by J. D. Robb
She could barely speak for the smile on her face, but as a tear of joy dribbled out the corner of her eye, she said, “Oh, Jeremy. I do still love you. And you have way more than a shot.”
Something brushed against her leg, and she looked down.
“Hey!” Jeremy pulled her gently to the side and confronted the kid who was scooping up her phone from the ground.
The boy flushed and held it out to him. “I was just picking it up for her.”
“Hang on.” Jeremy took Macy’s phone back and handed the boy his own. “Take this one instead. I don’t want it anymore.”
“Cool!” The kid grinned and took off.
Macy laughed. “That was not necessary.”
“Trust me, I have my reasons.” He gazed at her warmly. “I never want to lose you again, Macy.”
She shook her head. “You never really lost me before. I was yours all along.” She smiled. “And I always will be.”
A TRUE HEART
MARY KAY MCCOMAS
For my granddaughter and copilot on this one, Allyson Elizabeth McComas
Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.
—JAMES A. BALDWIN
Our differences are only skin deep, but our sames go down to the bone.
—MARGE SIMPSON
CHAPTER ONE
“I am so late!” Elise muttered, bursting through the doors of Candy’s Costumes on the north end of State Street. Catching sight of her brother’s wife, Molly, standing before a mannequin dressed as Bo Peep, she added, “And I’m so sorry! I had the hardest time finding this place. I thought it would be bigger.”
Looking around, she could see that the space required to contain Candy’s colossal collection of costumes was in the length of the building, not the narrow forty-foot width of the storefront. It was cavernous, with an overstuffed appearance that made her feel a little claustrophobic.
“That’s okay.” Molly’s attention was on Bo Peep. “I’ve been standing here trying to decide if I want to go cutesy, creepy or cheap flashy floozy.”
Elise mulled it over for a moment. She did adore her big brother, but . . .
“What about Roger? If you go as Bo Peep, will he go as a sheep or a big bad wolf?” They looked at each other, squinting in thought, and came to the same conclusion—Bo’s problem was forgetfulness, not a wolf. There was love in her laughter. “So, Roger as a sheep. I might reconsider and go just to see that.”
“Reconsider anyway. I want you to come.” Molly started picking through a row of neatly hung storybook costumes. “Look at these costumes! They’re fantastic. I can’t wait to see what everyone else wears. Liz thinks you can tell a lot about a person by the sort of costume they pick; more than you can if they’re wearing regular street clothes.”
Elise was considering a mermaid’s tail for Molly and Roger as a starfish, or maybe a seahorse, when something occurred to her and stirred suspicion. She glanced over her shoulder. “I wonder what Liz’s cousin Bill will come as—do they have a nice-guy-with-a-great-personality costume, do you think?”
Molly flinched, but didn’t turn away from the fantasy costumes she was browsing through. “Going by this place, I’m guessing they do.”
“Ah.” She chuckled, good-natured. “The truth reveals itself: Cousin Bill needs a date.”
“And so do you.”
“Not if I’m not going.”
“Elise.”
“Molly.”
“Liz is counting on you.”
“To be Bill’s date?” This time Elise gave her a slightly longer glance over her shoulder . . . with an appalled expression.
“No . . . Well, yes . . . but not entirely.” She took a deep breath. “She’s hired the nice little dance band that played at Patty Morrison’s wedding—she got lucky there, because they’re super busy. But since so many people will be dressed as characters of some sort, she thought you might be willing to play piano between their sets.”
“Me? Why? How does she even know I could?”
“We’ve talked about it. You know, about your lessons and how much the boys love it when you play ‘Happy Birthday’ for them. And it wouldn’t be anything huge. A few short snippets of show tunes and funny little character jingles like . . . Oh! ‘Muppet Babies, we make our dreams come true. Muppet Babies, we’ll do the same for you,’” she sang quietly. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “No, I hate that one. Reruns, every afternoon at one thirty—sticks in your head until you want to blow it off. But maybe ‘Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you?’” She chuckled. “Or Batman!—everyone knows the lyrics to that one: ‘Nana, nana, nana, nana.’” Suddenly, her right fist shot into the air. “‘Thunder, thunder, Thundercats, ho!’ Best ever. Super motivational for little boys under the age of six.” She went back to the fantasy fashions. “I don’t know what I’d do without it. Maybe ‘Tomorrow’ . . . there’s bound to be at least one Annie there. The Pink Panther . . .”
Elise’s expression was frozen in horror.
Piano lessons were her special treat for sticking with her day job—revenue officer for the IRS. Someone had to do it. The lessons were an indulgence, not a new career choice, and not for public consumption. She was doing pretty well, and proud of it, but she could barely play for family—she’d practiced ‘Happy Birthday’ so often she could also play it backward.
“Short snippets of show tunes? Have you lost your mind?”
Molly finally turned to face her. “I only said I’d bring it up and see what happens—and I can see it isn’t happening. I pretty much assumed it wouldn’t, but Liz . . . well, you know how she gets carried away sometimes.”
Elise barely knew Liz. Liz was Molly’s friend. She’d only agreed to go to the party because Molly had insisted and she’d had a date—at the time.
Now she didn’t—so she wasn’t.
Oh sure, there were worse things than a blind date. And there were more embarrassing situations than tagging along with your brother and his wife to a party—like having your credit card declined during a rush hour at the Piggly Wiggly or mistaking your boss’s daughter for his son or producing a freight train fart in church—but honestly, who wouldn’t avoid all those things given the choice?
A wall of masks caught her eye. Hundreds of masks—from plain domino masks like the ones Green Lantern and the Lone Ranger wear to intricate and beautiful Venetian Carnival masks that looked like works of art. Gaudy half-face Mardi Gras masks to full-face rubber head masks of Freddy Krueger . . . and others more horrifying. Feathers and rhinestones. Glitter and lace. Plastic, ceramic and papier-mâché. Some were universal, others more specific . . .
She reached high to retrieve one with a six-inch nose. “This would be a good one for Jeremy.”
Molly turned, confused. But only for a moment.
“Oh, right. Pinocchio. The liar.” Her voice had an edge to it. She crossed the aisle to the action/adventure outfits. “You’re talking about the Jeremy we haven’t seen or heard from in almost three years? The Jeremy you married—the one who wanted to give you the world and then lied and cheated on you before he finally left you up to your eyeballs in debt? The Jeremy who could, at this very moment, be burning in hell for all we know, and yet he still manages to destroy every chance you get at a happy, healthy relationship? That Jeremy?” She yanked a dress from the crush of clothes and snapped, “Princess Leia?”
Elise bobbed her head. “With Luke, Han or Darth Vader . . . or a Stormtrooper?”
They both looked at an endcap display of the fallen Jedi knight and shuddered at the thought of how effectively Roger’s voice would resonate from inside Vader’s mask.
“Not Darth,” they agreed.
Elise shrugged; there were better costumes. Not one that would involve the grizzly hockey mask of Jason Voorhees—which she quickly diverted her gaze from—but maybe somet
hing more wistful, like Erik’s mask from The Phantom of the Opera.
“Jeremy’s gone.” Molly’s voice went gentle and concerned. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I know that.” What about a Catwoman or V mask?
“Do you? Or do you compare every man who crosses your path to him?”
So what if she did? Who wouldn’t? People aren’t graded and tagged like cattle at auction. It was more like buying baskets from a snake charmer—who knows what’s inside?
Her laugh was soft and quick. “Luckily, I limit the number of men who cross my path, or I wouldn’t have time to do anything but compare them all.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Her fingers grazed a female Noh theater mask—beautiful in its flawless simplicity and mystery; steeped in history and tradition. She once read that they were an optical illusion; that the neutral expression of the woman changed to fear or sadness by angling the head down and to joy or happiness by lifting the chin up toward the light. She wanted to see it for herself, and lifted the mask off the hook, looking for a mirror.
“I don’t understand,” Molly said. “Max is really nice. Roger and I both like him . . . a lot . . . We liked John, too. He was charming. Not so much the one before Max—Dillon? But we told you that; we were honest with you, weren’t we? I’m telling you: Max is a sweetie. He’s really smart and he’s funny. And I think he’s serious. He likes you. You can see it when he looks at you.” She glanced over as her sister-in-law stepped up to a strategically located mirror among the masks. “Why do you keep pushing these guys away?”
Elise covered her face with the mask.
“It’s safe.” Darth Vader’s empty, echoing voice came from behind them. Elise screamed and dropped the mask; it shattered on the floor as she turned. He stepped lightly from his perch—she screamed again, jumped and pressed closer to . . . Molly wasn’t there.
“Ah, God! Where’s . . . What’s happening? Where’s Molly? Who are you?” Frantic, she managed to scan the area without actually looking away. “What have you done with Molly? Don’t hurt her . . . or me. Please. What’s going on?”
“Sorry.” It wasn’t just the voice changer in the mask that made his apology sound flat and hollow. “Startling you was going to happen no matter when I did it—so knowing the answer to her question seemed as good a time as any to introduce myself.”
“What?”
“Which what? What is the answer to her question? What are the answers to the five questions you just asked? Or what is my name?”
“What?”
“I said, which what? What—”
“Who are you?”
“Call me Martin.” He did an about-face, stepped over the broken Noh mask and started walking briskly away, black cape billowing. “You smash it, you trash it. I’m not cleaning that up.”
“What? Wait a second.” Jumping the shards and overriding every instinct telling her it was a bad idea to follow him anywhere, she did so. He didn’t seem intent, or even interested, in doing her harm . . . plus, there was no one else around. “Where’s Molly? What have you done with her?” She wondered if the helmet was soundproof; she spoke louder. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Anger was inching up on her fear. “Is that it, then? That’s all I’m getting? Your name?”
“That’s a lot.” He took a sharp right turn on the far end of the military uniforms. Rounding blindly behind him she came up short—Zorro turned to face her. “But I will give you so much more, querida mea, if you let me.”
“Wha—” She took a step back, gaping at the flowing black Spanish cape, the flat-brimmed sombrero cordobes and the black cloth Domino mask that covered the top of his head from eye level up . . . from his sparkling and seductive gold-green eyes up. “Am I dead?”
“No, bella damisela.”
“Stroke?”
His grin was roguish . . . and dazzling, set in a strong dimpled chin. Any other day she might have said it was sexy; that his soft Latin accent was dreamy—but clearly it wasn’t any other day.
And truth be told, the pencil-thin mustache was distracting. How hard was it to shave and shape something like that? How long did it take him? And the obvious question: Why bother? Come to think of it, didn’t Don Diego de la Vega have an identical ’stache? Who wouldn’t notice that? A peculiarity like that on the face of both men? No wonder . . .
See? Distracting.
“So, it’s a brain tumor, then—a big one.” Elise sighed, downcast. “Inoperable?”
“Physically, you are perfectly well.” With a wicked twinkle in his eyes, he added, “And perfectly safe. Molly, too.”
“Where is she?”
“Where you left her.”
“Where’s that? Take me there.” He sidled by in front of her, then swept off in the opposite direction. “No. Wait. You said physically.” He slowed to a stop. “I’m well and safe physically. So mentally . . . I’m screwed. Insane. I’m hallucinating.”
“No.” He turned to her, took a few steps back in her direction. She found it comforting—he wasn’t trying to elude her. “No, you are not hallucinating—not exactly. Candy’s Costumes is, let us say, an unconventional establishment.” He studied her. “You are more astute than most, I will say that about you. That is surprising, considering your lack of self-awareness. And you are not screaming and weeping—that is another good thing, querida mea.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, you know.”
He turned again and slowly ambled off—slowly, as if he was inviting her to follow.
“Of course,” he said. “But you have no idea how hard it is to get tearstains out of these costumes. And also, the only apparel suitable for someone with puffy eyes and a red nose are clown suits or the two-piece Rudolf, which requires a second person, and I am sick of being the ass-end of a reindeer.”
A smile twitched across her lips—she couldn’t help it.
He veered left into a relatively short collection of animal costumes—moose mask, beaver head, alligator face . . . fur. Where was he going? What was he looking for? She stretched her spine, searching for a way out—the dividers were too high. And each end of the aisle opened to another wall of costumes. Who knew there could be so many?
“And clowns, as you well know, are inquietante . . . disturbing. Very disturbing.” Yes, but how did he know she thought so? “Truly, I am worn to the bone by the time the crying stops. They are exhausting—men and women alike. And then we must waste more time on the inevitable confusion and reluctance that quite naturally accompanies a journey such as this—all of which you seem to be handling well, mi belleza.”
“Thanks?” He was bound to pass a door eventually, right? “So, where are we going on this journey?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Back to Molly.”
“Possibly. Eventually.”
“No, I mean: back to Molly. If this journey is up to me that’s where I want to go. Back to Molly.”
From somewhere deep in the bowels of Candy’s Costumes came a muffled growling noise—caged beast or ancient furnace, it was hard to tell. A disturbing, worrisome sound no matter its source, though Zorro seemed unconcerned.
“Then let us begin. We must hurry.” He swerved left again at the end of the rack. She followed.
CHAPTER TWO
“Ah!” Elise came face-to-face with a giant Cat in the Hat—very authentic looking and much taller than Zorro. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes! And, I guess, you must know what this means. We mix your dreams and my schemes, with some baffling talk. But before you can run, you must first learn to walk.”
“Rhymes? Seriously?”
“For as long as it takes, and with lots of mistakes.”
“That’s not makeup . . . or a mask.”
He did a couple of facial contortions and
then waggled his brows—it looked pretty real to her. “It’s a magical face, like this magical place.”
“Are you . . .” She couldn’t make herself say it, and so took another track. “Are you still Martin? Can . . . can I still call you Martin?”
“Or Bill or Will or Jon or Don; if you want me to I’ll try them all on. But if one is the same as all the rest, Martin’s the one that I like the best.”
“Is that part of the deal, then? Do you have to keep changing?”
“I do. So do you. It’s just part of life. We do it to handle the pain and the strife.” Her stare was vapid. He chuckled. “Come on, get in gear. You’ve nothing to fear. Together we’ll figure your way out of here.”
“God, that’s annoying.”
“I know and it’s slow. It’s a tough way to learn. Just follow directions; it’s your turn to turn.”
“My turn to turn . . . into that? I don’t think so.”
“I’m already taken, there’s just one of me. First feel it—then think it, and soon you will see, it’s all up to you as to who you will be.”
She squinted at him, thoughtful. It was startling to realize how clearly she was thinking inside her not-damaged, not-insane, not-hallucinating but clearly not-normal state of mind.
“So, I decide on what I’m feeling and then I think about it—and I’ll change. Like you do.” She looked him up and down. “What on earth were you thinking?”
“Of you, that’s who. To get your attention and to add some dimension. What you feel is the deal; you must know it is real.”
“If this really works will you change into something that doesn’t rhyme or talk in riddles?”