Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  We approached the giant oven, paused, and took several deep breaths.

  Anne disengaged the latch and opened the door.

  Our eyes meet.

  “Looks like we have a winner,” Anne said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  MORE EXCITED ABOUT the exhibition of Adam’s work than I’d been about my own, I anticipated Saturday night’s showing with unconcealed relish. More than once during the week Anne had mentioned that I appeared to be walking on air, and she was right. I hadn’t felt this giddy about an upcoming event since I was a kid.

  My sister was rarely around, probably due to her knocking them dead at the DEA. At least she’d given us the spare key to her room—now that Anne and I had checked out of ours—which we were making shameless use of to prepare for the night’s showing. This time, however, I insisted on wearing something comfortable, not about to let Anne doll me up again in one of her slinky—albeit elegant—outfits.

  “Wear it yourself,” I told her when she held up the form-fitted open-back vest with matching pants. It had eight crisscross straps in back and a low V-neck front and was made of a polyester crepe material that looked sexy as hell.

  “Black’s not my color,” Anne said.

  “Then why’d you buy it?” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why someone who favored roomy skirts and tops—embroidered or appliquéd with flowers, vines, moons, and suns—owned such elegant, eye-popping finery.

  Anne shrugged and held up another creation for me to drool over, an ankle-length, fitted dress with cap sleeves, made of sheer floral silk with a pale pink lining. Florals weren’t my style, but this dress did floral so delicately that I could practically smell its sweet, Dutch-garden scent.

  Anne grinned when she saw the look on my face. “Try it on.”

  I did. And as I twirled in front of the mirror like a make-believe Cinderella with her fairy godmother looking on, I wondered out loud, “Why don’t you ever wear this stuff?”

  “They’re from another life,” Anne said. “I can’t bear to wear them anymore.”

  “So, doesn’t it bother you to see them on me?”

  “No dear, it makes me exceedingly happy. As to what I’m going to wear...” She pulled out another of her bohemian-style ensembles.

  ~~~

  As we stood in the doorway of the gallery surveying the crowd, Alfonso hurried toward us, arms outstretched. “Anne. Marjorie.” He and Anne hugged, air kissed, and touched cheek-to-cheek. The third time around, Alfonso caught Anne on the nose.

  Then he turned to me, gaze probing.

  I looked away, not quite ready to forgive and forget his mishandling of my sculpture. Yes, even though I’d decided to let that that particular burden basket go.

  He touched my arm. “I’m still trying to get your artwork back.”

  “Lots of luck,” I said. “That Cecil is an odd one.”

  “If he wants any future dealings with this gallery, he’ll cooperate.”

  Alfonso gestured toward Adam’s sculpture. “The exhibit is quite a success and the evening is still young.”

  A number of people had gathered around the clay mother and child, so I excused myself and shouldered my way through the crowd. A discretely posted sign beneath the exhibit urged spectators not to touch, but the wide-eyed look on many faces conveyed that more than one itched to do just that—including me—which bode well for a profitable sale.

  I turned from the sculpture and caught Cecil and Claudia standing near the entrance where I’d left Anne and Alfonso only moments before. Claudia, as usual, clung to Cecil, and this, as usual, rubbed me the wrong way. She was allowing him to dilute and absorb her through his bullying, as I’d allowed with Cliff.

  Cecil caught my eye and blew me a kiss.

  What nerve.

  I didn’t know the hows and whys, but I knew there was going to be trouble. I also knew that I couldn’t stand being around him for long. Sure, I’d convinced myself not to hold on to an object that had cost me little or nothing. But still... He’d taken my one and only, never-to-be-repeated, creation, and there was nothing I could do about it without spending a lot of time and money. And time had become too precious for that.

  Anne’s grounding lavender, white sage, and frankincense scent preceded her as she came up from behind me. “Guess who just walked through the door.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’d think we were Cecil magnets the way he keeps showing up wherever we are.”

  “There aren’t many must-visit places in Big Sur,” Anne said. “You can hit just about all of them in one day. But I know what you mean. It does seem like you, in particular, are attracting him in some inexplicable way, as if there’s some kind of psychic connection. Random and meaningless events sometimes become un-random, in a synchronistic way. It’s how the spiritual world tries to speak to us.”

  “I’ll go with the ‘there aren’t many must-visit places in Big Sur’ theory. Beats thinking his showing up all the time is some kind of meaningful coincidence. You’d think he would at least be embarrassed to make an appearance here.”

  “Apparently, he doesn’t embarrass easily.”

  “Well, if he covets Adam’s sculpture, the way he did mine, he’s welcome to it. Especially if he’s willing to part with some of that easy money of his to pay the hefty price attached to it. Trouble is, I don’t think this one will be to his liking.”

  Anne’s frown implied that she didn’t agree. “I’m glad we labeled the artist as anonymous. Adam needs protection from the likes of Cecil.”

  The crowd parted, as if rolling out the red carpet for this flashy couple, guiding them directly to Adam’s statue.

  “Uh-oh,” Anne said.

  I held my breath, certain Cecil would make some scathing remark—How touching, a mother and child—so I wasn’t prepared for the way his eyes widened and his face paled as he neared. For a moment, it looked like he might pass out. His hands opened and closed in what appeared to be helplessness before he reached for the statue.

  I blocked his path. “The sign says, ‘Don’t touch.’”

  Cecil stepped around me.

  I grabbed his arm. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Instead of turning on me in a fit of rage, Cecil stared at the statue, lips parted.

  Anne touched my shoulder and whispered, “Watch it, Marjorie. Something’s not right.”

  The crowd grew still and silent, transformed into cardboard cutouts in my befuddled brain. Even the background music seemed to recede.

  “What’s wrong?” I repeated in a gentler tone.

  No answer. Not even a sign that he’d heard me. Instead, Cecil spun around and headed for the gallery exit.

  I turned to Anne. She shrugged and shook her head.

  Sure, I didn’t like the guy, but I was invested. He’d paid a huge chunk of change for a sculpture created by someone without an ounce of talent and then freaked out at the mere sight of a sculpture created by a true artist. Either he was a basket case, which I doubted, or something else was going on.

  Something that involved Adam.

  Curiosity, and a touch of sympathy—though he didn’t deserve it—had me following Cecil out the door.

  He stood outside the gallery entrance fumbling with a cigarette and lighter. He lit up and then ran trembling fingers through his hair.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said, “but...that sculpture is of my mother and me.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. No way.

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette and released the smoke through flared nostrils. “She passed away thirteen years ago, at the age of fifty-one. Too young to die.”

  Still I said nothing. Kathleen’s son? Anthony? This was too strange.

  “Call me a mama’s boy, but I loved her. For loving me. When I was most unlovable.”

  “How about your father?” I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer.
>
  Cecil’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll get a kick out of this, being that you like me so much and all.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  “Good ole Dad disappeared four months ago. He left a note saying he was taking a trip and not to worry.”

  I aimed for calm and neutral, but my ragged intake of breath caused me to miss target—big time.

  Cecil’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know something about what’s going on here? Does it have anything to do with my father?”

  I didn’t blink or look away, my silence, my answer.

  “Son-of-a-bitch.” He leaned closer. I smelled tobacco on his breath. “Where is he?”

  A slight shake of my head, a dead giveaway, of course, that I was withholding a secret.

  “Of all the...you and that fairy godmother of yours... How are you involved in this?”

  What could I say? That his father had AD and didn’t want to see him, and that I thought he was a lousy son and wouldn’t tell him where his father was for all the frickin’ tea in China.

  Cecil took one last pull on his cigarette, then tossed it onto the pavement and crushed it beneath the sole of his shoe, probably what he wanted to do to me. “At least I know the old fart is alive and well. Guess I can be thankful for that.”

  Alive, but not well.

  I stood with the blank-eyed pose of a display dummy, unsure what to do. It saddened me to see Cecil this way. In fact, it scared me. All that money and power, and he could still be brought to his knees by love. Or the lack thereof.

  Was there no security in this world?

  I returned to the gallery, leaving Cecil behind in the dark.

  “How’s he doing?” Anne asked when I reached her side.

  “Not good.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  My stomach cramped. I thought I was going to be sick.

  “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  “He’s Adam’s son.”

  “But...the kid’s name was Anthony.”

  “Want to bet that Anthony’s middle name was Cecil?”

  “It’s hard to believe that cute little kid grew up to be Cecil.”

  “And even harder to believe that Adam is his father.”

  It took Anne a moment to reply. “Actually, not. Adam was a lot like Cecil in his younger days. I know, because he made a few confessions during the time we’ve spent together. Did you tell Cecil that Adam created the sculpture?”

  “No, but it’s pretty obvious he knows there’s a connection.”

  “And that we know where his father is.”

  “Yes. At least he suspects it.”

  Anne whistled softly. “We’ve got to hide him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  NEXT MORNING, Veronica was still nowhere in sight. So again, I joined Anne when she set out to check on Adam. The path to his camp was familiar now and one I would never grow tired of. After leaving behind the cool, dense canopy of redwoods that surrounded the campground, we hiked through sunny patches of earth supporting what Anne pointed out to be sycamores, alders, maples, and cottonwoods. As we climbed the gentle slope into more rugged landscape, Anne drew my attention to the underbrush of redwood sorrel, hedge needles, and sword ferns that soon gave way to the more fragrant and sun tolerant rattlesnake grass, sticky monkey flower, and vetch.

  We crossed several ravines and creeks, caught glimpses of the bright blue Scrub Jay, and heard the mockingbird-like song of the California thrashers, followed by a startling flutter of California quail as they took off in flight. I breathed in the complex nature scents—resinous, woody, lemony, floral—and listened to the air moving through the trees, feeling their calming effect take hold. “No wonder Adam loves it here.”

  “It’s as close to paradise as we’ll get here on earth,” Anne said.

  We found Adam in a shady grove bent over a mound of mud, his wet hands sliding over the clay’s surface. But today he was building something different. It wasn’t a rendition of a woman or a child, and the feel of it ran counter to the usual blitheness of his work. This clay figure sat crouched with his head cradled in his hands. I couldn’t bear to look at it.

  Anne shook her head and closed her eyes as if she, too, found the sculpture disturbing. Her lips began to move in what I assumed to be prayer. As I waited for her to finish, I added a prayer of my own. Dear God, please bless and comfort Adam in his final journey. And forgive me for any part I may have played in negatively impacting that journey.

  “Adam,” Anne said in a tone so gentle it brought tears to my eyes. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Anthony,” he said without pausing from his work.

  “And his middle name?”

  Adam didn’t answer, just continued pressing, pulling, shaping. I focused on Anne, and my heart drummed my unease in skipped and racing beats. Was she going to tell him about Cecil?

  Anne plunged on. “Is it Cecil?”

  Adam’s head jerked up, and he broke into a genuine, crow’s-feet-around-the-eyes, Duchenne smile. “Ce Ce.”

  “Cecil was quite upset when he saw your sculpture.”

  Adam’s hands froze, and then, slowly, he straightened and looked at Anne. “Cecil?” His voiced sounded strained, as if he were testing the name after long disuse.

  Anne’s face showed no expression, but I could imagine the wheels in her head turning. “He recognized the sculpture of himself and his mother,” she said, “and wants to know where you are.”

  Adam rinsed his hands in a pail of water and drew them through his grizzled hair, but said nothing.

  “We’ll have to hide you.”

  “I won’t,” Adam said. “I can’t.”

  “He’ll find you.”

  Adam’s gaze darted to the crouching figure he’d been working on. “I love him.”

  “I understand,” Anne said.

  Adam stretched his leg. It appeared to be shaking. “I didn’t want to...to...”

  “Burden him, I know,” Anne said.

  If only I hadn’t insisted on showing Adam’s sculpture in public. If only Cecil hadn’t been there. What were the chances? My heart had told me I was doing the right thing. How could good intentions have gone so wrong?

  “Actually, this may work out for the best,” Anne said.

  Her words surprised me. I had difficulty imaging anything involving Cecil turning out for the best.

  ~~~

  It was time to tidy up my campsite. The tent and its contents smelled musty. Small wonder. I eyed the pile of clothes that needed laundering. This wasn’t like me. I was turning into a slob.

  Anne appeared out of nowhere, as usual, rescuing me from what would have been an afternoon of productive cleaning. “She’s back.”

  I didn’t have to ask who she was referring to. Veronica had a way of disappearing for hours, days, months, with no explanation. I, for one, always welcomed her back, knowing better than to ask where she’d been. “It’s about time.”

  “Let’s corner her before she disappears again. We need her tonight for our circle.”

  “It’s only the twenty-second,” I said. “There’s no full moon.”

  Anne took off and called over her shoulder, “We’re going to do a practice run, and for that we’ll need your sister.”

  “But I’m not ready,” I said, following her at a slower pace.

  “You’ll never be ready,” she said without turning. “Might as well take the plunge.”

  We found Veronica in the Big Sur Inn dining room—eating.

  “How can she stay so slim when she’s always stuffing her face?” Anne asked in a tone that implied admiration rather than condemnation.

  “Heredity,” I said. Yet, if my attempt at humor was true, I’d been starving myself all those years for nothing.

  My sister’s hair fell past her shoulders in thick, silky waves. No extensions. The real thing. I knew, because my hair was equally thick and silky
. Only difference, mine was still the natural honey blonde we were born with.

  “She looks like a dang fashion model,” Anne whispered, checking her watch. “And it’s only noon. I think I hate her.”

  Veronica motioned us over. “The Angus Burger is to die for.”

  Anne shrugged and took a seat. “We need to talk.”

  Veronica lifted a neatly shaped brow and reached for the menus racked at the side of our table. “Make a selection. Lunch is on me.”

  The server approached carrying two glasses of water and did a double take on seeing me. “Wow. Twins. Cool. You look exactly alike, except for the hair and—”

  “Yeah,” I said, to prevent her from going on. Except for the hair, the makeup, the clothes, the carriage. “People say that all the time.”

  Veronica laughed and bit into a seasoned red potato.

  The server swiveled her head back and forth between us. “This is so amazing.”

  Anne cleared her throat and glanced at the server’s nametag. “Helen, dear, I’ll have the Vegetarian and some iced tea.”

  Helen fumbled for the pad and pencil still tucked in her apron pocket. “Oh, yeah. Sure.” She took Anne’s order and turned to me.

  “I’ll have the Chicken Reuben and a club soda.”

  “Coming right up,” Helen said before heading for the kitchen.

  Anne got straight to business. “We’re going to practice some of your earth medicine tonight, Marjorie.”

  “We are?”

  “We’re in the time of the waxing moon. Energies are building up quickly, making this a good time to launch new ideas. We’ll start out by demonstrating the similarities between Native American and Wiccan rituals, to set your mind at ease that witchcraft isn’t a perversion of Christianity.”

  “Hold it, I never said anything about—”

  “I suspect Anne’s little demonstration is for my benefit as well as yours,” Veronica said. “Just so you know, I’m open to clearing up some common misconceptions about what most people consider a dark and dangerous subject.” A dramatic shiver. “Human sacrifice, orgies, devil worship, the whole nine yards.”