The Awakening of Dr. Brown
Page 23
“I have to go.”
He made himself calm and still as she, willing himself to numbness. “I suppose you do.”
“There are so many things I have to do-the album…the tour. We’re way behind schedule as it is.” Her eyes clung to his, begging him to understand.
He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders…brushed his fingers up and down her arms. “I understand,” he said, then bent and kissed her. Her mouth quivered. His throat ached.
She pulled away and would not meet his eyes. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone…where I’ll be…what I’m going to be doing. I’ll call you…”
“Well, I’d hope so.” His smile felt as if it had been carved in his flesh with a knife. He wanted to beg her to stay just a little longer, make love to her one more time, so unforgettably she’d have to change her mind about going. Instead, he said, “I’ll get Carl or Tom to run you home.”
While he was doing that, she went into the bedroom to gather her things. She came out carrying the small sports bag she’d collected from her loft, containing her toiletries and not much else. He walked her down the stairs and out onto the row house steps, where Tom was waiting for them. The dark sedan was at the curb, door open, engine idling.
“Take care of yourself,” he said huskily.
“You, too.” She went down the steps and crossed the sidewalk. At the car, she paused and looked back at him. “I do know one thing I’m going to be doing.” Her eyes shone at him like distant water through trees.
“What’s that?” He could barely breathe…
“Finding Joanna,” she said. She got into the car and the door closed, leaving him gazing at his own reflection in the tinted window.
But she didn’t say it, he told himself. She didn’t say goodbye.
It wasn’t until he was back in his own bedroom and found the little rosewood box sitting on his dresser that he started to breathe again…that his heart stopped bludgeoning him, and the knife wound in his belly began to heal. He knew for certain then that she’d be back. She’d left Doveman’s ashes in his care.
Though there were times, during the next few months, when he wondered. She did call a few times, but the conversations felt stiff and artificial, the way people talk when there’s someone else in the room. He told himself he had to be patient, that he had to give her time. That she would come to him when she was ready to accept his love, and that it would be pointless for her to come any sooner. But there were times he wondered if he was even alive in her absence. As if she’d taken his heart and soul with her, and left only his ashes behind.
He kept busy with the clinic and his ride-alongs, spent time with friends. Now and then he’d catch a glimpse of Phoenix when she appeared on some news show or other, being interviewed about her new album, the upcoming tour, the title of which was being kept a closely guarded secret. He didn’t know what was worse-seeing her like that, a small flat picture, so empty of life, so far away, or not seeing her at all. When things seemed loneliest, when he thought it most likely he’d never see her again any other way, he reminded himself of two things: the rosewood box, and the fact that she’d never said goodbye.
She came back on a late afternoon in early autumn. The only warning he had was a phone call from Tom. A terse “Sir, you have a visitor.”
He barely had time to get to the door. He opened it and she burst through and hurled herself into his arms, laughing and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe. Probably wouldn’t have been able to anyway, with his heart in his throat, and joy and relief and desire and love taking up all the room in his chest.
“My God,” he whispered when he could, “is it really you?”
“It’s me-Joanna. I swear it is. Oh, God, and I have so much to tell you. But-” she danced away from him, vibrating with excitement “-there’s something we have to do-right now…” And she crossed the room with her panther’s stride and disappeared into his bedroom.
Before he could even begin to think whether or not it was sex she meant, she was back, carrying the rosewood box. She grabbed at his hand, pulling him toward the door. “Come on-quick, before it’s too late…”
“There…” Joanna stood back and linked her arm through Ethan’s. She gave a sigh-of acceptance, of completion-and then there was only silence as they stood together gazing at the box, nestled in the maze of construction like a single blossom in a patch of thorns.
Behind them the sun was setting, casting long purple shadows across the site where The Gardens had once stood, and where the foundations of a new apartment complex were now taking shape. Tomorrow the cement trucks would arrive to pour the last section, the front of the main building, including the entryway. The forms stood empty, waiting. It was there that Joanna had placed the box containing Rupert Dove’s ashes.
A short distance away, Secret Service Special Agents Tom Applegate and Carl Friedenburg waited with backs discreetly turned, watching the street with their customary vigilance, forcing the ever-present photographers to keep a respectful distance.
Nearby, a sign proudly announced this as the “Future Site Of Rupert Dove Apartments.” The name of the construction company was prominently displayed, along with a telephone number for rental information-although at least half the units had already been promised to the former tenants of the Gardens, who were being temporarily housed at the expense of the Phoenix Corporation. Also on the sign was an artist’s rendering of the completed complex, and the words, “Funding for this project provided by the Rupert Dove Foundation-A nonprofit organization dedicated to the reclamation and restoration of the quality of human life…”
“I thought you said he didn’t belong in the ground,” Ethan said as the shadows merged into lavender twilight.
“Not in the ground.” Joanna’s head moved against his shoulder. “In the building…in the foundations. Right here by the entrance, where he can watch over the people who live here…you know…keep them safe.”
Ethan said nothing for a moment, while he weighed risks, pride, and hope for the future. His lifelong habit of shyness and reticence limited his response to a soft “What about you?”
Her head came up and her eyes met his, catching the last of the light like the glimmering of moonlight on water. “I don’t need him anymore,” she said. “Now I have you.”
Ethan’s chest filled with the sweetest, most beautiful ache as he lowered his head to kiss her…and heard her whisper at last, “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I love you, Doc.”
Neither of them paid the slightest bit of attention to the distant click and whir of cameras.
Epilogue
The spotlight grew from a pinprick to a golden pool on the darkened stage. The screams of the capacity crowd rose to deafening cresendo when Phoenix stepped into the light.
She stood alone, holding only a microphone, wearing a simple white gown, with her black hair tumbling in a silken fall to the backs of her thighs. There was no band, no elaborate costumes, no laser lights. This was the long-anticipated concert tour-the one billed as “Joanna Dunn: Phoenix Unveiled.”
A hush gradually descended on the arena as she spoke a few words of introduction and dedication. Then, in that profound and vibrant silence she began to sing…without accompaniment, in her famous Phoenix voice, husky and cracking with passion…but softly now, like a mother singing to her infant child:
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word…Momma’s gonna buy you a mockin’bird…”
Smiling with pride, aching with love, Dr. Ethan Brown stood and watched his wife from the shadows offstage, well out of the limelight. Which was just where he wanted to be.
KATHLEEN CREIGHTON
has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today she says she is interested in everything-art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history-but people are at the top of her list. She also has a li
felong passion for writing, and now combines her two loves in romance novels.
***
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