The Wish Collector
Page 63
Clara spun around, hearing a sound behind her and suddenly not knowing where he was, or if that had been him at all. Had he left? Had he left her there in the darkness? Her heart jumped, sweat breaking over her skin. She was alone in the middle of a dark room.
She called his name again, taking a few steps, reaching for a wall, something, but only grabbing empty nothingness.
“Jonah,” she implored again, reaching for her flashlight, just wanting to aim it at the floor, to get her bearings. But when the light came on, a hand clasped her shoulder and she let out a small scream, instinctively sweeping the light up and directly into his uncovered face.
He’d been responding to her call, coming for her where she reached for him in the dark and now they both stood blinking at each other in the sudden light.
Oh God, what had she done? She cringed, the shock of her mistaken act of betrayal crashing over her. Jonah recovered from the sudden light at the same time she did, opening his eyes on her horrified expression. His gaze did a quick scan of her face, his own registering deep despair. Clara swore she saw his heart break right in front of her, and the stark pain in his eyes was like a blade to her heart.
“You promised,” he said brokenly.
“Jonah,” she whispered, reaching for him, taking in the face she’d longed to see forever. For a frozen moment, Clara stared, but not because she was horrified. She stared in the same way anyone who sees something different about a person seeks to understand and then put aside. And this wasn’t just any person. This was Jonah, her beloved.
In one sweeping moment, she saw that the damage to the left side of his face did more to highlight his beauty than anything.
The bones on that side of his face were easier to see, the skin stretched over them the way it was, his features pulled downward in a perpetual frown. And because of that, the strong structure of his face, the masculine elegance of his creation, was all the more obvious.
And not only that, but the scars and disfiguration on the one side only served to highlight the stunning nature of the other.
He was beauty and pain, glory and suffering, vengeance and grace, and all things made stronger and more meaningful because they have an opposite.
Jonah let out an animal sound of hurt, of devastation, turning from the light, from whatever was on Clara’s face that he’d surely misread.
“Get out!” he bellowed.
“Jonah, please. I didn’t mean to do that. You must know—”
“Get out!” he yelled even louder, making Clara jump as a small whimper escaped her throat. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“I’m so sorry, please, Jonah. It was a mistake.”
“We were a mistake.” His back was to her now, his face down, still hidden though she’d already seen and accepted it. It’d only taken but a moment.
“We were . . . No, you know that’s not true. We’re magic.” She reached for him but he stepped away.
He laughed, and it was an ugly sound full of hurt and the desire to inflict the same pain he was feeling.
“There's no magic, Clara.” He turned back to her, lifting his face to use as proof of his statement. “There are no ghosts in the garden. The wall doesn't weep. The stone absorbs water when it rains and then releases it as it dries. Jesus Christ. It's not magic. It's just science," he ended sharply. And with that, he turned again, walking away from her.
The door slammed as he left her there, crying in the dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Clara darlin’ what’s wrong?”
Clara stopped, turning toward Mrs. Guillot’s gate. She hadn’t seen the old woman because she’d been bent down, arranging several potted chrysanthemums near the front entrance.
“Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I’m sorry, I was lost in my own head.”
“I can see that. It doesn’t appear as if your thoughts are pleasant ones.”
“No, Mrs. Guillot. I’m afraid they’re not.”
Mrs. Guillot’s wrinkled forehead creased even more. “Things not going well with your masked gentleman?”
Despite herself, Clara smiled. Masked gentleman. But then her smile slipped as she recalled the way she’d accidentally exposed him, and then the last words he’d yelled at her before she’d raced from his property, out of the gate and into the street beyond.
She’d texted him another apology, a long message expressing her deep regret in the way she’d shined a light on him without his consent. But he hadn’t written back, and the silence that rang in her ears, his ignoring of her, was getting louder by the day. She was finding it harder and harder to take full breaths.
“I made a mistake, Mrs. Guillot.” Clara hesitated, wanting to tell the truth to the old woman—her friend—about who Jonah really was, about his scars, about the reasons he wore the mask, but she couldn’t do it.
She didn’t want to expose him any more than she already had, without his permission, even in any small way. “I . . . I hurt him. Deeply, I think. And he was already hurting.” A tear ran out of her eye before she could catch it. “It was a mistake, but he can’t forgive me.”
“Nonsense.”
“What?”
Mrs. Guillot made a clucking sound. “He can forgive you. You’re a kind girl who made a mistake she regrets. Your heart is hurting just as much as his. He can forgive you,” she repeated. “You just have to convince him.”
Clara sniffled on a small laugh. “That might be the tough part. He was a lawyer once. A very good one. He’s the convincing one. Not me.”
“Even better. He’ll respond to a good argument. But honey, you don’t need the best presentation skills in the world to make him see the light. The truth. You just need to put the love I see in your eyes, behind your words. Make him listen to you. And if he still pushes you away, you know you did your very best, with every ounce of love in your heart. And that is where you will find your peace. He will have to find his peace on his own, in his way.”
Clara stood straighter, feeling infused with the passion behind Mrs. Guillot’s words. She was right. And she’d reminded Clara that she’d never been one to give up—not on anything.
Be wary of the man with two faces, the fortune teller had said. He’ll hurt you if you let him.
Yes. Yes. Of course he would. Because broken people tended to break things, didn’t they?
Clara’s father had repeated part of the fortune teller’s line. But then he’d added, so don’t let him, because he believed in her that strongly. He always, always had and because of that belief—that deep, abounding, fatherly love—Clara had striven to make her dreams come true no matter the obstacles.
A shuddery breath went through Clara. She would not let him. She would fight for Jonah, and give him every reason to fight for himself, for them.
Clara leaned forward, and despite the short gate between them, she threw her arms around Mrs. Guillot. “I’m so lucky to know you,” she whispered, kissing her on her soft cheek before pulling away.
Mrs. Guillot laughed. “I’m lucky too, darlin’. And I’m here whenever you need me.”
Clara thanked her again and then headed toward her apartment, a new purposeful spring in her step.
Yes, Jonah had been a lawyer. He had argued for a living once upon a time. So I have to do better, she decided with conviction. She had to persuade him. She had to make him realize that she hadn’t meant to hurt him and his scars didn’t matter to her.
She’d been picturing him for the last four days, the way he’d looked illuminated by the light, the whole of his face revealed to her.
It’d taken a moment for her to merge the picture of the man he’d been, with the reality of his scarred and damaged face, but only a moment. He’d been beautiful to her and seeing him as he was hadn’t diminished her love for him, not in the least.
Clara unlocked her apartment door, throwing her dance bag on her couch and heading for the shower.
Even if he forgave her for what she’d done, Jonah was so convinced he’d be rejected if he walked through the world, that he wasn’t willing to budge. A good tactic for a lawyer who needed to exhibit passion and determination on the courtroom floor. A bad quality in a man who was wrong and needed to be willing to listen to someone else’s sound reasoning.
She called his name again, taking a few steps, reaching for a wall, something, but only grabbing empty nothingness.
“Jonah,” she implored again, reaching for her flashlight, just wanting to aim it at the floor, to get her bearings. But when the light came on, a hand clasped her shoulder and she let out a small scream, instinctively sweeping the light up and directly into his uncovered face.
He’d been responding to her call, coming for her where she reached for him in the dark and now they both stood blinking at each other in the sudden light.
Oh God, what had she done? She cringed, the shock of her mistaken act of betrayal crashing over her. Jonah recovered from the sudden light at the same time she did, opening his eyes on her horrified expression. His gaze did a quick scan of her face, his own registering deep despair. Clara swore she saw his heart break right in front of her, and the stark pain in his eyes was like a blade to her heart.
“You promised,” he said brokenly.
“Jonah,” she whispered, reaching for him, taking in the face she’d longed to see forever. For a frozen moment, Clara stared, but not because she was horrified. She stared in the same way anyone who sees something different about a person seeks to understand and then put aside. And this wasn’t just any person. This was Jonah, her beloved.
In one sweeping moment, she saw that the damage to the left side of his face did more to highlight his beauty than anything.
The bones on that side of his face were easier to see, the skin stretched over them the way it was, his features pulled downward in a perpetual frown. And because of that, the strong structure of his face, the masculine elegance of his creation, was all the more obvious.
And not only that, but the scars and disfiguration on the one side only served to highlight the stunning nature of the other.
He was beauty and pain, glory and suffering, vengeance and grace, and all things made stronger and more meaningful because they have an opposite.
Jonah let out an animal sound of hurt, of devastation, turning from the light, from whatever was on Clara’s face that he’d surely misread.
“Get out!” he bellowed.
“Jonah, please. I didn’t mean to do that. You must know—”
“Get out!” he yelled even louder, making Clara jump as a small whimper escaped her throat. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“I’m so sorry, please, Jonah. It was a mistake.”
“We were a mistake.” His back was to her now, his face down, still hidden though she’d already seen and accepted it. It’d only taken but a moment.
“We were . . . No, you know that’s not true. We’re magic.” She reached for him but he stepped away.
He laughed, and it was an ugly sound full of hurt and the desire to inflict the same pain he was feeling.
“There's no magic, Clara.” He turned back to her, lifting his face to use as proof of his statement. “There are no ghosts in the garden. The wall doesn't weep. The stone absorbs water when it rains and then releases it as it dries. Jesus Christ. It's not magic. It's just science," he ended sharply. And with that, he turned again, walking away from her.
The door slammed as he left her there, crying in the dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Clara darlin’ what’s wrong?”
Clara stopped, turning toward Mrs. Guillot’s gate. She hadn’t seen the old woman because she’d been bent down, arranging several potted chrysanthemums near the front entrance.
“Oh, Mrs. Guillot, I’m sorry, I was lost in my own head.”
“I can see that. It doesn’t appear as if your thoughts are pleasant ones.”
“No, Mrs. Guillot. I’m afraid they’re not.”
Mrs. Guillot’s wrinkled forehead creased even more. “Things not going well with your masked gentleman?”
Despite herself, Clara smiled. Masked gentleman. But then her smile slipped as she recalled the way she’d accidentally exposed him, and then the last words he’d yelled at her before she’d raced from his property, out of the gate and into the street beyond.
She’d texted him another apology, a long message expressing her deep regret in the way she’d shined a light on him without his consent. But he hadn’t written back, and the silence that rang in her ears, his ignoring of her, was getting louder by the day. She was finding it harder and harder to take full breaths.
“I made a mistake, Mrs. Guillot.” Clara hesitated, wanting to tell the truth to the old woman—her friend—about who Jonah really was, about his scars, about the reasons he wore the mask, but she couldn’t do it.
She didn’t want to expose him any more than she already had, without his permission, even in any small way. “I . . . I hurt him. Deeply, I think. And he was already hurting.” A tear ran out of her eye before she could catch it. “It was a mistake, but he can’t forgive me.”
“Nonsense.”
“What?”
Mrs. Guillot made a clucking sound. “He can forgive you. You’re a kind girl who made a mistake she regrets. Your heart is hurting just as much as his. He can forgive you,” she repeated. “You just have to convince him.”
Clara sniffled on a small laugh. “That might be the tough part. He was a lawyer once. A very good one. He’s the convincing one. Not me.”
“Even better. He’ll respond to a good argument. But honey, you don’t need the best presentation skills in the world to make him see the light. The truth. You just need to put the love I see in your eyes, behind your words. Make him listen to you. And if he still pushes you away, you know you did your very best, with every ounce of love in your heart. And that is where you will find your peace. He will have to find his peace on his own, in his way.”
Clara stood straighter, feeling infused with the passion behind Mrs. Guillot’s words. She was right. And she’d reminded Clara that she’d never been one to give up—not on anything.
Be wary of the man with two faces, the fortune teller had said. He’ll hurt you if you let him.
Yes. Yes. Of course he would. Because broken people tended to break things, didn’t they?
Clara’s father had repeated part of the fortune teller’s line. But then he’d added, so don’t let him, because he believed in her that strongly. He always, always had and because of that belief—that deep, abounding, fatherly love—Clara had striven to make her dreams come true no matter the obstacles.
A shuddery breath went through Clara. She would not let him. She would fight for Jonah, and give him every reason to fight for himself, for them.
Clara leaned forward, and despite the short gate between them, she threw her arms around Mrs. Guillot. “I’m so lucky to know you,” she whispered, kissing her on her soft cheek before pulling away.
Mrs. Guillot laughed. “I’m lucky too, darlin’. And I’m here whenever you need me.”
Clara thanked her again and then headed toward her apartment, a new purposeful spring in her step.
Yes, Jonah had been a lawyer. He had argued for a living once upon a time. So I have to do better, she decided with conviction. She had to persuade him. She had to make him realize that she hadn’t meant to hurt him and his scars didn’t matter to her.
She’d been picturing him for the last four days, the way he’d looked illuminated by the light, the whole of his face revealed to her.
It’d taken a moment for her to merge the picture of the man he’d been, with the reality of his scarred and damaged face, but only a moment. He’d been beautiful to her and seeing him as he was hadn’t diminished her love for him, not in the least.
Clara unlocked her apartment door, throwing her dance bag on her couch and heading for the shower.
Even if he forgave her for what she’d done, Jonah was so convinced he’d be rejected if he walked through the world, that he wasn’t willing to budge. A good tactic for a lawyer who needed to exhibit passion and determination on the courtroom floor. A bad quality in a man who was wrong and needed to be willing to listen to someone else’s sound reasoning.
