Illuminate (31 page)

“I was mostly working—the photos, you know—and then I passed out, I was so tired.”

“Think, Haven. There’s so much you can do.”

“I guess I’m not sure exactly what you want from me.”

He leaned in and whispered in my ear, his hot breath sending chills sweeping across my skin, my scars alive and stinging. “Your soul,” he said. “Please give me your soul.”

He kissed me again, quick and soft, right there in that hallway. I was so stunned that I didn’t kiss back. It sounded like something poets of another time might write to someone they loved. But then the romance lifted: there was another layer there, a hard-edged undertone to his voice, far different than last night. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I had changed a lot since then. I had to question everything now, even those things that only days earlier I would have given my life to hear coming from a mouth like his. He squeezed my hand.

“Tonight I want to see you.” It was a command masquerading as sweet infatuation. Before I could say anything, he kissed my cheek once more, then placed the bag back in my hand, my fingers almost forgetting to grip. My mind raced. As he turned and walked away with his hands in his pockets, I let myself in through the back kitchen door and found Lance already seated at one of the tables, boxes of chocolates stacked up and a plate with two cupcakes.

“Waiting long? Sorry about that.”

“No sweat,” he said, slouched in his seat. I set down the bag with all the supplies and he began taking them out, organizing them into piles.

“What’s this?” I pointed to the cupcakes, chocolate frosting with the logo in red script as a solid shiny slab of sugar.

“From Dante.”

A peace offering? It gave me hope. “How’d he seem?”

“Not tired, that’s for sure. I don’t know how he does it—he hasn’t been sleeping. He’s running the kitchen over there, barking orders at people, no sign of Etan. I think there’s a potential child labor law violation here.”

“But he was . . . okay?”

He just nodded, looking confused by my questions, and I couldn’t blame him. I let it go.

Lance and I made the deliveries together again even though there were only a handful this time. I liked the idea that as long as this business of being a messenger service continued, we would be guaranteed a field trip outside every day. For the first time in my life, I was beginning to understand what people meant when they said they needed to “clear their heads.” It wasn’t until I stepped outside the hotel that I felt every muscle de-tense. Once set free, my mind seized on entirely new concerns that had slipped through the cracks. It occurred to me I hadn’t called Joan in ages. Though we had managed to e-mail a little bit, enough so she knew I was alive and well, I would have to phone her later.

We found our destinations more quickly than we had yesterday and with hardly any wrong turns. Progress. But we were mostly quiet in our travels today. Lance seemed perfectly himself, but I had too much fluttering around madly in my mind to be able to handle actual conversation. And in no time, we were back at the hotel, where it all faced me again.

Though a placard out front said the gallery was “Temporarily Closed,” my keycard worked in the door now.

“I guess we’re in,” I said, opening up.

“What’s this?” Lance crouched, grabbing a slip of hotel-logoed paper that had been slipped under the door. As I walked in, he followed me, reading aloud.

“‘H & L: up for being guinea pigs? Shepherd’s pie—with wild boar instead of lamb—for lunch, in the Parlor fridge. Bon appétit! Dante.’ I’m starved, which must be the only reason that sounds remotely good.”

We stopped walking.

“Whoa,” I said, staring straight ahead at the wall that once displayed Outfit photos. It was entirely blank. Lance’s eyes were still on the note.

“Wild boar could be gross, I guess,” he said. “I don’t know—” He looked up at last. “They don’t mess around.”

“It must’ve been pretty bad. I wonder what happened.”

We stood there, staring at the empty expanse. I couldn’t help but take it at least a little bit personally. I had been so proud of those pictures. And now . . . nothing. Why couldn’t the vandals have gotten to something else? That was a pretty selfish thing to think, but still. Lance seemed to connect the dots leading to my silence.

“It’s too bad. Maybe it just means they had really good taste in photography.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” Suddenly, I heard the tapping, soft and muted against the glass. I turned toward the door and saw that man Neil Marlinson standing there, peering in with his hands up for a clearer view. He waved and smiled at me. The show of familiarity didn’t escape Lance’s notice.

“Who’s that? Your much-older secret boyfriend?”

“Yep, my sugar daddy. You know how it goes.”

“I should’ve known. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“You would know.”

“Funny. And true.”

“No, he’s just this guy who came by yesterday to buy the photo of Aurelia,” I explained as we neared the door. “But I guess that’s not gonna happen now.”

“Shake him down, sell him something else.”

“You sound like Aurelia.”

“Really?” He looked impressed with himself.

“You’re welcome.”

Lance opened up the door and looked at the man, then walked past him and stood there, hovering for just a moment.

“Hi. Haven, right?”

“Hi, Mr. Marlinson.” I looked over his shoulder to Lance. “I’ll catch up with you, go on and get started without me.” He gave a shy wave, walking toward the Parlor for lunch.

“Sorry to be pounding down the door,” Neil said, polite and mannered, but real, not smooth the way so many of the people here could be.

“No, don’t be silly,” I said. “I had been meaning to check in with you, but it was sort of a strange morning.” I gestured toward the
CLOSED
sign.

“I guess so, from what I’ve gathered.”

“Yeah. And I’m afraid that photograph isn’t for sale after all now, the one you wanted. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” His voice fell and his eyes clouded over. “That’s too bad.”

“I’m really sorry.” I paused. “It was somehow damaged or something so I’m afraid we’re not selling it now. But was there anything else you’d seen and liked? The owner would love to give you an excellent deal on something else, anything else.”

He was silent for what felt like a remarkably long time. Finally, he said, “No, no, that’s all right. I really just wanted that one. It reminded me of someone . . .” He trailed off. “It looked just like her. Just, just like her. You know when you see something and it just sends the memories flooding back?” He said it like he was talking to himself, thinking aloud. I didn’t say a word. Recovering, he shook his head and tried to smile. “I’m sorry, you must think I’m crazy. And old. And too nostalgic for my own good.” He laughed to himself softly. “Thank you for trying.”

“Sorry,” I offered. I wished I could say something more comforting. “But if you change your mind, please come back.”

“I will. Thank you.” He walked away with his head hung low, brokenhearted, it seemed. I wasn’t hungry so I returned to my little office and did a search for the clips talking up the hotel—the stories by the writers we’d just delivered gifts to, and got them set in case Aurelia wanted them flashing over the front desk today. Then I uploaded the pictures I’d taken at the Vault. There were even more than I imagined, and so many were good. All these beautiful people having the time of their lives. The ones from within the ring of fire were, of course, the best. That flame gave everyone a lovely pink glow, and through the natural selection at work within the club, they just ended up being the most perfect specimens.

I selected fifty shots and printed them and then I got to thinking: shouldn’t I just print out a copy of that shot for Mr. Marlinson? It certainly wouldn’t be such a giant, knock-you-out size like the other one or glossy or framed or any of that—but obviously it meant something to him, so maybe I could do that much. It would be a stand-in for the original, the way I had left the Art Institute with a postcard of
La Jeune Martyre.
Just as I pulled up that photo of Aurelia and hit Print, Lance shuffled back in, dragging his feet, and slunk down onto the chair in the corner.

“I don’t feel good,” he winced, clutching his stomach.

I turned around in my seat to face him.

“No offense, but you don’t look so good. ” His skin had taken on a sickly, sweaty sheen and he had gone ashen. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

“I feel like I’m going to die.”

“Was it the boar?”

“I don’t know. Technically, food poisoning generally takes a bit longer to set in, so I’m not sure what’s going on,” he slurred, squirming in pain. “And it actually tasted really good.” He paused. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

With my foot, I pushed the small metal trash can over to him. “You should go lie down, I mean, if you can make it back to your room. Do you think you can? I can walk you down.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Slowly, he inched himself up. “But, are you sure? I know I have to do those photos and everything.”

“Forget it, it’s okay, really. Go. Please.”

His eyes were barely open. They looked like mail slots in a front door.

“Thanks,” he whispered and, hunched over, trudged out of the office. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll do it, promise. If you want to leave it for me . . .” He kept talking even as he clomped away, his heavy footsteps getting fainter as he made it out the door. I kept watching in his direction even after he was long gone, wondering if I should’ve gone with him. It was probably how he’d felt that night when I went to the drugstore. I would be sure to check on him later.

Back in my office, I took my place at my desk and pulled out a blank sheet of printer paper—it was either this or Aurelia’s stationery, which definitely didn’t seem right. I began scribbling:

Dear Mr. Marlinson:

I know it’s not quite the same, but I thought you might like this.

Yours,

Haven

I tucked the note and the printed photo into a manila envelope. I got his room number from the front desk and slid it under his door.

In search of comfort, I ducked into my room, plucked my cell phone from my bag, grabbed my coat and escaped outside, finding a spot along the cold brick of the side of the hotel. A hiding spot, a place to catch my breath even as the wind knocked it out of me.

Joan answered immediately, a torrent of excitement and gratitude at hearing my voice. It warmed me in the deep freeze and darkening sky of this late afternoon.

“Haven, honey! How are you? How was the big opening? I read all about it in the
Trib.
You’re right in the thick of things there, aren’t you? They covered it on the evening news too! The ladies at the hospital are so excited. So tell me, tell me, how was it?”

“Yeah, it was fine.” I realized as soon as it came out that it wasn’t nearly gushy enough for her. There was a pause; she was clearly waiting for more.

“Fine? That’s all I get? C’mon, Hav, let me live vicariously, at least a little, for god’s sake.”

“No, yeah, I’m sorry. Of course, it was great. My mentor here gave me a pretty flapper dress to wear—”

“That Aurelia woman? I saw her on TV. She’s gorgeous. These people are unreal, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, a little bit.”

“So she gave you a dress . . .” She dragged it out, waiting for me to expand.

“Yeah and she did my hair and makeup and all.”

“Oh! I do hope you got pictures.”

I thought about it and had to laugh: it hadn’t even occurred to me to document that night for myself. “You know, I forgot actually. It was a busy night.”

“Oh well, I’m sure there’ll be other chances.”

“Sure.” Cars whizzed around the corner, careening past each other; one started honking, and then another answered with one long, loud relentless blare. A steady stream of cabs dropped off the afterwork cocktail crowd and early diners, and spirited away other guests waiting beneath the awning to take them to plays or concerts or elsewhere amid the city’s bright lights. All so exciting. And then there was me—outside for the second time today and yet trapped by some unknown demons, by mysterious threats from a strange book, by the notion that I was some kind of odd entity that had to be controlled. Yet I couldn’t quite permit myself to share any of this with one of the few people in the world who might be capable of making me feel better.

“Honey, you don’t sound like you. Is everything okay? Is this because it was Valentine’s Day? It’s okay, you’ll have so many years ahead of you filled with incredible Valentine’s Days.”

“No, that’s not, I mean, I sort of . . .” It was impossible to reduce this to a digestible sound bite, it was all just too complicated. “Never mind.”

“It’s hard to never mind
now.
”

“Try to never mind?” I pleaded.

“All right, I can tell you don’t want to talk.”

“Thanks.”

“Say, do you think you might have time for a lunch one of these days? I could come down, take you out to Water Tower Place or the Cheesecake Factory or something? I miss you, honey.”

“I know, me too. Maybe soon, okay? It’s just been . . . busy.” I knew if I saw her I would crumble.

“Okay then, I’ll let it go this time, but I’m going to try again in another couple weeks and I’m not going to take no for an answer then.”

“Fair enough.” I laughed.

“I just worry. You sound awfully tired and overworked.”

“I’m fine, promise. Love you, Joan.”

“Love you too, dear.”

On the way back to my room, I stopped into the Parlor kitchen. It was peak time there, cocktail hour. I offered a shy smile to the chefs chopping and sizzling and plating up their precious bits of classy bar food. What I would’ve given to reach over and steal a cone of those logo-shaped crispy french fries, or, rather,
frites,
as they called them here. But instead, I peeked into the fridge for a quick glimpse of the shepherd’s pie I’d skipped out on earlier. I’d never had shepherd’s pie before but it sure was a funny-looking thing: a layer of saucy meatiness topped with a cloud of mashed potato. Hmmm. Maybe not. I grabbed an apple and bottle of water and pulled down the half-full box of Lucky Charms, then slipped out the back door as quickly and quietly as I’d slipped in.