Page 23 of Whispers of Torment

Again, he stared through the large windows at the California wine country, so foreign to him and far, far away from Virginia. Nathan’s heart swelled with hope. Eventually John LeClair would wish to return home with Lillian, and when he did, Nathan would be waiting.

“Where are we going?” Lillian asked John as he twisted the key in the ignition. The sun burned through the windshield and heated her.

“On a tour of galleries. It’s open gallery weekend in San Luis Obispo.” He shot her a grin that made her body react. His beautiful, full-lipped mouth spread, and the black hair on his jaw reminded her of the previous night when he buried his lips and tongue between her thighs.

She squirmed and touched a bead of sweat on her temple with her forefinger. “What a wonderful surprise, John.” She leaned to kiss that sensual mouth. “You know I’ve missed the art scene since our Chicago days.”

Hours later, immersed in oils of country houses and watercolors of children on the seashore, modern Bauhaus primaries and Warhol-esque knockoffs, they entered an airy loft brimming with sculpture.

Lillian froze. Every hair on her body stood erect as if her dream man had stroked her immortal tattoo. Her lungs constricted and a clot of fear wedged itself in her throat.

At the center of the space a podium held an object too small to identify. But that object was a planet, and she was its moon.

Still unbalanced from her dreams last night, she avoided the center of the room and instead revolved around it, fearful of glancing at it. John struck up a conversation with the gallery owner. His voice reached her, rising and falling in pitch depending on his excitement level.

The smell of her dream was still in her nose—musk and leather.

Her nipples bunched up as tight as knots. What can I do? How can I stop this? I will stop this somehow. I’ll stop it for John. She said this to Lillian, but did Lillian exist within the walls of her soul? She could feel only him.

The closer she got to the object on the podium, the more it pulsed like a heart. Tremors washed over her, and she felt jerky on her high heels. Slowly, she drifted toward it. Blood rushed in her ears.

She paused before the small stone and stared through teary eyes. He was all over it, had formed it with the smallest hammer and finest chisel, though it looked like he’d flexed a slip of clay. His image was reflected in the granite sheen of each curling petal, so fine and thin at the edge that Lillian thought the light would gleam though it. His rumpled hair tumbled over his face and carving dust clung to the sweat on his forearms. His mouth was solemn. She wanted to kiss it and make it laugh for her.

Her hand twitched toward the small, perfect rose sculpture, enthralled and terrified. Her thigh muscles burned as if preparing to run. The scent of Old Spice filled her nose and she realized the gallery owner was at her elbow. “Go ahead and touch it if you’d like.”

She extended one finger and stroked the rose’s center. “It’s rock,” she exclaimed, but of course she knew it was rock. She’d seen him carving it.

“It’s magnificent, I know,” the gallery owner was saying. “It’s made by an artist from Vermont. He specializes in granite and I think you’ll agree this is very finely executed. Look at the turn of these petals. Only a master can employ such skill. In fact, most stone artists can’t achieve it in a lifetime of work!”

Lillian knew this was not chance that brought her face to face with another of his artworks. Her soul was unraveling behind her and her dream man was coiling it in like a long rope. He was following her now. She could feel him.

“Who—who is the maker?” she asked in a faraway voice, thinking of the deep blue tattoos on his chest. Her breath caught in anticipation. She needed that name. If she said it, she could Call him from across all space and time, as he had Called her name in her dream, spoken it into her mouth.

When she heard it, she was unprepared.

“The sculptor is Nathan Halbrook.”

Her throat closed off. Her soul had known him, and her mind knew him now. She swung away from the rose sculpture, afraid if she didn’t she might crush it to her breast so her heart would know it too.

Nathan Halbrook. Nathan. Nate. Mine.

John’s voice drifted to her and she glanced around, disoriented, for half of her soul stood in a Vermont farmhouse with Nathan. John was ready to go, holding a white box. Lillian didn’t want to know what that box contained but could guess. It was a ticking bomb.

At the exit, John took her arm and led her across the street and onto a bench at the waterside. The briny wind blew at her face, but she smelled the close heat of two bodies entwined on a feather mattress.

John passed the gift into her trembling hands. She felt green, wanted to drop the box and run. But she desperately wanted what was inside. She wanted to hold the sculpture in place of the man. She parted the tissue paper, cupped the rose to her chest and introduced it to her heart.

* * *

The sun blazed through the window of the train and Lillian stared into it unblinkingly, trying to blind herself. She hoped to burn away all images of Nathan’s lips hovering over her throat. And she hoped to obliterate the adoring black eyes of John. The cool weight of the rose sculpture rested on her palm, fitting as though carved for her hand.

The train they had boarded barreled south along the California coast, and John paced the confines of the cabin as if caged. He threw worried looks at her as he passed, but she could find nothing within herself to comfort him. She counted his rotations…nine…ten…eleven…twelve. He threw himself in the seat opposite her and buried his head in his hands.

“Is it him, then?” he asked in a muffled way.

Pain rippled through her. His words shot her directly in the heart.

He knows, he knows.

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