A Season of Miracles

by Heather Graham

  Robert wanted to tell Douglas that there had been too many accidents for it to be nothing. A fence down, a truck careening, a saddle slipping. Palm fronds and coconuts.

  But Douglas looked so ill.

  “Yeah, Douglas. Nothing. That’s why you dragged me into this.”

  He left the office, shaking his head. Just outside the door, he paused, suddenly thinking about the tarot card reader. Shelley Millet, also known as Madame Zena. The cat was poisoned, she had told him. How do you know? he had asked.

  Milo.

  Milo Anderson.

  Maybe it was time to see the tarot card reader again.

  He started purposefully toward his own office. Jillian was in danger. And he couldn’t allow her to be alone anymore.

  * * *

  Jillian walked into Connie’s office and set a package on her desk. Connie sat back, looking up at her.

  Jillian grinned. “These are the best ‘little artist’ sets I’ve ever seen. I think the girls will love them.”

  “Oh, Jillian, thanks so much,” Connie said. She shook her head. “You do too much for them. For me. For us.”

  “Connie, it’s not that big a deal. I thought they could bring them for Thanksgiving. You’re still coming up, right, for the long weekend? It’s not a working holiday. And your mom’s invited, too, of course.”

  Connie looked a little pale. “I don’t know if we’re coming this year. Joe is a little…well, he feels as if we’ve both been working too much, and…”

  “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t come, but it’s up to the two of you. We’re friends. You’re like part of the family. But I would never want you to jeopardize your marriage.”

  “Thanks. We’ll see. Hey, how about going out with Joe and me for a few drinks tonight? The girls are going to be at a sleepover.”

  “Maybe. I was going to work late. All this out-of-town stuff has been great, but I’m behind, and it seems like Thanksgiving is just around the corner.”

  “Come on…”

  Jillian laughed. “Like a friend of mine says, we’ll see.”

  She left the package in Connie’s office and walked to Robert’s. She tapped on the door, then waited for his “Come in.”

  Then she entered and perched on the corner of his desk. “I’m sane,” she told him.

  He leaned back, watching her, blue eyes sharp. He’d seemed exceptionally tense since they returned from Florida. Today he seemed like stretched wire. Restless, even though he was sitting behind his desk without moving.

  “I never doubted your sanity. But what did he say?”

  She had been to see Dr. Alfred Ghaminetti, one of the best psychoanalysts in the tristate area. He hadn’t impressed her much. He’d done the right things, she supposed. He’d gotten her to talk. He’d suggested that she look at her own life, at the changes she was experiencing, for the source of her disturbing dream. Perhaps she was just feeling guilty now that she was entering into a new relationship.

  “He suggested that maybe I thought I was burning in hell, something like that.”

  His brows shot up. “You’re burning in hell because of me?”

  She smiled. “Well, certainly not because of anyone else.”

  He set down the pen with which he’d been making notes on a marketing presentation, folded his hands on the desk and looked at her seriously. “Then, you should marry me.”

  The breath rushed from her lungs. She shook her head, sure he wasn’t serious. “I should marry you because I have nightmares?”

  He looked down, smiling. “No. You should marry me because I can’t live without you. Because you won’t stay with me more than a night or two when we’re here in New York, and because you won’t let me stay with you in Douglas’s house. God knows, Eileen has spent five years just living with poor Gary, but—”

  “Douglas is old. He raised me. I have to stay with him,” she said.

  He lifted his hands. “So marry me.”

  A smile curved her lips. “You’re not the type of man to live in my grandfather’s house.”

  “For now, I would,” he said seriously. “I’d never give up my apartment, but if you’re worried about Douglas and you’re not ready to leave him to Henry’s care, marry me and I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to move out.”

  “You’re serious,” she said.

  “Incredibly serious.”

  “Henry is almost as old as Grandfather, you know.”

  “So is Amelia—and she stands guard at his office door every day with the strength of a pit bull,” Robert reminded her.

  She laughed. “Amelia is only in her late sixties. Henry, on the other hand, is almost seventy-five. She hesitated still, feeling a strange tremor shoot down her spine. “You know, there’s been speculation that you were brought in just for me, because I was grandfather’s favorite but not a male heir.”

  “And do you live your life by rumor?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So marry me.”

  “Everyone would make a big deal of it.”

  “We won’t tell them.”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “We won’t tell anyone. We’ll do the deed on the sly and share it only with Douglas so you’ll allow me into the hallowed precincts of your home. And later, when the dreams have stopped, when Douglas is well, when things are moving along smoothly, we’ll have a big party and everyone will be pleased.”

  “But, Robert, why now? Why the urgency?”

  “Because I love you,” he said simply. “And I want to be with you.”

  “Are you really so sure that you know me?” she whispered.

  “I know that I love you,” he said stubbornly. “And can you tell me that you don’t love me, that you don’t want to be with me?”

  “Of course, I love you,” she whispered. “It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. How could she explain what she didn’t understand herself?

  “I’m…afraid.”

  “Of what? Of me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Don’t you see? I want to be there for you. I will be there for you. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there for you.”

  He was so passionate, so intense. She couldn’t help but believe him. “Well, I…maybe. We’ll see, all right?”

  “We’ll see soon,” he told her firmly.

  * * *

  That night they went to Hennessey’s with Connie and Joe. Mary MacRae, looking healthy, some of the signs of premature aging beginning to dim, was their waitress. She greeted them like old friends, and to Robert’s dismay, she told Jillian the whole story about how she had been begging on the street, supporting her drug habit, until Robert’s kindness had turned her life around.

  “Here, here,” Joe said, after hearing the story. “You’re a hero. Right out of a storybook. He can probably break through brick walls with a single hand.”

  Joe had imbibed a few beers. He had been a family friend forever, and Robert knew that he was fairly comfortable with all his employers—except for him. Everyone, of course, had been wary about Robert coming into the business. They had all felt that their jobs were being threatened. No one seemed to believe that he hadn’t been brought in to clean house.

  Joe had seemed mildly hostile all night. Robert wondered if it had something to do with the angry words he and Daniel had exchanged in Douglas’s office that afternoon. Joe was Daniel’s right-hand man, as well as Jillian’s friend, so if Daniel had said anything to him about the incident, he could be feeling testy.

  “I wasn’t a hero. I gave her money because of Douglas,” he told Joe, watching him.

  “Douglas?”

  “Uh-huh. I never gave handouts on the street, until I saw Douglas do it.”

  “Hell, half the time,” Joe said, “if you give a junkie money, you’re just helping to support their habit.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Excuse me just a minute.”

  Mary MacRae was at the bar. He walked up t
o her. “Mary, can you give Shelley Millet, the tarot card reader, a call for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell her I’m willing to listen.” He hesitated, thinking that maybe he was the one who needed the psychoanalyst, not Jillian. “Tell her that my mind is open, that I’ve had a few visits from Milo myself.”

  “Visits from Milo?”

  “Yes, just say that, will you, please?”

  He returned to the table. Everyone, including Jillian, looked curious about his conversation with the waitress.

  He had no intention of enlightening them. “Ready to order some food?” he asked.

  “Sure. Food,” Joe said.

  The rest of the evening was pleasant enough. Joe seemed to lighten up the more he drank that night. He’d started out at odds with his own wife, but by the time they left, Connie was laughing and they were cuddling together as they walked down the street to hail a cab at the corner.

  Robert looked at Jillian. “Marry me,” he said softly.

  “Now?” she asked, laughing as if he were joking.

  “Yes, it’s already November. You’re the Christmas fanatic, and I want a wife for Christmas. By then, I want to let everyone know. I want to chop down a tree with you. Have dinner in that house as if I belong.”

  “I meant, are you asking me to marry you right now?”

  “When better?” he asked softly.

  “But it’s late Friday night.”

  “You can call Henry and tell him you’re not coming home. We’ll fly to Vegas. Done deal.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Yes, totally. Let’s do it.”

  She inhaled sharply, staring at him. “All right.”

  * * *

  Jillian looked at the ring on her finger, unable to believe what she had just done. They’d stopped by the house, where Douglas had been poring over the final edits of the commercial with Henry; Amelia had joined him at the house for dinner, and they were all discussing the new campaign.

  In her room, she packed a small bag, feeling odd about leaving with a man, with all of them there, yet not ready to tell them what she was doing.

  When she went back downstairs, Robert had joined the conversation as if he’d known them all forever. She noticed that Douglas seemed much better. The doctor had assured them earlier that his flu hadn’t taken a turn toward pneumonia.

  Jillian had kissed him goodbye, a little uneasy at the way Amelia seemed to be watching with a strange hostility. Then they headed straight for the airport, jumping on a flight to Vegas, where they had chosen the first, tackiest, most awful place for a wedding, but it hadn’t mattered. One day they would do it all again in the church in Connecticut, and everyone would be there.

  But for now…

  She had done it. Married Robert. And standing in the chapel, under the awful fluorescent light in the middle of the night, she had looked up at him, at the strong lines of his face, at the tenderness in the cobalt darkness of his eyes, and she’d been glad.

  They spent the entire night making love, sipping champagne and ordering room service. They had chosen an absolutely tasteless and ostentatious hotel room, as well, complete with heart-shaped bed and heart-shaped Jacuzzi. None of it had mattered. They’d had each other. They barely slept for twenty-four hours. They laughed, talked, ate and made love again.

  “Do you feel like you know me yet?” he asked her at one point.

  She sobered, telling him, “I feel like I’ve known you forever. Honestly. As if…” “What?”

  “I don’t know. As if I loved you before. As if I loved you more than life itself.”

  To her surprise, he drew away from her and walked to the window. It was daytime. He was splendid, standing there, tall, bronzed, muscles honed to perfection. Great buns, as Connie would have said. Jillian did love him. From head to toe, she adored him. There were just these strange moments when…

  She was still afraid.

  “The tarot card reader told me that we had lived before,” he said, looking out on the dazzling sunlight.

  “And you believed her?” she asked skeptically. “You don’t believe in anything!”

  He turned back to her then, coming to her, kneeling down before her passionately. “I believe in you,” he told her.

  She touched the top of his head, ran her fingers through his hair, moved by his words. “And I believe in you,” she said.

  He smiled, and then she was in his arms, the two of them passionately entwined once again.

  Later, near noon on Sunday, he suggested that they get ready early for their flight back. He had a surprise for her.

  It turned out to be a small store that specialized in Christmas items year ’round. She was delighted, buying up half the place, telling him which things would go best at the house in Connecticut and what would look great in the artist’s cabin in the woods. He was glad.

  When they returned to the city, Jillian checked with Henry about her grandfather’s health. He’d been doing great all weekend; Amelia had stayed, and they’d decided not to go into the office that week but head straight out to Connecticut to stay until the Thanksgiving holiday. Douglas’s doctor wanted him to take it easy, and in Connecticut he could get his rest and still stay in touch with the office easily, thanks to modern technology—and Amelia, who could have kept the office running from the North Pole.

  They stayed at his apartment that night. And at two a.m., Jillian woke up screaming.

  He held her, told her over and over again that there was no fire.

  “I could feel it,” she cried, sobbing. “I could feel it on my flesh.”

  “I won’t let fire come anywhere near you,” he vowed.

  “You’re a liar!” she suddenly accused him. “You promise me everything, but when the time comes, you won’t be there.”

  “Jillian…”

  But she jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door against him.

  * * *

  Monday, at the office, Daniel Llewellyn walked in on Robert, tense, still angry. “Every bit of rat poison is out of here, Marston. Every bit.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Daniel suddenly slammed a fist down on the desk. “She’s my family, damn it! I would never hurt her. None of us would.” The passion in his voice seemed real.

  “I hope not,” Robert said. “I hope not.”

  * * *

  Jillian entered Connie’s cubicle. “What are your lunch plans?”

  Connie looked up. “Plans? A sandwich, I guess.”

  “We’re going to school.”

  “What?”

  “I just talked to the bartender at Hennessey’s. Madame Zena’s real name is Shelley Millet. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “She taught school with Milo.”

  “Really?” Connie said, surprised. “So,” she said carefully, “we’re going to go see Madame Zena—at school?”

  Jillian nodded. “But don’t say anything. To anyone.”

  “No, of course not.”

  * * *

  Jillian got absolutely nothing done that morning. She was upset by what she had done to Robert, she was also determined to find out what was going on. And she was afraid that if he knew what she was up to, he would stop her. She knew that Connie thought she was crazy—Madame Zena had screamed at her, calling her a witch, upsetting her. But she needed to see her.

  And she had to stop waking up screaming. She knew it upset Robert. She loved Robert with her whole heart. She didn’t intend to lose him.

  She was so nervous that someone in the office would try to stop her from leaving that she whisked Connie out of the building just after eleven-thirty. They shopped, had coffee, then went to the school early, waiting outside Shelley’s classroom.

  Shelley Millet, minus her costume, was tall, regal, and striking. Jillian expected her to be surprised and possibly also annoyed to see them.

  She wasn’t surprised, and if she was annoyed she didn’t show it. “Mis
s Millet, I’m really sorry to track you down this way,” Jillian began, but Shelley Millet put up a hand to stop her.

  “It’s all right. I expected you before now, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can we take you for a drink, a snack, coffee—anything?”

  “There’s a place just down the street. Quiet, private.”

  A few minutes later they were sharing a booth at the small luncheonette. It wasn’t dark, there were no beads, and there was nothing spooky about the place whatsoever. Jillian haltingly explained about meeting Robert on Halloween, right after “Madame Zena” had called her a witch, and how she had passed out. Now she was having constant dreams of fire and waking up, screaming.

  Shelley Millet stirred her coffee, nodding. “You are in grave danger.”

  “She is?” Connie said. “But how…”

  “It was in the cards. And Milo told me.”

  Looking into the woman’s copper eyes, Jillian shivered. “Milo?” she whispered. “My—Robert has mentioned talking to Milo, too. In his dreams.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Mr. Marston is on his way here now.”

  Jillian stiffened. “I came to you for help. Why would Robert come to you? He doesn’t believe in anything out of the ordinary.”

  “How many people do?” Shelley Millet asked her, smiling. “Oh, when we’re children, we believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus…in fact, we’re willing to believe in a lot when we’re young. Then we grow up and we forget to have faith. Even in God. If we can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.”

  “Well…” Jillian moistened her lips, wishing for a moment that she hadn’t brought Connie. “Madame Zena—Shelley, I love him. Robert, I mean. It was very quick, ridiculously quick. I’m sure there are people who could say that I can’t really know how I feel, but I do. I love him. I want to be with him, I want to be happy, make him happy, but every once in a while, suddenly, out of the blue, I’m afraid. Terrified. And he thinks someone in my family is out to hurt me.”

  “No!” Connie gasped. “Why?”

  “Because of Llewellyn Enterprises. Because of my grandfather.”

  “Jillian, I think that someone is out to hurt you, and so does Milo,” Shelley said.