Something wasn’t right. It was just after 11:00pm in Rio, which meant that it was an hour earlier in New York City. The possibility that Jack had already gone to bed seemed unlikely. And even if he had, he was a notoriously light sleeper. The ringing of his cell no doubt would have awakened him.
She waited another twenty minutes before trying him again. Still no answer. Perhaps he’d misplaced his phone?
She tried his landline. No luck. She became anxious.
Before placing her on his Gulfstream, Jack had specifically told her to call him after she had landed and got settled in. That, in and of itself, was an unusual request. She had traveled abroad on four separate occasions since signing with his agency: twice to Sydney, once to London, and once to Estonia, and never had he shown enough concern to ask her to call him after landing. So for him to ask her to do so, only to make himself unavailable when she actually did, was odd.
She recalled the way he’d behaved just before placing her on the plane. He’d kissed her with such fervor, such reckless passion, that she actually felt herself swoon in his arms. And he had done so—perhaps foolishly—in full view everyone: flight attendants, pilots, baggers. He was openly risking the possibility that some idiot from the paparazzi might take pictures and expose their affair. She didn’t like that, but she did see the incident as yet another small sign, another glimmer of hope that Jack Parke was changing, that the world-famous playboy might actually be falling in love with her. Now, however, she was viewing that wondrous moment in a different light. Maybe he’d been feeling the same thing she was feeling, like something horrible was going to happen. Maybe the reason he’d kissed her so passionately, was because he felt like he was never going to see her again.
As she redialed his number, she suddenly had a very unsettling thought: perhaps it wasn’t sleep or a misplaced cell that was keeping her from reaching him. Maybe it was because he was having another episode, another instance of the strange sleepwalking that had so badly affected him the night before. Maybe at this very moment, Jack was wandering around his bedroom, talking to and interacting with things that really weren’t there. Perhaps he was seeing that woman again, the one in the red dress. And maybe, guided by her, he was doing something that could put him in harm’s way.
She was probably overreacting, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d read tales of sleepwalkers wandering out of their houses’ and into busy intersections; or straying too close to a window, accidentally tripping, and falling violently to their deaths. Jack’s sleepwalking seemed severe enough for him to face that same kind of peril. She could still recall the cold look he’d brandished before kicking her out. It was as if something had taken possession of him, as if his soul had been momentarily bound and another force was at the wheel of his mind, controlling his actions. Maybe it had returned. Maybe it had control of him again. Maybe it was steering him toward danger, whatever it was.
Seeking to calm her fraying nerves, she reached for the wineglass. In doing so, she accidentally bumped its stem with her index finger, causing it to wobble in several wild, looping turns. She tried to catch it, but it fell, banging off the headboard’s second tier and splattering its contents all over the bedspread. She leaned forward to retrieve the glass, but stopped cold when she saw the pattern the wine had created on the bed. It was identical, in every way, to the one she’d seen on the tablecloth at Magnolia’s.
She stood there frozen, surveying the stain in gawking disbelief. She then leaned forward and let her fingers graze along its length, trying to convince herself that its existence was merely coincidental. But just as she was pulling her hand away, as if evoked by the stain itself, she felt an eerie air settle on the room.
Impulsively, she peered up. She saw nothing but the room’s vivid opulence, and yet nothing now looked the same. A dark light seemed to radiate from everything. She thought she could even detect the slow, dreary movement of a shadow, but each time she cut her eyes in its direction, it seemed to have already passed on.
She grimaced, realizing what it was: the dread, that same dark and foreboding feeling that had blackened the air while she waited for Jack at Magnolia’s.
She brought her gaze back to the bed… and felt a wave of ice-cold horror shriek through her body. The wine splatter had now become shockingly red, so bright and so wet that it looked like the vulgar spray of a severed jugular.
Gabrielle shuddered horribly, so vexed that she unconsciously began backing away, trying to get as far away from the stain as possible. As she did, the darkness seemed to thicken around her, filling the room like a black gas. A thin sweat broke out on her skin. She covered her belly with both hands, continuing her retreat, vainly attempting to suppress the cankerous fear growing there. Something was coming. She could feel it. Something unthinkable.
She backed into a table lamp, knocking it over. Its bulb popped brightly as it hit the floor, startling her badly. Turning, she departed the bedroom.
With one hand still held to her stomach, which was now succumbing to nausea, the other using the wall to help her along, she made her way to the bathroom. There she ran a sinkful of water, cupped in both hands, and repeatedly splashed it to her face. She placed both hands on the sink and took several deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves.
She couldn’t.
She raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror. Tiny beads of water freckled her face. “What’s happening to me?” she whispered aloud.
She pulled a towel, dried her face, and hastily departed the bathroom. She exited the suite, waiting for the elevator, and descended to the first floor. She rushed through the lobby, then exited out into the hot, saline air of the Rio de Janeiro night.
CHAPTER 14 – THE MAN ON THE HILL
Gabrielle walked briskly, passing small groups of locals and a number of latent tourists, not having even the faintest idea where she might be going. She kept her head down, passing through a large intersection and then turning down a street called Bolivar. She walked absently for another ten minutes until by chance she came upon the Le Ble Noir, an elegant but sparsely populated restaurant some four blocks south of the Marriot. She entered and took a seat in a secluded corner. A waiter shortly appeared, asking in Portuguese if she would like something to drink. “Anything,” she replied without looking up at him.
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything.”
The waiter did not question her further, sensing she was upset. He left a menu and departed.
Gabrielle rested both elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. It occurred to her that Jack wasn’t the only one being accosted by a series of strange events. He was having his dreams of Rose, while lately she’d been pursued by a sense of dread so dark and overwhelming that it was beginning to break her down. It was probably silly to think so, but she couldn’t help wondering if all this was happening because of their affair. Perhaps God was punishing them.
She gazed through the front of the restaurant, which was essentially a two-story sectioned panel of gently tinted glass. Outside, she could see several cars jammed at an intersection, a few passing pedestrians, and a small line of shops directly across the street. In the upper left quadrant of the glass, she saw the shadowy bulk of one of the city’s other great mountains, Corcovado Hill. And deep in the distance, sitting high atop its summit, she could make out Rio de Janeiro’s most revered monument: the Christ the Redeemer statue.
It was a world-famous depiction of a majestic Jesus with his arms stiffly outstretched, symbolizing both his crucifixion and the offer of a loving embrace. The shrine was almost twelve stories high and very well lit, but from Gabrielle’s remote vantage point, it looked like a small gray man standing on a dark and distant hill.
The waiter returned placing a glass of wine before her. He politely asked if she was ready to order, but Gabrielle’s eyes had fixed on the man on the hill, so much so that his offer went unheard. He asked once more and, taking note of her preoccupation, calmly departed.
&nb
sp; As she gazed at the great religious icon, she had expected to feel condemnation, perhaps even wrath. Although never overtly religious, she did know enough to understand that God neither approved of her sleeping with Jack, the affair she was having with him, or her betrayal of Portia. Yet she did not feel even the slightest trace of judgment from the man on the hill. Instead, she felt something that she’d almost forgotten was even real. Peace.
She was suddenly moved by a strange and urgent desire to reach out and touch the man on the hill, which she actually attempted to do, her right hand passing slowly into the air. Several people noticed this, including the waiter, who, looking over his shoulder, had stopped his conversation with the manager about the possibility of his patron being Gabrielle Saltair, the Brazilian actress. Locked in a near hypnotic trance, she could almost envision the man on the hill coming to life, descending the great summit, and entering the restaurant, where He’d forgive her numerous sins. But that vision didn’t seem likely. The smart girl, the good girl, was far beyond saving. She’d simply drifted too far.
All of this had started just six months ago. Portia had met her at a small diner, ecstatic about some important news. She was dating someone new. His name was Jack Parke. But far from joyful, Gabrielle’s first reaction to the news was utter mortification. Jack Parke’s reputation as an unrepentant playboy preceded him, as scores of women from all over the world could quickly—and some proudly—testify. His interest in Portia was undoubtedly only sexual, and if there was even a hint of truth to the rumors of the Jack Parke mystique, he’d either wind up taking Portia’s virginity, or breaking her heart. Gabrielle’s greatest fear was that he’d do both.
She couldn’t help but be protective of Portia. The poor thing just waded into relationships with all the unthinking recklessness of a child. That was to be expected, she supposed, because of Portia’s highly unusual dating history, which, to put it bluntly, was virtually non-existent. She’d had only one serious relationship in the entirety of her life, and it had caused her so much pain that she’d become almost fearful of men, especially of falling in love with them. She had never told Gabrielle very much about that relationship, except to say that the man’s name had been Collin Freely, that she was eighteen when it happened, and that it changed her life in ways no one could ever know.
It wasn’t until she was twenty-eight, a full decade after her relationship with Collin, that she decided to try to find love once more. She immediately retired from modeling, a move that rocked the entire fashion industry, if not the world. She was at the peak of her career at the time, and had amassed more money than any other model in the history of the profession. Her very face had come to symbolize wholesomeness and purity. Her virginity was a well-publicized fact that, according to several polls, made her the number one role model among young girls. But despite the outcry, Portia made it clear that her time had come. She too was now ready to find that one illusive thing that all women so desperately needed. Love.
Unfortunately, that was not what she found.
The coming year brought a steady series of unsuccessful relationships, most of which were spectacularly brief, lasting anywhere from a few days to under a month. Her suitors’ interest quickly waned when they discovered, first, that she really was a virgin (most had assumed this peculiarity to merely be a self-marketing ploy), and second, that she was serious about remaining so until marriage.
As if those ordeals weren’t disappointing enough, things went from bad to worse when Thomas McCain entered her life. He was co-owner of the Smithson-McCain law firm, and the man many believed was next in line for the office of district attorney.
Nothing about their pairing seemed right. Thomas was tall and thin—bony was perhaps a more accurate description—with leathery skin that, when the light struck him just right, made him look like a wax museum mannequin. He wasn’t considered attractive at all and would shortly turn forty-five, making him almost fifteen years Portia’s senior. Yet, none of that mattered to Portia. She was determined to find love wherever and with whomever it presented itself. She’d seen enough pretty faces to realize that true beauty resided on the inside, not the outside. Unfortunately, she soon found that Thomas wasn’t beautiful in either place.
A few months into their relationship, Portia had gone to his firm, intending to surprise him for lunch. She had opened his office door only to find a newly hired intern leaning across Thomas’ desk, the two engaged in a rather tumultuous kiss. Thomas’ long time secretary, Sheila Foster, had been told that he didn’t want to be bothered for the next several hours, but when Portia had arrived, finally fed up with the man’s womanizing ways, she told her to go right in. Sheila was subsequently fired but Portia, grateful for what the woman had done, made certain that she would never want for anything again.
Still, the discovery left Portia devastated. She’d become generally despondent, and had even stopped eating. Gabrielle had dropped in often, trying to cheer her, but she seemed inconsolable at the time. It took her almost six months to fully recover. Much shorter than the ten years it taken her to get over Collin Freely, Portia had joked when she was finally feeling better. Mere weeks after that, while at a dinner party, she’d be introduced to Jack Parke.
During the first few weeks of Portia and Jack’s relationship, Gabrielle watched him with hawkish intensity. She didn’t trust him, so much so that she had made Portia promise to call her each night with a report of Jack’s doings. Her belief that he was merely out to take advantage of Portia (she could just see the headlines: Millionaire Playboy Beds Virginal Supermodel) was so ingrained in her thinking that she had gone so far as to warn him. It happened at a nightclub that the three of them were attending. Portia had slipped off to the bathroom, leaving Jack and herself alone at the bar. Brazenly, she had reminded Jack that Portia was her best friend, and that if he was intending to disrespect her in any way, he might want to think again. Jack’s only response was to flash a mocking grin—one that Gabrielle would have eagerly slapped from his face had Portia not returned so quickly.
In the weeks following, however, Portia reported very little that Gabrielle found concerning. In fact, most of what she told her was glowingly positive. Jack was charming, gentlemanly, and very polite. He had a good sense of humor—when he chose to use it—and most importantly, showed the utmost respect for Portia’s chastity. He allowed her to establish the bounds of their intimacy—which was strictly limited to what she playfully described as a “kissing session”—and never once did he attempt to cross them.
Those facts softened Gabrielle’s suspicions considerably. Before she knew what happened, the three of them were working towards a solid friendship. They had gone so far as to double-date on several occasions, and even when Gabrielle did not have a date, Jack seemed perfectly comfortable with her tagging along. They talked about everything, laughed about even more, and, two months in, had all become genuinely fond of one another.
It wasn’t long before Portia brought up the idea of someday marrying Jack. She never let Jack know this of course, but had mentioned it to Gabrielle in private. Portia was beginning to see him as a very special man, and that made Gabrielle happy. Her good friend deserved as much. But there was one small problem. Gabrielle had begun to think Jack was special as well.
She wasn’t sure when or how her attraction to him began. She felt terrible about it, often trying to explain it away as merely coming too close to the gravitational field of a playboy. Most of them enjoyed a heightened level of magnetism, even when they weren’t trying, and that likely was most of what she was feeling. Some of it, at least unconsciously, might also have to do with the fact that Jack had recently offered her a modeling contract with his agency. He’d gone so far as to admit that he now saw a beauty in her that had escaped his notice at first (Imagine that, she had thought in amazement, Jack Parke, a man who regularly sees scores of the world’s most desirable women, thinks I’m beautiful).
Despite this secret attraction, she was intent on doing wha
t any good girl should, what she would have expected Portia to do if the tables were turned: lock those desires away and throw away the key. But for the first time in her life, the good girl was about to violate one of her most cherished axioms.
She had never believed in fatal attractions, but the force drawing her to Jack was so compelling, so insistent that, at times, she felt powerless to stop it. At a party, she’d once caught herself peering at him from across a large and very crowded ballroom. She’d fallen knee-deep into a daydream, and by the time she’d snapped herself out of it, she was appalled to find that he’d noticed her looking, and was now gazing back as well. She’d blushed sharply, and immediately scurried off, losing herself in the crowd. Ten minutes later, as she mingled with two other women, she’d glanced off briefly, only to find Jack’s eyes still trained on her. She’d looked away, feigning indifference, but could not shake the feeling that she had given herself away. From that moment forward, she promised herself that she’d never let something like that happen again. But that was a promise she wouldn’t be able to keep.
It was in the third month of Jack and Portia’s relationship that things began to sour. Portia had mentioned that their kissing sessions were becoming increasingly intense. He was having difficulty controlling himself, and although he apologized frequently, his hands continually roamed. Sometimes, Portia admitted, she actually let them. Not very far, of course, but probably much farther than she should have.
On any other occasion, Gabrielle would have seen Jack’s aggression as proof positive that he’d been up to something all along, that his supposed respect for Portia’s chastity was actually part of a slow seduction, a patiently executed stratagem to erode Portia’s sexual convictions and get her in bed.
But that was not what she thought. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was not Jack who was trying to seduce Portia. It was Portia who was trying to seduce Jack.
The Glimpsing Page 12