The Wish Collector
Page 24
But he couldn’t make it to the gate at the back of the property—the one she didn’t know about—without her seeing him. So he’d remain hidden until she went away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clara’s fingertips brushed the rough stone as she leaned her forehead against it, listening for him.
The slice of moon in the sky didn’t provide very much light, but enough that she could see he wasn’t in his usual spot. Not that she’d expected him to be, but still, she called his name, just in case.
She waited a moment but there was no answer. Was he sitting somewhere else close by? Against one of the massive trees on the other side of the wall, perhaps? She could feel him, she swore she could, only . . . well, that was silly. It was just this place, his place, and she was here now, and that was the reason for the warm prickly feeling on the underside of her skin that she associated with him.
She’d felt it in the park as she’d waited too though, and he hadn’t shown, so obviously the feeling was something unrelated to his presence—her own singular focus on him perhaps.
Still, just in case he could hear her, she needed to apologize, or maybe she just needed to voice her feelings out loud, here, against the wall where she’d felt so certain Angelina was sending them a sign.
“I’m sorry, Jonah.” She sighed. “I got carried away when the wall wept. I . . . I was pushy and selfish. I practically forced you to say you’d meet me and you probably weren’t ready.” Clara’s shoulders sagged. “You obviously weren’t ready. Do not feel bad about that. It was my fault.”
She was silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts in this place where honesty seemed to come more easily. “I’m your friend, and I should have taken more care with your fears. I should have . . . asked you what you were ready for instead of making plans.”
A soft rustling sound whispered from the thick greenery behind her and she turned her head, peering into it. A squirrel probably, or maybe just an errant breeze that hadn’t touched her where she stood.
She turned back to the wall. “I care about you, Jonah. I feel this . . . pull toward you that I’ve never felt before and you’re back there, and I’m out here and—” She broke off on a frustrated exhale. “But I will be your friend in whatever way you need me to be. I want you to know that. I just . . . want you to know that, and that’s all.”
She removed the slip of paper she’d written on as she’d sat in the diner deciding what to do and slipped it through a crack. She hoped Jonah would read it rather than just discarding it along with any other wishes he collected. My wish collector, she thought with a sad sigh.
Clara turned from the wall, pressing her back against it, the vegetation rustling again just as a cloud covered the small sliver of moon, causing the already thick shadows to merge and grow and come alive.
A shiver went down her spine, her skin prickling. Although she hadn’t seen anyone else on the street as she’d walked, adrenaline had kept her nerves at bay. But now . . . she felt watched and because it was from outside the wall, alarm rang within her.
She pulled out her phone and called for an Uber. A driver arrived ten minutes later but that feeling of being observed didn’t go away until Windisle faded from sight out of the rear window.
**********
The feeling of being watched persisted. Clara was being paranoid of course. She knew it for sure now because she was across town from Windisle, at rehearsal, and still the feeling was there.
It was late and she was tired, but Madame Fournier insisted they all stay until they did one perfect run-through.
Her muscles ached and her toes were bloody and blistered in her pointe shoes, but she knew the other dancers were experiencing the same pain, so she plastered a smile on her face and moved through the steps unflinchingly.
Marco lifted Clara in the air, his hand lingering on her backside a heartbeat longer than necessary and Clara shot him a narrow-eyed look before she twirled effortlessly, spinning away. She saw his wink at the moment before her head turned, her gaze finding her spot.
Movement in the back of the theater caught her eye and she stumbled slightly, catching herself and glancing at Madame Fournier who, thank the heavens, was looking in a different direction.
A man—she could only make out his tall outline—stepped around the corner. Just a custodian, or someone there to pick up one of the dancers, she guessed, but her stumble reminded her she needed to focus if they were all going to get out of there at a decent hour.
After what felt like forever and a day, Madame Fournier clapped her hands twice, telling them rehearsal was over and that she’d see them the next day. Thank you, God of Blistered Feet, she thought with a small wince.
Clara grabbed her bag, pulled sweats on over her tights, and changed her shoes quickly.
The other dancers groaned and stretched and commiserated about sore muscles and backaches as Clara ducked out of the theater. The door closed heavily behind her and she made her way to the corner bus stop, pulling out her phone as she walked. No missed calls. Her heart sank, though she hadn’t truly expected that he’d call.
As she’d slipped her number through a crack in the wall after racing back from the diner, she’d wondered why she hadn’t given him her phone number before. But then she realized that she had wanted to visit him at Windisle.
Giving him her number might have made her visits seem unnecessary when she enjoyed everything about sitting on the other side of the weeping wall and listening to him as he spoke right next to her ear, his melodic tone dancing over the wall and settling around her like a comforting caress.
But in any case, he hadn’t called.
Maybe he didn’t have a phone, or had no desire to turn it back on if he’d shut it off when he’d gone to live at Windisle. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to her anymore at all.
Sadness pierced her, indecision close on its heels. Should she return so she could make an apology, this time one he actually heard? What if he hadn’t opened the slip of paper she’d meant for him? What if—
Clara groaned, massaging her temples as if doing so could stop her from obsessing about Jonah. She’d been doing just that—for one reason or another—since she’d met him, and she needed a break.
She should pick up a bottle of wine and drown her sorrows alone in her apartment, but she’d never been much of a drinker. There was another rehearsal bright and early the next morning, and if she hurried, she had just enough time to make it to the costume shop she’d looked up online earlier that day.
The night was humid and damp, the rain sprinkling the dirty windows as Clara rode the bus to the French Quarter.
The masquerade ball was part of her job and she needed to make sure she had something appropriate to wear rather than waiting until the final hour and finding herself with very limited options. Although she supposed two days in advance was the final hour and she said a silent prayer that the right costume would be waiting for her.
The sidewalks were filled with laughing, chattering people leaving restaurants and entering and exiting tourist shops, some wearing bright-colored boas and carrying colorful drinks in their hands.
It seemed that in New Orleans there was always a party going on somewhere no matter the time or the day of the week. Clara could get happily lost down here, people-watching and wandering from shop to shop.
A man laughed boisterously, bumping into Clara, the large plastic cup he was holding in his hand tipping precariously. He managed to right it but not before several drops splattered. The man raised his brows in apology, but continued grinning, as he ducked by.
“Crap,” she muttered, stepping into a doorway and brushing at the bright red droplets staining the front of the pink leotard she was still wearing under her light zip-up sweatshirt.
She sighed, pulling her sweatshirt closed and looking up at the door in front of her. Madame Catoire’s Palm and Spiritual Readings: Past, Present, Future.
Clara hesitated, curiosity getting the best of her as she leaned toward the smoky glass, gazing into the tiny shop.
She could see tables inside holding small trinkets and candles and other items and after a short hesitation, Clara pulled the door open to the sound of a tinkling bell and stepped inside.
It smelled smoky and cloyingly sweet, and what sounded like wind chimes and piano music filtered softly from somewhere beyond.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clara’s fingertips brushed the rough stone as she leaned her forehead against it, listening for him.
The slice of moon in the sky didn’t provide very much light, but enough that she could see he wasn’t in his usual spot. Not that she’d expected him to be, but still, she called his name, just in case.
She waited a moment but there was no answer. Was he sitting somewhere else close by? Against one of the massive trees on the other side of the wall, perhaps? She could feel him, she swore she could, only . . . well, that was silly. It was just this place, his place, and she was here now, and that was the reason for the warm prickly feeling on the underside of her skin that she associated with him.
She’d felt it in the park as she’d waited too though, and he hadn’t shown, so obviously the feeling was something unrelated to his presence—her own singular focus on him perhaps.
Still, just in case he could hear her, she needed to apologize, or maybe she just needed to voice her feelings out loud, here, against the wall where she’d felt so certain Angelina was sending them a sign.
“I’m sorry, Jonah.” She sighed. “I got carried away when the wall wept. I . . . I was pushy and selfish. I practically forced you to say you’d meet me and you probably weren’t ready.” Clara’s shoulders sagged. “You obviously weren’t ready. Do not feel bad about that. It was my fault.”
She was silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts in this place where honesty seemed to come more easily. “I’m your friend, and I should have taken more care with your fears. I should have . . . asked you what you were ready for instead of making plans.”
A soft rustling sound whispered from the thick greenery behind her and she turned her head, peering into it. A squirrel probably, or maybe just an errant breeze that hadn’t touched her where she stood.
She turned back to the wall. “I care about you, Jonah. I feel this . . . pull toward you that I’ve never felt before and you’re back there, and I’m out here and—” She broke off on a frustrated exhale. “But I will be your friend in whatever way you need me to be. I want you to know that. I just . . . want you to know that, and that’s all.”
She removed the slip of paper she’d written on as she’d sat in the diner deciding what to do and slipped it through a crack. She hoped Jonah would read it rather than just discarding it along with any other wishes he collected. My wish collector, she thought with a sad sigh.
Clara turned from the wall, pressing her back against it, the vegetation rustling again just as a cloud covered the small sliver of moon, causing the already thick shadows to merge and grow and come alive.
A shiver went down her spine, her skin prickling. Although she hadn’t seen anyone else on the street as she’d walked, adrenaline had kept her nerves at bay. But now . . . she felt watched and because it was from outside the wall, alarm rang within her.
She pulled out her phone and called for an Uber. A driver arrived ten minutes later but that feeling of being observed didn’t go away until Windisle faded from sight out of the rear window.
**********
The feeling of being watched persisted. Clara was being paranoid of course. She knew it for sure now because she was across town from Windisle, at rehearsal, and still the feeling was there.
It was late and she was tired, but Madame Fournier insisted they all stay until they did one perfect run-through.
Her muscles ached and her toes were bloody and blistered in her pointe shoes, but she knew the other dancers were experiencing the same pain, so she plastered a smile on her face and moved through the steps unflinchingly.
Marco lifted Clara in the air, his hand lingering on her backside a heartbeat longer than necessary and Clara shot him a narrow-eyed look before she twirled effortlessly, spinning away. She saw his wink at the moment before her head turned, her gaze finding her spot.
Movement in the back of the theater caught her eye and she stumbled slightly, catching herself and glancing at Madame Fournier who, thank the heavens, was looking in a different direction.
A man—she could only make out his tall outline—stepped around the corner. Just a custodian, or someone there to pick up one of the dancers, she guessed, but her stumble reminded her she needed to focus if they were all going to get out of there at a decent hour.
After what felt like forever and a day, Madame Fournier clapped her hands twice, telling them rehearsal was over and that she’d see them the next day. Thank you, God of Blistered Feet, she thought with a small wince.
Clara grabbed her bag, pulled sweats on over her tights, and changed her shoes quickly.
The other dancers groaned and stretched and commiserated about sore muscles and backaches as Clara ducked out of the theater. The door closed heavily behind her and she made her way to the corner bus stop, pulling out her phone as she walked. No missed calls. Her heart sank, though she hadn’t truly expected that he’d call.
As she’d slipped her number through a crack in the wall after racing back from the diner, she’d wondered why she hadn’t given him her phone number before. But then she realized that she had wanted to visit him at Windisle.
Giving him her number might have made her visits seem unnecessary when she enjoyed everything about sitting on the other side of the weeping wall and listening to him as he spoke right next to her ear, his melodic tone dancing over the wall and settling around her like a comforting caress.
But in any case, he hadn’t called.
Maybe he didn’t have a phone, or had no desire to turn it back on if he’d shut it off when he’d gone to live at Windisle. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to her anymore at all.
Sadness pierced her, indecision close on its heels. Should she return so she could make an apology, this time one he actually heard? What if he hadn’t opened the slip of paper she’d meant for him? What if—
Clara groaned, massaging her temples as if doing so could stop her from obsessing about Jonah. She’d been doing just that—for one reason or another—since she’d met him, and she needed a break.
She should pick up a bottle of wine and drown her sorrows alone in her apartment, but she’d never been much of a drinker. There was another rehearsal bright and early the next morning, and if she hurried, she had just enough time to make it to the costume shop she’d looked up online earlier that day.
The night was humid and damp, the rain sprinkling the dirty windows as Clara rode the bus to the French Quarter.
The masquerade ball was part of her job and she needed to make sure she had something appropriate to wear rather than waiting until the final hour and finding herself with very limited options. Although she supposed two days in advance was the final hour and she said a silent prayer that the right costume would be waiting for her.
The sidewalks were filled with laughing, chattering people leaving restaurants and entering and exiting tourist shops, some wearing bright-colored boas and carrying colorful drinks in their hands.
It seemed that in New Orleans there was always a party going on somewhere no matter the time or the day of the week. Clara could get happily lost down here, people-watching and wandering from shop to shop.
A man laughed boisterously, bumping into Clara, the large plastic cup he was holding in his hand tipping precariously. He managed to right it but not before several drops splattered. The man raised his brows in apology, but continued grinning, as he ducked by.
“Crap,” she muttered, stepping into a doorway and brushing at the bright red droplets staining the front of the pink leotard she was still wearing under her light zip-up sweatshirt.
She sighed, pulling her sweatshirt closed and looking up at the door in front of her. Madame Catoire’s Palm and Spiritual Readings: Past, Present, Future.
Clara hesitated, curiosity getting the best of her as she leaned toward the smoky glass, gazing into the tiny shop.
She could see tables inside holding small trinkets and candles and other items and after a short hesitation, Clara pulled the door open to the sound of a tinkling bell and stepped inside.
It smelled smoky and cloyingly sweet, and what sounded like wind chimes and piano music filtered softly from somewhere beyond.
