The Wish Collector
Page 2
Jonah chuckled. “Fighting injustice for little more than pocket change? That’s your calling.”
Justin released a laugh that contained more breath than levity. “I could use a little help. There’s a lot of injustice in the world, bro.”
“Some might say it’s worthless to try to fight against it.”
“Some might.”
As he looked at the person he loved most in the world, something pressed on his chest, some weightiness he wasn’t sure how to explain. A feeling that— His phone rang, breaking the strange sort of trance that had descended upon Jonah. “I really gotta get back to work. Can we talk later?”
Justin nodded, his smile sad again as he moved past Jonah. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sure, Jonah. Let’s talk later.” And with that, he turned and walked out of Jonah’s office, shutting the door behind him.
The phone continued to ring, but Jonah didn’t answer it. Instead, he walked to the window and stared out at the sweltering summer day, that feeling returning to his chest again—pressing. I miss my brother, Jonah realized. He had been avoiding him. But after this case was over, he would make it a point to see Justin more often.
Absentmindedly, Jonah brought his hand to the place where his heart lay and massaged lightly.
You’re choosing a path here, Jonah.
But he’d already chosen it. There was nothing to be done now.
Two weeks later, as Jonah lay in a pool of spreading blood, the charred smell of his mutilated flesh heavy and rancid in his nostrils, his brother’s words would come back to him, flowing lazily through his mind like the misty wisps of a forgotten dream.
You’re choosing a path. Let’s talk later.
But there would be no talking to his brother later.
His brother was dead.
The screaming dimmed enough for Jonah to register the high-pitched expulsion of air rasping from his smoke-drenched lungs.
He was whistling again.
Only this time, there was no tune.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
“Extend your arm. Clara, you are supposed to look like a swan but you look like a duck. Begin again.” The music came to a sudden halt and there was a collective—though quiet—groan from the other dancers. Heat rose in Clara’s face as she noticed the disdainful glares shot in her direction. Being the new girl in the New Orleans Ballet was proving to be everything she’d feared. And more.
“Yes, Madame Fournier.” Clara returned to her mark, positioning her body as the music began again. I am a swan. I am a swan, she chanted in her mind.
The problem was, despite her focus on a gracefully extended arm, Clara felt like a duck. One very much out of water.
As practice ended and the other dancers began gathering their things, Clara walked to her duffle bag, putting her foot on the bench and untying the silken ribbons of her pointe shoes.
“A girl I know went to the Goddard School with her,” Belinda Baker whispered from behind Clara, clearly referring to her. “She was the recipient of that Dance For Life Scholarship, otherwise she never would have gotten in.” Clara swung her duffle bag over her shoulder, glancing back at Belinda, who obviously hadn’t realized she was there, her eyes widening in surprise as their gazes met. Clara turned and quickly walked out of the theater.
It was true what Belinda had said: Clara’s father had sacrificed in every way possible so she could follow her dream of becoming a professional ballerina. But he never could have afforded that school without assistance. Clara was proud of that scholarship, and she wouldn’t let a couple of gossipy girls make her feel differently.
Still, thoughts of her father caused that familiar ache to take center stage in her chest and she had to force herself not to tear up. Her recent move to New Orleans had been hard, the fact that her reception in the ballet had been less than . . . warm only compounded that hardship, and this feeling of melancholy seemed to be her constant companion.
She spotted the bus rounding the corner and speed-walked to make it to the bus stop a block away, fumbling for her phone. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly as she scanned her mobile ticket, and the bus driver gave her a wide, welcoming smile. She smiled back, grateful for what felt like a little sunshine on a cloudy day.
Thirty minutes later, she stepped off the air-conditioned bus, the heat hitting her and causing a physical jolt. If she were living a story, the New Orleans summer heat would be a character all its own. A large, corpulent fellow with sleepy eyes and steamy breath. Intense and all-consuming.
A lock of blonde hair fell loose from her bun and Clara tucked it behind her ear, as the smell of something savory and delicious met her nose, wafting from the house on the corner and distracting her from the mugginess. Comfort food. What was it about almost all the Louisiana cuisine she’d sampled that seemed to minister not only to the palate but to the soul?
The smooth, plaintive sound of a saxophone from an open window somewhere nearby wound through the tree branches and seemed to penetrate Clara’s skin.
Is there anything lonelier than the distant sound of a singular instrument floating on the wind? she mused.
But then another sound joined that lonesome melody—a sweet, rich voice accompanying the notes, weaving, growing louder, clearer. The music—both distant and close by and yet somehow still a seamless duet—filled Clara, causing her skin to feel charged and her heart to lighten. She knew that voice. It sounded like smoke mixed with molasses and so often carried hymns along the street where Clara lived.
The voice halted. “Well hello, darlin’.”
Clara smiled even before she looked up at Mrs. Guillot rocking in her rocking chair at the end of the block where Clara rented a small garden apartment.
“You looked so deep in thought I hardly wanted to disturb you,” the old woman said with a smile.
Clara opened Mrs. Guillot’s black, wrought iron gate and slipped inside, climbing the brick steps and sitting on the second wooden rocking chair that usually sat empty. “Just going over the moves from practice today.”
“Ah. How is it going with the other swans?”
“All right. I just wish . . . ” What did she wish? That they didn’t act so petty? That she’d make a friend? Feel more accepted and not as if she were being judged and found lacking? Clara shook her head. “I wish I knew at least one person here. Starting from scratch is harder than I imagined it would be.”
Mrs. Guillot smiled kindly. “Well, you do know one person. You know me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I didn’t mean—”
“Nonsense, child.” She laughed. “I know what you meant. I was only teasing you. A young woman like yourself needs other young people. You’ll find them. Don’t you worry your pretty little head now.”
Clara released a breath. “I know. And that will be nice. But I’m grateful for you too.” It was true. Mrs. Guillot had been so kind to Clara since she’d moved to New Orleans two months before, offering up her knowledge about the city, giving her directions when she needed them, and sitting and chatting when Clara had a few minutes now and again.
“I know, darlin’.” She paused. “How’s your dad? Have you spoken to him?”
A stab of pain pricked at Clara’s insides as she shook her head. “I wish. His moments of clarity are so few and far between now.”
Mrs. Guillot studied Clara for a moment, her gaze filled with the sincere sympathy of someone who knew the pain of loss. Of course she did. How many times had Mrs. Guillot grieved in her lifetime? “Well now, sweet thing, that’s two wishes. Go give one of them to Angelina.”
“Angelina?”
“Mm-hmm. You’ve been in New Orleans for a couple of months now. You haven’t heard of the weeping wall?”
The weeping wall. A strange tremble went down Clara’s spine. “No. Where is it?”
“Why, it’s at Windisle Plantation.”
Windisle Plantation. Clara took the duffle bag from her lap and placed it on the ground next to her chair, leaning forward slightly. “Will you tell me about it, Mrs. Guillot?”
Mrs. Guillot’s gaze moved away from Clara, out to the ancient magnolia tree that grew in the yard next door, its giant white blossoms and glossy green leaves shimmering in the last rays of the summer sun.
Justin released a laugh that contained more breath than levity. “I could use a little help. There’s a lot of injustice in the world, bro.”
“Some might say it’s worthless to try to fight against it.”
“Some might.”
As he looked at the person he loved most in the world, something pressed on his chest, some weightiness he wasn’t sure how to explain. A feeling that— His phone rang, breaking the strange sort of trance that had descended upon Jonah. “I really gotta get back to work. Can we talk later?”
Justin nodded, his smile sad again as he moved past Jonah. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sure, Jonah. Let’s talk later.” And with that, he turned and walked out of Jonah’s office, shutting the door behind him.
The phone continued to ring, but Jonah didn’t answer it. Instead, he walked to the window and stared out at the sweltering summer day, that feeling returning to his chest again—pressing. I miss my brother, Jonah realized. He had been avoiding him. But after this case was over, he would make it a point to see Justin more often.
Absentmindedly, Jonah brought his hand to the place where his heart lay and massaged lightly.
You’re choosing a path here, Jonah.
But he’d already chosen it. There was nothing to be done now.
Two weeks later, as Jonah lay in a pool of spreading blood, the charred smell of his mutilated flesh heavy and rancid in his nostrils, his brother’s words would come back to him, flowing lazily through his mind like the misty wisps of a forgotten dream.
You’re choosing a path. Let’s talk later.
But there would be no talking to his brother later.
His brother was dead.
The screaming dimmed enough for Jonah to register the high-pitched expulsion of air rasping from his smoke-drenched lungs.
He was whistling again.
Only this time, there was no tune.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
“Extend your arm. Clara, you are supposed to look like a swan but you look like a duck. Begin again.” The music came to a sudden halt and there was a collective—though quiet—groan from the other dancers. Heat rose in Clara’s face as she noticed the disdainful glares shot in her direction. Being the new girl in the New Orleans Ballet was proving to be everything she’d feared. And more.
“Yes, Madame Fournier.” Clara returned to her mark, positioning her body as the music began again. I am a swan. I am a swan, she chanted in her mind.
The problem was, despite her focus on a gracefully extended arm, Clara felt like a duck. One very much out of water.
As practice ended and the other dancers began gathering their things, Clara walked to her duffle bag, putting her foot on the bench and untying the silken ribbons of her pointe shoes.
“A girl I know went to the Goddard School with her,” Belinda Baker whispered from behind Clara, clearly referring to her. “She was the recipient of that Dance For Life Scholarship, otherwise she never would have gotten in.” Clara swung her duffle bag over her shoulder, glancing back at Belinda, who obviously hadn’t realized she was there, her eyes widening in surprise as their gazes met. Clara turned and quickly walked out of the theater.
It was true what Belinda had said: Clara’s father had sacrificed in every way possible so she could follow her dream of becoming a professional ballerina. But he never could have afforded that school without assistance. Clara was proud of that scholarship, and she wouldn’t let a couple of gossipy girls make her feel differently.
Still, thoughts of her father caused that familiar ache to take center stage in her chest and she had to force herself not to tear up. Her recent move to New Orleans had been hard, the fact that her reception in the ballet had been less than . . . warm only compounded that hardship, and this feeling of melancholy seemed to be her constant companion.
She spotted the bus rounding the corner and speed-walked to make it to the bus stop a block away, fumbling for her phone. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly as she scanned her mobile ticket, and the bus driver gave her a wide, welcoming smile. She smiled back, grateful for what felt like a little sunshine on a cloudy day.
Thirty minutes later, she stepped off the air-conditioned bus, the heat hitting her and causing a physical jolt. If she were living a story, the New Orleans summer heat would be a character all its own. A large, corpulent fellow with sleepy eyes and steamy breath. Intense and all-consuming.
A lock of blonde hair fell loose from her bun and Clara tucked it behind her ear, as the smell of something savory and delicious met her nose, wafting from the house on the corner and distracting her from the mugginess. Comfort food. What was it about almost all the Louisiana cuisine she’d sampled that seemed to minister not only to the palate but to the soul?
The smooth, plaintive sound of a saxophone from an open window somewhere nearby wound through the tree branches and seemed to penetrate Clara’s skin.
Is there anything lonelier than the distant sound of a singular instrument floating on the wind? she mused.
But then another sound joined that lonesome melody—a sweet, rich voice accompanying the notes, weaving, growing louder, clearer. The music—both distant and close by and yet somehow still a seamless duet—filled Clara, causing her skin to feel charged and her heart to lighten. She knew that voice. It sounded like smoke mixed with molasses and so often carried hymns along the street where Clara lived.
The voice halted. “Well hello, darlin’.”
Clara smiled even before she looked up at Mrs. Guillot rocking in her rocking chair at the end of the block where Clara rented a small garden apartment.
“You looked so deep in thought I hardly wanted to disturb you,” the old woman said with a smile.
Clara opened Mrs. Guillot’s black, wrought iron gate and slipped inside, climbing the brick steps and sitting on the second wooden rocking chair that usually sat empty. “Just going over the moves from practice today.”
“Ah. How is it going with the other swans?”
“All right. I just wish . . . ” What did she wish? That they didn’t act so petty? That she’d make a friend? Feel more accepted and not as if she were being judged and found lacking? Clara shook her head. “I wish I knew at least one person here. Starting from scratch is harder than I imagined it would be.”
Mrs. Guillot smiled kindly. “Well, you do know one person. You know me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I didn’t mean—”
“Nonsense, child.” She laughed. “I know what you meant. I was only teasing you. A young woman like yourself needs other young people. You’ll find them. Don’t you worry your pretty little head now.”
Clara released a breath. “I know. And that will be nice. But I’m grateful for you too.” It was true. Mrs. Guillot had been so kind to Clara since she’d moved to New Orleans two months before, offering up her knowledge about the city, giving her directions when she needed them, and sitting and chatting when Clara had a few minutes now and again.
“I know, darlin’.” She paused. “How’s your dad? Have you spoken to him?”
A stab of pain pricked at Clara’s insides as she shook her head. “I wish. His moments of clarity are so few and far between now.”
Mrs. Guillot studied Clara for a moment, her gaze filled with the sincere sympathy of someone who knew the pain of loss. Of course she did. How many times had Mrs. Guillot grieved in her lifetime? “Well now, sweet thing, that’s two wishes. Go give one of them to Angelina.”
“Angelina?”
“Mm-hmm. You’ve been in New Orleans for a couple of months now. You haven’t heard of the weeping wall?”
The weeping wall. A strange tremble went down Clara’s spine. “No. Where is it?”
“Why, it’s at Windisle Plantation.”
Windisle Plantation. Clara took the duffle bag from her lap and placed it on the ground next to her chair, leaning forward slightly. “Will you tell me about it, Mrs. Guillot?”
Mrs. Guillot’s gaze moved away from Clara, out to the ancient magnolia tree that grew in the yard next door, its giant white blossoms and glossy green leaves shimmering in the last rays of the summer sun.
