by Pamela Aares
A series of chimes rang out from inside the tent.
“It’s almost time for the unmasking,” he said. “Let’s go in. I’ve a keen interest in the auction that will follow.”
“I have to go.”
“But it’s ten minutes to midnight. At least stay for the unmasking.”
“I prefer my anonymity,” she said honestly.
“Oddly, I’m enjoying mine as well. We could go on an anonymous date. To the botanical gardens—they’re close by in Kenwood. We can let the plants do the talking.”
Another set of chimes rang out from the tent.
“At least give me your number so I can call you.”
“I don’t have a pen.”
“I do.” He pulled an expensive pen from his pocket.
“No paper,” she said, as if that would protect her. Oddly enough, she wanted to give him her number. But the thought of trying to write down the numbers chilled her blood.
“Who needs paper?” He rolled up the lace cuff of his costume and flattened his palm. Then he grinned. “Better yet…” He pulled out his phone, swiped at it and then tapped in a code. Then he held it out to her.
She waved her hand, signaling for him to type in the number.
Slowly she repeated the carefully memorized numbers. She was never certain if it was forty-seven or seventy-four, but she took a guess. She’d bought the disposable cellphone at the drugstore and intended to use it only in case of an emergency involving Tyler. Just repeating her own phone number was a sort of roulette, a daily game that was neither welcome nor pleasant.
The chimes sounded again.
“Five minutes. You sure you can’t stay?”
She was already surveying the shortest route to her car.
“No, but thank you. For the dance. The dances. For everything.”
At that, she turned and fled down the lighted path to the parking area. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved he didn’t follow. Maybe he was a gentleman, maybe he wasn’t. One thing was certain, he swam in waters she’d never belong in and through currents she’d never master.
If he called, she wouldn’t see him.
But she’d have her memories of the evening and that would be enough. It had to be.
Natasha braced her hands against the little counter that served as breakfast bar, dining table and desk in the room she and Tyler shared at Inspire. And she stared at the health insurance forms one more time. The words began to spin into the lacy web that within seconds would congeal into a black mass and slide down the page.
Disorientation.
That was what the social worker had called it when she’d tried to help Natasha just after Tyler was born. An automatic, involuntary response to confusion with symbols and words. The severity of her disorientation varied day by day, minute by minute. On a good day she could make out phrases, sometimes do simple math. On a bad day, nothing registered. On those days, she’d learned to be very clever at making sure no one would notice her struggle, that no one would guess about her disability. So they wouldn’t judge her. Or worse, pity her. Judgment she’d learned to handle, but pity?
She took a breath and tried to clear her mind. The more she stressed, the faster the symbols and words would scramble.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
With an inhale, she relaxed her forehead and tried to follow the path of her breath, tried to practice the exercise the trauma counselor had taught her that could sometimes calm her racing, warring thoughts.
But her thoughts wouldn’t calm.
Today wasn’t one of the good days, one of those days that normal people took for granted. A day when simple tasks like reading and writing would be easy.
She’d have to ask for help with the forms.
And she’d run off from the party the night before still wearing the man’s jacket. She’d have to find a way to return it.
Worse, she’d forgotten her cape. Her throat tightened as she visualized slinking back to the scene of the party to retrieve it.
But what nagged at her was that Tyler had gone off with a friend from school to play ball at a park two blocks from Inspire.
She unplugged the cheap cellphone from its charging cord.
She shouldn’t worry so much about Tyler. The neighborhood surrounding Inspire was safe. No gangs.
But maybe that was what mothers, real mothers, did—worried about the safety and happiness of their children. Had her mother worried over her in those brief five years they’d had together? Her foster parents sure couldn’t have cared less what she’d done or where she went off to. All they cared about were the checks that came in every month from social services.
She folded the velvet gown and mask. And then gathered up the man’s jacket. She held the soft wool to her face and inhaled. His scent, along with her memories of the evening, flooded her.
She recalled the lively energy of the party, the beautiful costumes and more beautiful people, the dances. The man.
A sigh escaped her as she folded the jacket and stacked it on top of the gown Mary had loaned her. It had been a wondrous, beautiful night. A night she would remember. And she’d best leave it at that. If the man called, she’d tell him she was too busy to go to a garden.
But he wouldn’t call. In the light of day, he probably felt as foolish as she did.
With a last glance out the window toward the park, she pocketed the phone, gathered up the costume bits and the insurance papers, and made her way to Mary’s office.
Saturday was a busy day at Inspire. On Saturdays there were classes and workshops. Soon she’d have to face faking her way through one of them, as every “guest” was required to take at least one class a week. Natasha dreaded it with all her heart.
A woman Natasha hadn’t yet met exited Mary’s office with a smile on her face. How could the woman be so darned cheery? They were living in a homeless shelter, for goodness’ sake. But then, maybe Natasha was the one who needed an attitude adjustment. The shelter was clean, comfortable and in a good location. And temporary, Natasha reminded herself of Mary’s very clear terms of residency.
Mary looked up from her desk as Natasha entered her tiny office. A calico cat curled near her keyboard opened its eyes, blinked at Natasha and then snuggled its nose back under a paw.
“And how did our countess fare at the ball?” Mary asked with a broad smile.
To her astonishment, Natasha found herself relating all the details of the evening, including the man’s invitation for a date.
“I’m afraid I left the cape at the party. I’m really sorry, I—”
“No need to fuss. I have to go that way this afternoon anyway. I’ll pick up the cape.” Mary unfolded the jacket and looked at the tag woven into it. “This jacket is from the same rental shop as the costume I rented. I can return it when I return the gown and mask.” Her lips quirked into a smile. “Now about this man you met—was he nice?”
“I guess so. I mean, yes, he was very nice. Foreign. With formal manners.”
“He sounds intriguing. Maybe you should consider taking him up on a date.”
“I’m not ready.”
Mary crossed her arms. “How long has it been since you went on a date?”
“A while.”
Mary waited.
“Okay, years,” Natasha admitted. “And my last experiment with dating was a disaster. They all have been. I don’t need a man in my life. Tyler and I do just fine as we are.”
Mary eased out from behind her desk.
“You’ll set yourself up for another disaster if you ignore the urge to relate. Human beings are meant to relate. You’ll never learn to trust again if you don’t flex that muscle—if you don’t try.” She flitted her hands through the air. “Thousands of helping hands are waiting to help you, Natasha, but you have to make an effort. To trust that there’s a compassionate force guiding you.”
A snort escaped Natasha. Then her cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry. I just don’t have a very positive outlook right now.”<
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“And that is something we at Inspire can help you with.” Mary tapped a finger to her own heart. “You’d be surprised at the power that comes from the deep places inside if you open to it, touch it, and let it be part of your daily life. You’re stronger than you think, Natasha.”
A tear rolled down Natasha’s cheek. She sucked in her breath to stifle its many companions waiting behind her eyes to flood out.
Mary handed her a tissue. “Want to tell me what else is going on?” She nodded toward the papers Natasha still held.
In the soft light of Mary’s small office, through a stream of long-dammed tears, Natasha admitted her dark secret.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Natasha implored after she’d spilled the story of her dyslexia. “Tyler doesn’t know. I think he suspects, but I wanted to wait until he was a bit older to tell him. I educated myself by listening to books on tape. Hundreds of them. And I sneaked into lectures at the community college while Tyler was an infant, before he started school. Once he started school, I went back to work. But I kept up with the books on tape.”
She paused and uncrossed her arms. She hadn’t been aware of the defensive stance and didn’t want to appear shaken.
“I can do the job in the garden of the Casa just fine. I can, I assure you.” She heard the pleading sound in her voice and tried for a confident tone. “But I need help with these insurance forms.”
“I have no doubts about your being able to do the job. For now, it’s a perfect fit. And don’t worry, I keep many secrets. But yours is one we can do something about. There’s a program at the local college—they’ve had great luck with adults with dyslexia. With your permission, I’ll check into it for you.”
“I’ve tried everything.” It wasn’t quite true. She’d given up after Tyler started school. Nothing had worked.
“This is a new approach. It can’t hurt to try.”
In the face of Mary’s enthusiasm, Natasha agreed to attend one session with the class instructor and to meet with a counselor. And as Mary helped her fill out the forms, hope swelled in her chest. But she knew better than to trust hope. It always let her down.
Her phone rang just as they finished the last page. Natasha grabbed it from her pocket. Something awful must have happened to Tyler. Her heart pounded as she answered the call.
Chapter Five
WHAT THE HELL HAD SHE BEEN THINKING? Natasha’s thoughts hammered hard the next morning as she walked the six blocks from Inspire to the Rock Wren Café. Petals from cherry blossoms, blown loose by a gentle breeze, swirled on the sidewalk and danced in the sunlight, but she barely registered the gorgeous April morning.
What had possessed her to say yes? To agree to meet Dumas—or whatever his name was—at a café? To go to a botanical garden God only knew where?
She ordered a black coffee and chose a seat outside in the dappled sunlight. The Rock Wren Café had darned fine coffee. A cup of coffee she could afford. Pastries, no. Not yet. But she’d eyed the croissants as she’d stood at the counter and wished for the day when her choices wouldn’t be so difficult.
She’d said no right off when he’d called. Very clearly. Told him she was busy for weeks.
He’d laughed and said that life required that we make space in our schedules for spring. Otherwise the powers that went to immense bother to conjure up such beauty would be vexed.
She’d had no answer to that.
And then he’d again asked her to go with him to the Asian Botanical Garden. A walk, he’d said. Just a walk.
And she heard herself say yes.
She sipped the coffee, and it burned a trail of heat down her throat. Each time a car pulled up in the parking spaces near the café, Natasha watched as doors opened and drivers stepped out.
What had he looked like? She hadn’t seen much of his face, but she’d recognize his eyes if he were close enough.
And she’d know his smile.
She’d seen his smile in her dreams. She hadn’t had the old dream last night—the dream where her mother insisted that number seventeen would lead to her destiny, the dream that lit a fuse of shame every time she awakened and remembered her foolish gamble. But the sensual, almost magical dream that had replaced it had shaken her to her core.
Her coffee cooled as she sat waiting. Twice she started to get up and leave. Both times she talked her fear down. What harm could there be in taking a walk in a public garden?
A silver sports car pulled up halfway down the block. The door opened. The driver stepped out and ran a hand through his hair.
Even though he wore mirrored sunglasses, she recognized his dark curly hair and broad shoulders. And his height. Not many men were six foot three or so. He ran his hand through his hair again. Maybe he was nervous too.
He looked down the street, saw her, then he smiled and raised a hand in a friendly salute.
Her hormones did a tap dance in her belly, tattooing their glee through her veins. She’d have to have a word with the rascals when she returned home.
He covered the distance between his car and the café in strong, confident strides. Maybe he wasn’t nervous after all. That thought made Natasha’s own nerves spike. No wonder teenagers melted down during their dating years; meeting up with another person was serious business. But this wasn’t a date. It was just a walk. In a botanical garden.
Right.
“Forgive me for being late. I was…” He appeared to be searching for a word. His Italian accent made him sound like someone out of a movie. She tipped her head to study him. So maybe she wasn’t the only one who sometimes couldn’t marshal words to her beck and call.
“I was detained,” he finally said and held out his hand. “Adrian.” He grinned. “The impostor musketeer formerly known as Dumas.”
A simple grin shouldn’t shoot heat straight to her belly, so of course it did. She was way out of practice in the realm that involved men. Heck, she’d never been in practice. She’d had relationships with exactly three guys. Well, Eddie didn’t count as a relationship, even though she’d had sex with him. Sex that she’d regretted five minutes after he’d slid off her with a menacing look in his eyes. Eddie had put her off men for years, planted fear when he’d planted his fists. And her two other failed experiences hadn’t done anything to heal those fears.
She battled back her maudlin memories and shook his hand.
He placed his other hand over hers. “Tasha.” His velvet-smooth voice could charm a cobra. “Is it Tasha?”
No. No. No. No. She was not feeling heat charge through her body just from the touch of his hands. She was not melting at a simple touch and the purr of a smooth voice.
“Yes.”
Her pulse hammered. And her mouth went dry. He wasn’t Eddie, and she’d be okay. Her pulse hammered faster. Anxiety ripped through her. She wouldn’t be okay. Maybe she should run. She hadn’t counted on being afraid. Maybe she should tell him she’d changed her mind. Maybe—
He released her hand and sat in the chair next to hers.
“I have eight sisters. You have nothing to fear from me. I’ve been trained well.”
Damn, he was perceptive. She hadn’t counted on that either. Or maybe her anxiety was closer to the surface than she’d hoped. Damn, maybe her hands were clammy. She drew them away and wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug. It was cool, the liquid long gone, and the ceramic had absorbed the temperature of the chilly spring day. But neither the mug nor the chill did anything to cool the heated charge storming her senses.
He removed his sunglasses and laid them on the table.
She looked into his eyes. They crinkled at the corners with his smile. Maybe a walk in a garden would be okay. He didn’t look like an aggressive man. But then, they often didn’t. Hadn’t she just heard a horror story from one of the other women at Inspire? About a husband turning violent the day after the young woman had said I do?
“Adrian.” She repeated his name, hoping she didn’t sound like the moron she was feeling herself
to be. “It must be wonderful to have sisters, Adrian.” She said his name slowly. It gave her time to think.
She didn’t want to share details about her life. Didn’t want him to know she lived in a homeless shelter. Didn’t want him to know the shame that nagged her day and night. And she sure didn’t want him to know where to find her. What if he turned out to be like Eddie? Looks and behaviors could be so deceiving.
But somehow, deep down, she also wanted to trust him—at least enough to enjoy a fine spring day. Enough to flex the relationship muscle that Mary had pointed out needed to be flexed before it withered away, maybe forever. She was tired of living an impoverished emotional life. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the party—she’d forgotten her troubles for a few brief hours. Had fun for the first time in longer than she could remember. Dancing with him had revived the part of her that wanted to live. To laugh. To resurrect the playful spirit that had survived in spite of her horrific childhood.
In a flash, she knew how she wanted to play the day.
“I have reasons for what I’m about to ask of you,” she said, trying to steady her voice and not let her fears get the best of her. “Reasons I’m not free to share right now.”
He sat forward in his chair, his gaze steady on hers.
Suddenly self-conscious, she lowered her gaze to the table.
He fingered his sunglasses, and she couldn’t help but notice his hands—big, tanned, strong looking and well manicured. A rich man’s hands. She resisted the impulse to pull her own hands below the table and sit on them. Hers were callused, and she almost never got the dirt from gardening out from under her cuticles and nails.
“I’d like to try an experiment.” She forced the words out before the cowardice blooming in her throat swallowed them up. Forced her chin up too. “That is, if you’re willing.” He watched her face as she took in a breath. “I’d like to keep to your friend Parker’s rules from the masquerade—that we don’t reveal details about our particular identities.” She bit her lip and then tried on a smile. “I’d like to extend our game just a bit longer. I’m liking the mystery.”