by Shayne Ford
She pauses as I watch her, breathless.
“Keep that in mind for the next time when you run into him. All right?”
I nod as she signals that our session is over.
“One more thing...” I say as I push out of my seat. “Why do I feel the need to kill him in my dream?”
“It’s not him you want to kill. It’s the deep love you have for him. You feel the weight of it, and it scares you. Because it’s big. Bigger than you, and you can’t control it. That is your winning lottery ticket, Tess. Instead of being afraid, you need to learn how to claim it.”
She rises as well.
“Say hello to Maggie and Viola.”
Five minutes later, I walk out of the medical building and look up at the sky.
I feel like a different person.
16
TESS
A week later
Laughter fills my house.
George, Maggie, Viola, and Danny sit around the dining table while Anne and I fill cups with scoops of ice cream in the kitchen.
“Are you sure?” she asks under her breath.
“Either that or I’m losing my mind again,” I say, half-jokingly.
She gives me a pointed look, and for a moment I’m tempted to give her the full scoop.
To tell her that getting a glimpse of someone looking like him stirred me up and had me frazzled the entire day. And also the fact that my phone was misplaced and the photo I received made no sense, and in the end, I had to call the security company that installed the cameras in my house just to make sure that no one trespassed my home.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was him,” I answer in a quiet voice before I lick the spoon clean. “Although the media says he’s been out of the country for the past few weeks.”
“Vacationing?”
I shake my head.
“It looks more like an exile of sorts if you ask me.”
“Where exactly is he?” she asks, sifting sprinkles on the chocolate ice cream.
“South America, Europe. Asia. He’s been spotted in different places on different continents.”
“The media is still very much fascinated with him,” she mutters.
“Clearly,” I say, setting small spoons on the plates.
We take the ice cream cups to the table and take a seat, joining everybody else in tasting the delicious dessert.
It’s almost midnight, when they say goodbye to me and leave, going to their homes.
I set Luna in her bed in my office and take a shower upstairs. It’s one o’clock in the morning when I walk out of the bathroom, clad in a plush robe. I pat my hair dry for a few moments before I light up a few candles in the bedroom and open the windows.
The night breeze slips in, carrying the smell of roses.
“Hey, baby. What are you doing there?” I ask as I take the stairs down to the foyer.
Standing next to the main door, Luna glances at me over her shoulder, wagging her tail. She releases a small whimper, her eyes sparkling even more as I stroll closer.
“What are you doing at the door?” I ask again with a quiet voice, suddenly wrestling with suspicion.
She swivels her head and tips her face up as if she looks at someone standing behind the door.
My hair bristles.
I wish I had my phone with me to check the live feed from around the house.
I tiptoe toward the door, her gaze on me as I bring my index finger to my lips. Despite my warning, she releases another soft whimper of excitement as if she’s anxious to meet whoever stands behind the door.
The fact that I haven’t heard the bell ring or a knock on the door makes me shiver.
I push up on my toes and peer through the peephole.
There’s no one out there, and yet my heart pounds madly.
I tip my gaze down.
Luna no longer wags her tail. She sits on her butt and looks at me attentively.
“Even if he was here, he’s gone now, isn’t he?” I mutter.
Her tail sweeps the floor as she softly wags it.
“That’s a yes...”
My fingers slide down on the door when I hear the sound.
Melodious, clinking and crying, the beautiful sound of the wind chimes rolls in my ears, reviving memories I thought were long forgotten.
“Do you hear them?” I whisper, entranced by the hypnotic sound. “They always sway when he passes by,” I say with a mellow voice as if I tell her a story.
She lies down, her snout on her paws, her eyes trained on me.
Slowly, I unlock the door, my blood dashing through my veins at a different speed.
A beautiful summer evening drapes over the street, a scent of flowers brushing my senses as the sound of the wind chimes still drifts through the air.
Street lights glow along the road, most homes sunk in darkness. I spot a car parked close to the entrance of the park. The lights and engine are turned off, and no one seems to be nearby.
I hear the sound again. Sweet, and melodious like a lullaby. I flick my head in the opposite direction. A gust of wind brushes my face.
It could be the house on the corner. I can’t tell, but they may hang from the balustrade. I don’t remember seeing anyone living in there for a very long time. The owner passed away a couple of years back.
The wind plays with them again, their soft sound making me smile. A voice in my head prompts me to look down. My eyes widen in surprise.
A big beautiful box, filled with red camellias lies at my feet.
Grinning, I pick them up and spin around walking back into my house. Moments later, I arrange them in a vase and set them on my desk.
Slowly, I lower in my chair, my eyes trained on them. I bring them closer and smell them.
They smell like him. Like his cologne.
Grinning, I pick up the phone, pull up the home security application and take a look at the last half an hour of live feed.
My pulse races as I go over the timeline.
I get a glimpse of me walking out and finding the bouquet at the top of the stairs but no one else.
Intrigued, I go back over the minutes, studying the moment when Luna was waiting by the door.
No surprise there. There’s no one by the door. The image shakes for a split second, the flowers magically showing up at the top of the stairs.
Before I can think of anything else, I begin laughing.
I can’t believe him.
He hacked into my home security system.
And I was right.
He came back into my house.
The flowers start to get delivered again. I imagine that they are intended to come with an invisible message, a request. An apology perhaps?
They get delivered around noon three times a week, beautifully wrapped, always dropped off by a messenger.
Fresh and colorful, they smell like him, which makes me suspect that he picks them up first before he hands them to the messenger.
He’s definitely back in the country.
I run another online search on him, and dig deeper this time, looking for some helpful information. The news pours over me, talking about the big shift that has taken place in his life.
These past weeks, he sold the house and his wife’s company, consolidating his business into an enterprise focused mainly on investments.
He made the news again when he created a charitable foundation named after his late wife and poured her wealth into it. To date, it’s the most prominent, private charity that has ever been founded.
He stepped down as the chairman of Rockford Enterprises and took some time off. Seemingly, traveling around the world.
No information is available on where he currently resides.
“Oh, my God,” exclaims Anne as she enters my office, holding a cup of coffee in her hand. “They are beautiful,” she says, her gaze flying to the flowers.
She places the mug on the table and slowly lowers herself on the couch.
I swivel in my chair.
; “They are, aren’t they?” I ask as I lift Luna off the floor and place her on my lap.
“The man still loves you,” says Viola who saunters into my office as well, a big smile on her face.
She takes a seat next to Anna and slides her drink onto the table.
“I’m not sure about love,” I say, no longer smiling.
A moment of silence ticks by.
“Why would he send you flowers after all this time?” asks Viola.
“He’s not like other men,” I say, tilting my chin down for a moment. “There’s always a reason for everything he does. But it’s not always the obvious reason.”
“He can’t possibly have a hidden motive,” says Anna.
Viola nods in agreement with her.
“Maybe you’re right. Who knows?” I murmur.
“Guess who I ran into last Friday?”
Anna and I look at Viola.
“Stephan Leon,” she says.
“Really?” I mutter.
“Mmm-hmm. He has an art exhibition downtown again,” she adds.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
She nods.
“Yup. He got released from jail last month.”
“I, um...”
My lips begin to quiver.
“I didn’t, um... I didn’t know. I haven’t followed the trial. What happened in the end?” I ask, my fingers dancing nervously on Luna’s coat.
“Found not guilty by reason of insanity,” she says.
“Interesting,” I mutter.
“He had a good lawyer,” she adds. “One of the Marlow partners.”
My eyes flick up.
“Do you know him?” she asks, prompted by the expression sliding onto my face.
“Um... No, I don’t. But that’s good,” I say and pause.
She takes a sip of her drink.
“Yes, it is. What worked for him, believe it or not, was the fact that they couldn’t find the incriminating evidence that he was talking about. That video recording. His lawyer made the case that he must’ve been delusional, and therefore imagined everything. In that state of mind, he couldn’t have possibly known what he was actually doing. The fact that he was the one who called 911 and acted so erratically when the police and the ambulance arrived that they needed to medicate him, weighed heavily in the jury’s decision.”
Slowly, I lean back against the chair.
“How does he look?”
“Better then he was looking while he was on trial. He’s still pale and a bit lost, but from what I’ve seen his ex-girlfriend is back with him. Another interesting twist of events is the fact that he got quite a bit of money after Jacqueline’s death.”
“How come?” asks Anna.
I swing my gaze to Viola again.
“For one, he made a lot of money with the interviews, and then he got a book deal, the advance alone in six figures. But most of the money came from selling his lover’s nudes at Christie’s auction. A private collector paid tens of millions of dollars to acquire the entire collection.”
“I’ll be damned,” Anna mutters.
“My thoughts exactly,” says Viola.
The blood draws from my face.
“Are you okay?” asks Anna.
“Yeah.”
“You look pale.”
“I think I got a stomach bug,” I say, lying.
“Have you had the chance to talk to your mysterious man since everything happened?”
I shake my head, unable to unclench my jaw and speak.
“And yet, he sends you flowers,” my sister mutters.
“As I said, he does a lot of things, but they’re not always what they seem to be,” I say with a strained voice.
We spend a few moments in silence before we change the topic and I finally let out a quiet sigh.
The second picture sent by RT to my phone features a small patch of blue sky and glimmering turquoise water peeking through the white walls of the houses tucked into each other on a cliff. The balconies are filled with flowers, their stairs descending to the sea.
By now, I have a pretty good idea what RT stands for.
In the next picture, I get a glimpse of a few small tables dressed in white linens, sitting on the sidewalk. One close-up shows a small basket filled with slices of bread and a plate of salad.
In the next photograph, I spot the restaurant’s name. I search it online and quickly learn that the restaurant is located on a Greek Island.
I click on the link that takes me to a gallery of pictures.
A blue sky vaults above the azure water lapping slowly at the shore.
The next snapshots fill my sight with a mesmerizing sunset, luscious vegetation, immaculate footpaths, blossoming flowers, stairs, and cobblestone streets, terraces with even more tables waiting for the customers.
A sound alert notifies me that another picture has arrived.
I pull it open.
A small bouquet of red camellias, held in a man’s hand fill the frame. My eyes drift from the red, soft petals to the muscular forearm and chiseled knuckles. The skin is soft and sun-kissed, veins curling around his arm like hungry vines.
And then the last picture arrives. The sunset fills most of the frame, the snapshot offering a glimpse of a book sitting on the table, next to a glass of wine.
I’m suddenly jealous of him.
I wish I were there to experience everything.
I study the picture from different angles, trying to read the title of the book.
Finding Love by R. Jones.
I swiftly check an online bookstore and look it up. I read the blurb.
It narrates the love story between Lara and Samuel. A tale of war and enduring love set in the tumultuous years of the Second World War.
I click on it and buy it.
I wait a few more moments, hoping to receive more pictures, but nothing else arrives.
Sighing, I put the phone down.
The evening catches me reading on the sofa, with my dog curled up next to me, the windows open, the sound and smell of rapping rain unfurling close to me.
The book is enthralling, the story speaking about the enduring love that withstands the harshest conditions. This kind of love is not pretty or rosy, and it doesn’t come easily. It’s not clean, and it’s not pure, and it rips the protagonists’ hearts before it mends them and links them forever.
The book also tells a story of hope and second chances.
“Second chances...” I mutter to myself, the way I used to do once.
I run my fingers over the tablet as if I want to absorb the meaning of the written words through my fingertips.
My head sinks back into the pillow as I slowly close my eyes and let the images of the past spin in my head.
Beautiful, clear snapshots with him and me, his hand stretched out to me, connecting with mine, his arm curling around my waist as he slowly twirls with me as if we dance on a tune that only we can hear.
His words compliment my dress–– the full white skirt with a red floral print on it, while his eyes soak in the summer light, and I get lost in them and his embrace, feeling his warmth and tenderness so close to me.
His lips touch mine, and we begin to kiss. The sensation feels so real I quickly get swept away.
And then... A noise coming from nowhere chases everything away.
Luna starts to bark. I flick my eyes open as we both leap off the coach and dash to the door. I shush her as I wrap the robe around me. She stops barking and sits by the door waiting for me to open it.
I peer through the peephole.
There’s no one.
I slide it open.
An envelope sits on the threshold. I pick it up while checking the street briefly. A messenger riding a bike dashes down the street.
I open the envelope and retrieve a folded map. It’s not a regular map. Artistically drawn, it has the looks of vintage paper with old fonts and cute icons, small arrows pointing to a location marked by a cross.
Next
to it, I find an airline ticket.
A smile creeps up my lips.
“What’s with him and midnight deliveries?” I mutter.
I close the door and shuffle my way across the hallway before I turn right and enter my office. The phone vibrates on the desk.
I pick it up and stare at the message.
RT: Nights are better for everything.
What...?
I can’t help myself and type back.
Me: Nicely done, Random Thoughts.
He sends back a smiling emoji.
I almost say something else before I pull my mouth shut and look around as if I just realized that I’m under surveillance. I’m certain that I am, but how can he hear me?
I look at the desk at first and check the surface before I dig into the drawers and my computer.