The Wish Collector
Page 72
Jonah gave one of the tickets to a bored ticket taker, who didn’t even glance up at him and entered the theater, the outer hall deserted except for a beautiful woman with long, dark curly hair to her waist standing behind a coffee counter. There was a vase of white roses in front of her and Jonah hesitated but then turned, approaching her.
She took in his mask, but didn’t comment on it, instead asking, “We sold out of baked goods during intermission, but there’s still a cup or two of hot coffee if you’d like one?” She looked tired, but there was unmistakable pride shining from her eyes.
Jonah shook his head. “Can I buy one of those roses?”
She looked slightly confused, but plucked one from the vase, handing it to him. Jonah dug a twenty out of his pocket and threw it on the counter. “Thanks.”
Jonah could hear the music from behind the doors in front of him and his heart thrummed in his chest, beckoning him forward. Toward Clara.
He pushed the doors to the darkened theater open, the music swelling as he ducked inside.
All eyes were cast on the stage as he took his seat and he only received a few second glances from the people directly around him. But then they turned their attention back to the performance and Jonah did as well.
He lost himself in the story, in the heart-squeezing beauty of Clara’s dancing, in the pride he felt in her, soaring inside of him along with the musical notes.
Right then, he didn’t love her for how she made him feel, or how she’d inspired him, or anything else that had to do with himself. For that moment in time, Jonah just loved her for her, for Clara, for the woman who had spent hour after hour practicing so resolutely that she danced like an angel. For her heart, for her mind, for all the ways she made the world a better place by being in it. He loved her purely, deeply, and with every fiber of his being.
Keep your eyes on me.
The show came to an end, Jonah’s anxiety returning, flooding through his body and causing his heart to pound against his ribs.
The lights came on as the audience stood, bravos being flung into the air, whistles rising high above the crowd. Jonah focused on breathing, his eyes never leaving the swan who emerged with the other dancers, smiling that smile he hoped to see every day for the rest of his life. Please. Please.
The audience began sitting, those around him taking their seats and beginning to gather their things. But Jonah remained standing as the dancers began leaving the stage, the stage lights dimming.
Murmurs began, then whispers as the audience members noticed him standing there alone in his mask.
The swan, Clara, hesitated and then turned, her gaze locking with his, eyes growing wide. Her lips parted and she walked back toward the center of the stage, the other dancers stopping and turning their heads to watch her.
Jonah stood in the audience looking up at her, breathing heavily under the rubber of the mask, and Clara stood on stage, a singular spotlight on her as she peered back at him. Waiting.
Keep your eyes on me.
He heard the whispers now. They broke through his fear, his uncertainty.
Oh my God. It’s the do-gooder. Have you heard of him?
That guy who goes around helping people?
What’s he doing here?
I think he’s here for her. The dancer.
Oh God, what would they think when he revealed himself?
Keep your eyes on me.
Jonah reached up and the whole auditorium seemed to still as he pulled the mask up and off, dropping it on the floor beside him as he took in a shuddery breath.
Clara grinned, putting her hands over her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks.
There was a collective gasp in the theater as people took in his damaged face, but he didn’t turn his gaze to any of them. He kept his eyes on her for another frozen moment as she walked to the edge of the stage, as close to him as she could get.
Who . . . who is he? He looks familiar somehow.
How do you think he got those scars?
I don’t know. But this is one story I’ve gotta hear.
He saw flashes in his peripheral vision. People were taking pictures, recording this moment, documenting it for all time. Keep your eyes on me.
“Step on me!” one of the audience members said, and confused, Jonah finally broke eye contact with Clara to look at a guy who was offering Clara his back so she could step off the stage.
Clara laughed through her tears as several other men turned, beckoning her forward. She took the first step, the audience reaching their hands up to help her stay stable as she crowd-surfed toward him.
Jonah laughed, braving a glance at a woman next to him and seeing that instead of horror, she had a look of wonder on her face.
Clara drew nearer, and he held out his arms for her, grasping her as she slid down his body, tears still coursing down her cheeks, mixing with the heavy makeup she had on, several thick black trails marring her cheeks. She looked like a mess and he loved her so much it hurt.
He handed her both the white and red roses and she blinked, her face crumbling for a moment before she laughed with joy.
She brought her hands to his face, gripping him, the whole of him, and he leaned forward, their foreheads coming together gently. “I love you.”
She sniffled, laughing, another black trail making its way down her face. “I love you too. My wish collector.”
“I have so much to tell you, Clara. You won’t even believe—”
She ran a thumb over his lips. “I will believe.”
He smiled against her thumb. Of course she’d believe. She always had. In Angelina. In justice. In him.
Jonah kissed her as the flashes continued to blink around them, the audience standing again, the claps beginning slowly and then swelling into an ovation that this time, was for them.
For love.
For magic.
For impossible wishes that somehow came true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Dear Angelina,
I am entrusting this letter to my friend and comrade, Timothy Mansfield, and know in all faith that he will read it to you and that you, my love, shall hear my voice and cast aside any doubts that my absence has created.
I love you, Angelina Loreaux. I love you with the whole of my heart and every ounce of my soul. Neither time, nor distance, nor a million smoke-filled battlefields stretched before me will ever deter me from returning to you and loving you until every last star falls from the sky.
I am risking greatly in the fight for your freedom—and for my own, for if you are not free to love me, my life is without meaning—a fight of which I cannot speak just yet. But have faith, my love. Believe that the world can change, and that indeed it will change.
Your eternal love, John
EPILOGUE
Twinkle lights sparkled in the trees around them, casting the rose garden in a romantic glow.
Jonah took Clara’s hand in his as they walked the cobblestone path, the sweet, sultry fragrance of roses swirling in the evening air.
From the open balconies, voices and laughter could be heard, and Jonah’s lips curved into a smile as he glanced toward the place that had once been his self-made prison and was now one of his greatest sources of pride.
He stopped and turned toward his wife, pulling her against him and smiling down into her lovely face.
“You get more beautiful by the day,” he said, letting go of her waist and taking her hands so he could step back and look at her.
She laughed, moving from side to side so that her black, lace dress swirled around her legs. She looked as though she felt beautiful. Loved. As she should for she was both.
She moved forward, bringing her hand to his scarred cheek. “So do you,” she murmured, kissing him softly. And then she smiled, that smile that lit up his entire world.
Inside Windisle, the event being hosted by the Historic Preservation Society was just getting started. Clara and Jonah had wanted a few moments to themselves before dinner, so they’d escaped to the garden.
It had been five years since Jonah had gifted Windisle to the society. He and Clara had both agreed it was the right thing to do to preserve history and all that had happened behind the weeping wall.
The society, thrilled with the gift, had worked tirelessly to bring Windisle back to its former glory. They’d made the necessary repairs to the house—including fixing the rotting slave cabins—using artisans and craftsmen dedicated to preserving and presenting the story of Windisle, one of the American South's most important legacy homes.
She took in his mask, but didn’t comment on it, instead asking, “We sold out of baked goods during intermission, but there’s still a cup or two of hot coffee if you’d like one?” She looked tired, but there was unmistakable pride shining from her eyes.
Jonah shook his head. “Can I buy one of those roses?”
She looked slightly confused, but plucked one from the vase, handing it to him. Jonah dug a twenty out of his pocket and threw it on the counter. “Thanks.”
Jonah could hear the music from behind the doors in front of him and his heart thrummed in his chest, beckoning him forward. Toward Clara.
He pushed the doors to the darkened theater open, the music swelling as he ducked inside.
All eyes were cast on the stage as he took his seat and he only received a few second glances from the people directly around him. But then they turned their attention back to the performance and Jonah did as well.
He lost himself in the story, in the heart-squeezing beauty of Clara’s dancing, in the pride he felt in her, soaring inside of him along with the musical notes.
Right then, he didn’t love her for how she made him feel, or how she’d inspired him, or anything else that had to do with himself. For that moment in time, Jonah just loved her for her, for Clara, for the woman who had spent hour after hour practicing so resolutely that she danced like an angel. For her heart, for her mind, for all the ways she made the world a better place by being in it. He loved her purely, deeply, and with every fiber of his being.
Keep your eyes on me.
The show came to an end, Jonah’s anxiety returning, flooding through his body and causing his heart to pound against his ribs.
The lights came on as the audience stood, bravos being flung into the air, whistles rising high above the crowd. Jonah focused on breathing, his eyes never leaving the swan who emerged with the other dancers, smiling that smile he hoped to see every day for the rest of his life. Please. Please.
The audience began sitting, those around him taking their seats and beginning to gather their things. But Jonah remained standing as the dancers began leaving the stage, the stage lights dimming.
Murmurs began, then whispers as the audience members noticed him standing there alone in his mask.
The swan, Clara, hesitated and then turned, her gaze locking with his, eyes growing wide. Her lips parted and she walked back toward the center of the stage, the other dancers stopping and turning their heads to watch her.
Jonah stood in the audience looking up at her, breathing heavily under the rubber of the mask, and Clara stood on stage, a singular spotlight on her as she peered back at him. Waiting.
Keep your eyes on me.
He heard the whispers now. They broke through his fear, his uncertainty.
Oh my God. It’s the do-gooder. Have you heard of him?
That guy who goes around helping people?
What’s he doing here?
I think he’s here for her. The dancer.
Oh God, what would they think when he revealed himself?
Keep your eyes on me.
Jonah reached up and the whole auditorium seemed to still as he pulled the mask up and off, dropping it on the floor beside him as he took in a shuddery breath.
Clara grinned, putting her hands over her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks.
There was a collective gasp in the theater as people took in his damaged face, but he didn’t turn his gaze to any of them. He kept his eyes on her for another frozen moment as she walked to the edge of the stage, as close to him as she could get.
Who . . . who is he? He looks familiar somehow.
How do you think he got those scars?
I don’t know. But this is one story I’ve gotta hear.
He saw flashes in his peripheral vision. People were taking pictures, recording this moment, documenting it for all time. Keep your eyes on me.
“Step on me!” one of the audience members said, and confused, Jonah finally broke eye contact with Clara to look at a guy who was offering Clara his back so she could step off the stage.
Clara laughed through her tears as several other men turned, beckoning her forward. She took the first step, the audience reaching their hands up to help her stay stable as she crowd-surfed toward him.
Jonah laughed, braving a glance at a woman next to him and seeing that instead of horror, she had a look of wonder on her face.
Clara drew nearer, and he held out his arms for her, grasping her as she slid down his body, tears still coursing down her cheeks, mixing with the heavy makeup she had on, several thick black trails marring her cheeks. She looked like a mess and he loved her so much it hurt.
He handed her both the white and red roses and she blinked, her face crumbling for a moment before she laughed with joy.
She brought her hands to his face, gripping him, the whole of him, and he leaned forward, their foreheads coming together gently. “I love you.”
She sniffled, laughing, another black trail making its way down her face. “I love you too. My wish collector.”
“I have so much to tell you, Clara. You won’t even believe—”
She ran a thumb over his lips. “I will believe.”
He smiled against her thumb. Of course she’d believe. She always had. In Angelina. In justice. In him.
Jonah kissed her as the flashes continued to blink around them, the audience standing again, the claps beginning slowly and then swelling into an ovation that this time, was for them.
For love.
For magic.
For impossible wishes that somehow came true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Dear Angelina,
I am entrusting this letter to my friend and comrade, Timothy Mansfield, and know in all faith that he will read it to you and that you, my love, shall hear my voice and cast aside any doubts that my absence has created.
I love you, Angelina Loreaux. I love you with the whole of my heart and every ounce of my soul. Neither time, nor distance, nor a million smoke-filled battlefields stretched before me will ever deter me from returning to you and loving you until every last star falls from the sky.
I am risking greatly in the fight for your freedom—and for my own, for if you are not free to love me, my life is without meaning—a fight of which I cannot speak just yet. But have faith, my love. Believe that the world can change, and that indeed it will change.
Your eternal love, John
EPILOGUE
Twinkle lights sparkled in the trees around them, casting the rose garden in a romantic glow.
Jonah took Clara’s hand in his as they walked the cobblestone path, the sweet, sultry fragrance of roses swirling in the evening air.
From the open balconies, voices and laughter could be heard, and Jonah’s lips curved into a smile as he glanced toward the place that had once been his self-made prison and was now one of his greatest sources of pride.
He stopped and turned toward his wife, pulling her against him and smiling down into her lovely face.
“You get more beautiful by the day,” he said, letting go of her waist and taking her hands so he could step back and look at her.
She laughed, moving from side to side so that her black, lace dress swirled around her legs. She looked as though she felt beautiful. Loved. As she should for she was both.
She moved forward, bringing her hand to his scarred cheek. “So do you,” she murmured, kissing him softly. And then she smiled, that smile that lit up his entire world.
Inside Windisle, the event being hosted by the Historic Preservation Society was just getting started. Clara and Jonah had wanted a few moments to themselves before dinner, so they’d escaped to the garden.
It had been five years since Jonah had gifted Windisle to the society. He and Clara had both agreed it was the right thing to do to preserve history and all that had happened behind the weeping wall.
The society, thrilled with the gift, had worked tirelessly to bring Windisle back to its former glory. They’d made the necessary repairs to the house—including fixing the rotting slave cabins—using artisans and craftsmen dedicated to preserving and presenting the story of Windisle, one of the American South's most important legacy homes.
