her, with a timidity that suggested she wanted to turn around and go back home. A great part of her did.
From the moment she’d decided to come to this place, a dark sense of dread had filled the air. She tried to pass it off as nothing more than the blustery winds of guilt, the same winds that had blown so constantly over the last two months, but it was clearly much more. It was as if coming here would mark the beginning of some strange and unalterable journey, one that would ultimately result in a truly terrible event. And yet she came anyway, brushing aside those tremulous fears, because she simply had to know.
The patio was sizeable, with enough tables for perhaps one hundred guests. Each was set with a white tablecloth, a neat arrangement of silverware, and cream napkins. The chairs were a light wicker. A short white brick wall topped with an elegant black gate sealed the area from the street outside. The morning’s blistering sun, which sat like a white-hot pupil in a sea of blue, bathed the area in hard golden light.
Gabrielle proceeded forward in a dreamy haze, not noticing the relatively small number of patrons occupying the patio enclosure. There was an elderly couple seemingly lost in unspeaking silence as they worked their meal; a well-dressed man consumed in his copy of the Wall Street Journal; and a pair of twenty-something lovebirds who, every few minutes, had been leaning forward to kiss one another.
Gabrielle blithely wandered to the farthest part of the patio. She turned, facing the restaurant, and then took a seat beneath the massive tree there. Looking out over the patio, she felt like she had just awakened from a dream.
She’d been so engrossed in thought that she could only loosely remember how she’d gotten here: hazy bits and pieces of the drive, a mental snapshot of herself passing through the restaurant’s main doors, the already seemingly distant memory of stepping onto the patio. Now she realized something else: the people on the patio had stopped what they were doing to stare at her.
Gabrielle believed at first that they had recognized her as the actress from a movie they’d seen (she was still trying to get used to such adoration by fans). But when they failed to wave or even smile, she became confused. They looked at her with faces that suggested something of disbelief. She wondered if they weren’t really looking at her at all but a squirrel or a chipmunk performing some eye-catching feat near the tree. She turned to see if that was the case, but was met only by the wrinkled girth of the tree’s trunk, a row of neatly trimmed bushes, and pavement covered with scores of flower petals that had fallen from the tree. By the time she had turned back, everyone had resumed what they were doing. Strange.
She sat there doing her best to clear her mind, to soak up the solemnity of the patio, but as had been the case all morning, her thoughts turned back to the previous night. She simply couldn’t stop wondering how something that had been going so right could have turned out so wrong.
She had arrived at Jack’s birthday party long after it had started. The gala was being held in Jack’s large and lavish banq
uet room. It was filled with plenty of men in stylish tuxedos, women in elegant dresses, and of course, plenty of champagne bottles. She’d entered, blending in to the crowd and chatting contentedly.
Her late arrival had been intentional. Jack had insisted on keeping their relationship secret and doing so was part of the façade. She was careful to cross paths with him only once, as he stood in the company of Dan Piper and James Dell—the former his lawyer, the latter his doctor. She had kept it brief, thanking him for getting her the contract with Clique, a new magazine whose cover she was to appear on, and for such a wonderful party. She had then moved on to mingle with the other guests.
It did bother her how good Jack seemed to be at this part of things, this pretending they hadn’t a fleeting care for one another. Several times she had tried to catch his eye from across the room. He never looked up. Not even once. In fact, the only time he did acknowledge her was during the opening of his gifts. He had offered a slight bow, a polite thank you, and that was it. No subtle glance. No veiled comments. Nothing. He was quite the play-actor, this Jack Parke. Or maybe she was missing it. Maybe he wasn’t acting. Because maybe he really didn’t care at all.
Toward the end of the party, however, after the liquor had no doubt dampened his discipline, the façade did fall, if only for a brief, but very welcomed moment. Jack had abruptly hustled her away from a conversation, leaving two gentlemen sorely disappointed. He hurried her down a long hall and into a side room. There, he thanked her again for his gift, a Rolex watch and, as if in release of some pent up urge, began to kiss her passionately. He then did something very unexpected. He spent the next several minutes holding her—just holding her. No kissing, no groping, just a long and very warm embrace. As he did so, he whispered that he wanted her to spend the night with him—something he’d never asked her to do before. She had agreed. He kissed her once more and just as they were heading back to the party, they thought they heard the sound of a woman’s heels disappearing down the hallway. Someone, it seemed, had been watching them.
They’d both immediately gone to the doorway and peered down the hall, but whoever it was had already vanished. Not knowing who it was had left her worried. All evening she had been dying for Jack to pay attention to her, but his doing so might have exposed their relationship. If that news somehow made its way back to Portia… No, Gabrielle had told herself. She was overreacting. The chances of that were next to nothing.
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