by Kate Ashton
She kicks off her sensible shoes and lets the grass tickle her toes. Barefoot and foolish. That is what she wants to be. Almost the whole day stretches in front of her. She wants to do something crazy and wild, like swim in the Seine, naked. Or visit every café possible and gorge on pastries that she’ll never taste again back in America. She doesn't want to do it alone, yet, she doesn't want to take one of the other students along with her. She needs a guide. One she trusts.
As the wind blows, she whispers into its currents. “Find me someone, oh great city of lights. Find the right one, and push him or her toward me. You do that, and I'll do the rest.”
The breeze picks up, and the branches creak, answering yes.
Juliana stretches back and lays her head against the top of the bench. She’s patient.
About five minutes later, she hears someone whistling. A friendly and good-looking guy walks the paths, a backpack weighing him down. His army green pants are grungy and his faded T-shirt is in no better condition. Shaggy brown hair flops in his eyes. His face hints of a smile. Perfect.
She stands casually in the path and glances toward the guy every few seconds. When he’s just about to pass her, she steps in front of him.
They collide, and she falls back in the grass.
“I’m so sorry!” He rushes to help her up, but the weight of his pack tips his body forward, and he stumbles, landing in the grass next to her.
She smiles. “Hi, I'm Juliana.”
“Danny. Nice to meet a fellow American.”
“Excuse me, ma'am.”
Juliana starts and opens her eyes. She has leaned to the side, practically nuzzling the man's neck. The scents and soft grass of Paris long ago are whisked away, but the same man, the backpacker, stares at her. More lines on his face. More silver in his hair. But it’s him.
“Hi, I'm Juliana.”
The man smiles warily. “Daniel. Nice to meet you.”
Juliana convinces herself she’s crazy, hallucinating, or just wrong. Several times she tries to make small talk. Daniel is polite but makes it quite clear that he’s not interested in small talk.
This moment won’t last. He could leave; panic cripples Juliana's ability to speak. Does she just let him walk off and out of her life? But wait. He already did.
Last year.
She fights the tears. She hasn't cried in weeks. Her family worries, and so she puts up a good front for them, but every single spot in her house—every dish, every room, every painting and photo—holds meaning. Walking through her house is like living with Danny every day, yet he isn't there: she can't hear him snore at night, and she doesn’t have to pick up his dirty socks. Every night she leans across her side of the bed, expecting to feel his warmth, the touch of his skin.
She finds nothing.
He was a soldier, killed in action—so they said. No body was ever found.
No more soft nudges early in the morning, his lips on her arm, her chest; his hands starting a fire before breakfast. Instead, she lies alone in the rising dawn, aching for her best friend, her partner, her lover.
“Are you okay, miss?”
She blinks away a tear, fighting against the darkness that threatens to pull her into its clutches, the never ending sinkholes and landslides until she can't think or move. Her heart aches. The shadows surround her, weaving with her very being. The plane, the people around her turn colors of gray.
“Juliana?” He leans forward, peering into her eyes.
She wants to press her lips to his, run her fingers through his hair, and kiss the small white scar. Her body sways.
He pulls away and reaches into his backpack. He holds out a stick of gum. “Here you go. Maybe this will help.”
Cinnamon. Danny's favorite.
“Who are you?” This cruel joke needs to end.
“Daniel.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Oh, around.”
She reaches for his hand, knowing it is a mistake. “Don't you remember me, Danny?”
He jerks his hand back, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Ma'am. You must be mistaking me for someone else.” He stands abruptly, fidgeting. “Best of luck to you.”
Juliana closes her eyes for a second, letting the heat of embarrassment fade. He doesn't remember, and all of a sudden, she loses him all over again.
The next time she turns around. He’s gone.
Daniel, Danny was gone. She fumbles for her phone to call her daughter.
MIA
Mia pedals faster. Her mom's voice and her haunting words reach into her heart and twist.
Sweat runs down her back; that's why she loves spin class and the calories that drip off, along with memories she’d rather forget. Some call her a fanatic when it comes to healthy eating and exercise; she calls it not wanting to get old and fat.
Thoughts of her mom invade again. Things have been going so well too. Her mom stopped counseling months ago, and the hallucinations ebbed. The prescription meds have been lowered, and Mia hoped it was only smooth sailing ahead, that the heart wrenching times were over.
Obviously not.
The instructor yells to pump harder, raise that butt in the air because the steep hill is coming, tougher times are ahead. With a grunt, Mia focuses dead ahead on the lady's butt in front of her, who should not be wearing spandex. This only motivates her more.
Thankfully, for the rest of class, her mind is blank. Her muscles burn, her breaths shoot out, and she loves it. When she reaches this high, nothing touches her, not her last fight with Adam—or she should say the hurt feelings when he turns his back to her in bed—nor thoughts about her mom.
Exercise is therapy.
The instructor yells, pushing them, as they crest the hill and finish this last cycle. Then it’s over. Mia lowers her head, eyes closed, and waits for her breathing to return to normal.
“What's wrong with you today?” Her close friend, Emma, also the instructor, stands next to her, foot tapping. “You're the one I can always count on through that last stretch.”
Mia steps off the bike and grabs her white towel. “Hey, I wasn't slacking. Today was one of my better times.” But that isn't what Emma was talking about. Usually, Mia whoops it up on that last incline, motivating everyone in the class to push harder. She sighs and swipes the towel across her face. “No, you're right. Sorry about that. When do I start getting paid as an assistant instructor?”
Emma laughs, then smiles, the true smile of a close friend, not the fake one you often get from other females in the gym. “When you apply for the job.”
In the sauna, with the towel wrapped around her body, Mia rests her head against the wood walls and thinks about Emma. They met in the gym two years ago, and their friendship has been a lifesaver. Her marriage has been rocky from the start—not her fault, not anyone's fault—and Emma’s always there, the only one who knows her and Adam struggle. Most people are awed that Mia married so young.
What they don't know is that she might divorce young too.
What they don't know is that a month after their wedding, her dad went missing in action, later to be proclaimed dead from an explosion.
What they don't know is that her dad was her rock, the one she turned to for support and advice, especially with guys. She always was able to talk to her dad. Always. And then, suddenly, he was gone.
Mia clenches her teeth and fights back the tears. It doesn't matter that it has been one year; the pain, the hollow feeling in her chest never went away.
“You're thinking about him, aren't you?” Emma asks.
“Nope.”
“Liar! Liar!”
“Okay, fine, but only because my mom called the other day.” Emma doesn't know that her mom hallucinated her dad lost and wandering. Her mom is convinced that he needs her, and no one will convince her otherwise. Some things are too painful and embarrassing to talk about, even with friends. Only Adam knows.
Emma stands. “Let's get out of he
re and go for drinks. Call the rest of the girls. Even call Adam if you want.”
“Good idea.” She could use a drink.
The cold shower feels good after sweltering in the sauna. She towels off, slips into yoga pants and a pink T-shirt, and quickly blow-dries her hair.
Dressed and ready early, she calls. “I’ll meet you in the lobby!”
Emma pops out of the shower, her blonde hair wet and dark and dripping. “Okedokee.”
That’s why Mia loves her friendship with Emma. She’s a bright beam of light in her life that has been nothing but depressing recently. Today, that darkness is blinding, suffocating.
In the lobby, she pours steaming coffee into a Styrofoam cup to wait. She sits in an armchair, mindlessly watching a talk show on the large television. All the working moms hit the gym, flooding through like rush hour traffic.
She texts Adam. Out for drinks with Emma. Be home later.
Mia doesn't expect a reply. Way too early in their marriage, they stopped texting sweet nothings to each other, and that hurts more than Mia likes to admit. Now they text boring, non-romantic stuff, like when they’ll be home or who’s picking up dinner. Straightforward, emotionless texts without an I love you or sexy innuendos.
“Ready?”
Mia startles from her thoughts. “Definitely.”
Chapter 2
DANIEL
At first it is just a feeling, the gaze boring into him, urging him to turn and look; then the feeling turns into a shiver that ripples through his body. He doesn't know who it is. He doesn't want to know. He felt it in the airport. He felt it the entire bus ride into the city. He can't stop the commands running through his head that scream run. Run fast. Get away as fast as you can.
Maybe Juliana, the lady in the airport, spooked him with the heartsick look on her face. Like she knew him. Intimately.
She’s crazy.
Or he is.
Regardless, she put him on edge. Said she knew him. His name. His past. People like that shouldn't be allowed in public, loose to torment innocent people; and yet, there was something about her.
He shrugs it off and quickens his pace. Paris isn’t the movie set of a thriller, a life of danger, on the run. The sun is high in the sky, shiny and happy, beaming down on lovers. This is the city of love, after all. He shouldn't feel like this, like someone's prey.
At the next block, he ducks into a coffee shop. The awning stretches over the sidewalk, offering shade, a welcome to those who need to be in the shadows.
And he needs to be.
Under the awning, circular iron tables and chairs fill the tiny section. The place is packed, smelling of people, laughter, sunshine, coffee, and of something illusive that he can't quite grasp. He weaves around the older ladies, the couples, the businessmen, and the starving artists, gabbing away as if they have nowhere else to be. He can't get through them fast enough; the happy chatter suffocates him. With one last glance behind his shoulder, he darts through the door.
He lets the scent of freshly baked pastries wash over him, pushing away everything else clinging to him. After a few seconds and several deep breaths, he strides to the counter. Once there, he pats his front pockets, his back pockets. Did he have any French currency left?
The girl behind the counter isn't impatient or rude, just waiting, as if a lot of middle-aged men aren't sure of what they want.
He continues patting. Nothing. He can’t remember where he put his money. He doesn’t know how, but somehow, he always seems to have enough change to survive. “Oh, excuse me.” He steps back, away from the counter.
“You want something?” she asks in broken English.
“No, thanks.”
A businessman stands from a table, leaving his cup and plate on the table. Daniel stumbles over and takes his seat. He stares at the cup, half-filled with a caramel-colored liquid. He doesn't like cream in his coffee; he’s almost sure about that.
The door opens at the front; a warm breeze brushes the back of his neck and tickles his ankles.
And then he is someplace else.
A hot, stifling place with an even hotter breeze. His lips feel chapped and cracked. His throat parched. The small café morphs into a landscape of sand and brush.
He tries to shake it off and closes his eyes, fighting the sick feeling rising in his stomach. The cawing of crows pierces the sky as they circle, large and black. Waiting for him to die? He isn't sure. A scratchy turban is wound around his head and neck, his face exposed to the raw wind and sand that swirl in the wind.
He reaches out and even though he feels the iron table beneath his hand, he stays in the desert. Two places at once. An intense desire grips him. It’s stronger than the heat. Stronger than the pain of his cracked lips, bleeding, even as his dry tongue runs over them. Just stronger. He sucks in a breath, ragged and shaky. Let this end, he thinks. Please. But he has something to do. Something important.
Again, it’s the light touch on his arm that yanks him from the vision back to the present and the small café and the half-finished cup of coffee with cream.
He blinks. He sees her honey hair first, tumbling over and down her shoulders, and her chest pressing against her shirt. He quickly averts his wandering gaze. With jerky motions, he stands.
It’s the look on her face, the moment of hesitation, the way her eyebrows quirk in thought that gives way that she’s about to speak.
He runs.
LUCY
14 days earlier
Lights are dimmed low in the room downstairs she rents for her “office.” Lucy plumps a pillow before holding the silk material to her face. It’s smooth and smells faintly like the fruity perfume she sprayed on it months ago. The pillows cost almost nothing, and the silk she found at half price; it was easy to sew new covers.
A nervous rustling. A polite cough. The familiar sound of someone attempting to make a cup of coffee in her tiny waiting area consisting of a broken Keurig machine and an armchair with the stuffing showing.
She hurries and lights the candles one by one. After a deep, cleansing breath, she moves toward the entrance. She replaced the door with a chocolate-colored gauzy fabric that offers barely enough privacy. It doesn't matter. She never has a waiting line.
Moving the dividing curtain slightly to the side, she studies her potential customer. A middle-aged woman faces the door as if any second she’ll bolt. Her shoulders sag, slightly hunched over, the stance of a wife who suspects her husband is cheating. Possibly. That is Lucy's most popular customer. The woman's hair, a dull blonde, is done up in a messy bun; her clothes are wrinkled and slightly out of fashion. Scratch the potential cheater. Those women still try to look good with fresh highlights in their graying hair and new padded pushup bras to hold up their sagging breasts.
This woman reeks of desperation.
When she turns, her eyes are lifeless, filled with grief. Her pale skin reminds Lucy of chalk, almost colorless. Lucy hates these types. She quickly lets the curtain fall back into place and turns, her eyes closed. The woman probably just needs a positive word in her life. Lucy can easily throw out the clichéd fortunes. “Something good is just around the corner.” “Your lost one is looking down on you, wanting you to be happy.” “Your lost one says goodbye.”
But something else tugs at her heart—more like punches her gut. Tingles spread across the skin, and Lucy gasps as the start of a vision creeps into the edge of her awareness. A real vision.
“Excuse me?” the timid voice whispers through the gauzy material obviously not heavy enough to block out sound.
Lucy bites her lip, almost drawing blood. A vision? Now? Yes, that's what she is: a fortuneteller. She has ignored the true visions for so long, she’s almost forgotten what they feel like. The words of her mother fall on her harsh and swift.
Don't you dare tell anyone about this.
Why are you doing this? Are you trying to humiliate me?
Just lie. Tell people you're sick.
The woman clears her throat. “Are you the Madame?”
Lucy trembles. It starts small in her pinky fingers but then rapidly spreads. Her heart races, and the familiar rush of adrenaline floods her limbs. “Yes, come in,” she mumbles, not sounding at all like the mysterious fortuneteller.
This time she barely makes it to her seat. A round table separates her from her customer. Another cheap find at the flea market. All it needed was some lace and layers of maroon material to make the table look like she spent a lot. Her entire business is about smoke and mirrors. Exactly what her mother thinks about her visions. Lies. Lies. Lies.
As Lucy grips the table, hoping not to black out, she wonders why this lady. Why now? The feeling hits her hard, slams into her body; her breaths shoot out in rapid fire.
The lady enters timid as a mouse scampering forward to then perch on the edge of the chair. She pats the same loose strand of hair over and over. She opens and closes her mouth several times before squeaking anything out. “Do you believe in the spiritual realm?”
Lucy tries not to let her mouth flap open. She nods.
“Like ghosts?”
Through extreme mind over matter, Lucy holds the vision at bay, but it won't last for long. It builds in the recesses of her awareness, building, building.
Someone knocks on the door, sharp and fast. Three times.
This kicks Lucy into action.
She takes the lady's hand. “Close your eyes, and let's see what your future...or your past holds.” This is part of the act, the gimmick. She finds that most clients want the experience, the mystery, the delving into the supernatural. As if deep down they know the whole thing is a scam, but they don't care. That’s why they come in secret or on a spur of the moment decision. Embarrassed.
The door to the shop slams shut.
A shock zaps through Lucy's hand. She startles, stiffening. The words pour out of her mouth as her body straightens, electrified. The images come through faster than she can speak. “I see a man—”
A man bursts through the dividing curtain; his white-knuckled fists first, then his body. “Fraud! Shyster! Don't pay this woman one cent of your money!”