Convergence Page 6

  I turned off the Tiffany-style lamp that cast the office in a warm, maybe even safe, glow. At least that’s the effect I hoped for. Then I went to the red oak, mission-style desk and locked the drawer that housed client files. I hit the switch that turned off the overhead lights as I left the office and stepped into the hallway.

  “Long day?” Jaylan looked at me over her shoulder as she pulled her office door closed.

  “Very long. How about you?”

  Her purse dangled from her shoulder as she cradled files in her arms. “Same. I’m not telling you nothin’ you don’t know, but people can be horrible to one another. Some wounds? I don’t know.” She shook her head. “God can do anything, but…”

  “But He doesn’t always heal, at least not in the time frame we’d like to see.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “I don’t know how you do this every day, Jay.” I’d already cut my client work in half and was focusing the extra hours on promoting my first book and outlining the second book. “I can’t bear that many burdens. You know?”

  “Yeah, I know. We each got our capacity, right?”

  “Right. I nodded toward her armload. “You’re taking work home?”

  “I gotta transfer my notes to the files while things are still fresh. But I’m not staying here to do it. I’m goin’ home, making dinner with my husband. Then while he watches the game, I’ll take care of these.” She dipped her chin toward the files.

  We stopped in the office waiting area, where I set the alarm, and then we walked out together.

  Fall had given way to winter sometime during the week. We walked into the already dark evening, pricks of starlight dotting the sky, the night air chill. The trees in the parking lot were bare, branches exposed, and the small patch of lawn in front of our office that was lush and green just weeks before, had faded. It seemed death surrounded us. Or at least the dormancy that accompanies winter. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself.

  Although I anticipated the evening ahead, dinner with Keith at Bandara, one of our favorite restaurants, I carried the weight of my clients’ agonies in my soul. Some days we celebrated victories, but there were few celebrations today. At least I assumed that was what encumbered me. I tried to shake off the mood. Keith and I had agreed we were due for an evening out, and I’d looked forward to the time together. I didn’t want to spoil it. We were less than a year into our marriage, and time alone together was already becoming too rare amid the busyness of building our careers.

  “I’ll see you day after tomorrow.” The alarm on Jaylan’s car beeped as she unlocked the doors.

  I waved. “Have a good evening.” I climbed into my car and then reached into my purse for my phone. I kept it on silent during my sessions and often forgot to turn the ringer back on. If Keith was running late, as was often the case, I didn’t want to miss his call or text. I dug through the purse but couldn’t find the phone. Then I recalled I’d plugged it in to charge it—I’d left it in my office.

  I got back out of my car just as Jaylan was pulling out of the parking lot. I let myself back into the office, turned off the alarm, and as I was crossing the waiting area, a small package sitting on our reception desk, where clients signed in when they arrived, caught my eye.

  I stopped, picked up the package, and saw that it was addressed to me. I carried it into my office and set it on my desk as I unplugged my phone. Just as I was about to turn on the volume, the phone vibrated in my hand. A text from Keith saying he was running a few minutes late. I’d called that one.

  With some time to spare, I sat down at the desk, reached into the top drawer for my letter opener, and then picked up the package. It was wrapped in brown shipping paper and hand addressed. I didn’t recognize the handwriting when I glanced at the box. I slipped the opener under the packing tape, slit it, and pulled the wrap off the box. I crumpled the paper and tossed it into the trash can beneath my desk. Then I lifted the lid and found another, much smaller box inside, this one wrapped in gold foil gift paper.

  Before opening the gift, I rifled through the packing material in the box to make sure I hadn’t missed a card. But I didn’t find one. Perhaps one was enclosed with the gift.

  I pulled the wrapping paper off to reveal a black velvet jewelry box. I opened the hinged lid. “Oh…” I picked up a thick gold linked bracelet. From one of the links hung a single gold charm—the letter D. As I unhooked the clasp, I noticed it was imprinted with 14k. I draped the bracelet over my wrist and could see it would be a perfect fit.

  Puzzled, I set the bracelet back in its box then backed away from the desk and reached underneath for the trash can. I pulled the crumpled paper out of the can and looked at it again, more closely this time. There was no return address. And although the paper bore a stamp with the postage amount, as though someone had taken it to the post office to mail it, there was no postmark.

  Had someone intended to mail the gift then decided to deliver it instead? Or had the post office just missed postmarking the box?

  Again, I checked the handwriting. I couldn’t place it. It certainly wasn’t Keith’s usual hurried scrawl, but if I had to guess, I’d say a male wrote it. I tossed the wrapping back into the trash.

  A client, perhaps? I mentally ran through the list of clients I’d seen during the day, but I couldn’t imagine any of them leaving a gift like this. I picked up the jewelry box, closed the lid, and then turned it over, hoping to find the name of a jewelry or department store printed on the bottom, but there was nothing there.

  Nothing identified either the sender or where the bracelet had been purchased.

  I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I came to Jay’s name.

  She answered after the first ring. “Hey, you miss me already?”

  Her confidence made me smile in spite of the unease settling over me. “I have a question for you. I had to run back into the office after you left. There was a package on the reception desk addressed to me. Do you know where it came from?”

  “A package? Nah. No idea.”

  “You’re sure? I thought maybe someone dropped it off.”

  “If so, they just left it. Like you, I went from one client to the next today. I’ve been tellin’ you we need to hire a receptionist.”

  “Maybe you’re right. It’s odd. There was no card or note, so I don’t who it’s from. It’s a nice gift, and it looks expensive too.”

  “Secret admirer?”

  I heard the smile in Jay’s voice, but I didn’t—couldn’t—respond.

  “You there? Or did I lose you?”

  “No…” I pushed the jewelry box away from me. “I’m here. Listen, thanks. I’d better run—I’m meeting Keith for dinner.”

  I hung up the phone and stared at the box on my desk. Weary, I closed my eyes. Secret admirer? With a start, I opened my eyes, but the vision of a man’s face, eyes like bits of coal, was seared on my mind.

  I backed away from the desk again, reached back into the trash can, and pulled out the brown paper the shipping box was wrapped in. I stared at my name and memorized the handwriting. Then I folded the paper into quarters. I reached for my keys, unlocked the file drawer in my desk, and tucked the wrapping behind the file folders.

  I put the black velvet box in my purse.

  Then I prayed Jay was wrong.

  I scooted into the booth, took the menu from the waiter, and breathed deep. The fragrant scent of the wood-fire rotisserie and the low, warm lighting of the restaurant eased some of the tension I’d carried in with me. I opened the menu and perused the offerings.

  “Hey…” Keith leaned down and gave me a quick kiss. “Been here long?” He scooted in across from me and loosened his tie.

  “No, I just arrived.”

  We filled each other in on our days and then ordered an appetizer. When the waiter had gone again, I reached for my purse. “Hey, you didn’t happen to send me a gift today. A bracelet?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Uh
, that depends. Do you like it?” He chuckled.

  “Keith, I’m serious.”

  “Okay, no, I didn’t. Why?”

  I pulled out the jewelry box, opened it, and handed it to him.

  “Wow, swanky. Who’s it from?”

  “I don’t know. It turned up at the office today. No card or return address. It appears someone dropped it off. Jaylan doesn’t know either.”

  “Huh.”

  I took the box back from Keith and look at the bracelet. “I used to have a bracelet almost like this. My dad gave it to me when I turned sixteen.” I looked across the table at Keith. “He always did that—took me to lunch and gave me a gift. Something special he’d picked out for me.” I smiled at the memory. “He’d do the same for my mom.”

  “What happened to it? I’ve never seen it.”

  I swallowed the ache in my throat that always accompanied memories of my dad. My grief at losing him was still fresh. “I’m not sure. I lost it during one of the summers I spent in Three Rivers. It’s probably at the bottom of the Kaweah. The clasp must have come undone or broken.” I fingered the charm bracelet in the box I hold. “It was also gold and had a single charm, the letter D, like this one. The style is a little different, but overall, it’s very similar.”

  “Have you checked with your mom?”

  “Not yet. But why would she drop it off at the office without saying anything? Anyway, the address was handwritten, and it wasn’t her handwriting.”

  He shrugged. “Well, whoever it’s from, you might as well enjoy it.” He picked up the menu. “What are you having?”

  “Um…” I looked at the menu again, but all I could think about was the bracelet and Jaylan’s comment. “Keith…”

  He looked at me over the menu.

  “You don’t think…”

  “What?”

  I set the menu down. “It’s just something Jaylan said. She was teasing, but she said maybe I have a secret admirer.” I shrugged. “Do you think?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Wouldn’t that bother you?”

  “Should it?”

  “No, I just… I mean, you don’t think that guy… the one from the book signing…”

  “What guy? The guy from church?”

  I nodded.

  “You think the bracelet’s from him?” He chuckled as he shook his head.

  Just hearing Keith say it out loud made me realize how ridiculous the thought was. Of course it wasn’t from him. I hadn’t seen him again since that evening at church more than a month ago.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, but the guy didn’t look like he had much money. He looked kind of down on his luck. That”—he pointed toward my purse—“doesn’t look cheap. Anyway, you don’t even know him.”

  “You’re right. I know. It was an absurd thought.”

  I glanced at the menu again, then closed it and set it on the table. “I’m having the filet. I feel like splurging. You with me?”

  Keith smiled and reached across the table for my hand. “Always, babe.”

  Later that night as I lay in bed, the dark room offering few distractions and Keith’s rhythmic snore accompanying my thoughts, I replayed our conversation in the restaurant and let myself feel what I’d denied in the moment. The emotion, though unfamiliar, was clear: anger.

  I was angry.

  Though I had an intellectual knowledge of anger, of course, it was an emotion I’d rarely experienced. I’d had little cause. I grew up in a loving home with parents who rarely displayed anger toward one another and never toward me, their only child. Discipline, yes. Anger, no. But the emotion festering within was exactly that.

  I was angry with Keith for dismissing my… What was it? Fear? Or was it something more? Questioning whether the bracelet could have come from the man I’d seen twice now, the one unknown to me but who approached me at church and claimed I knew his name, sounded far-fetched to Keith, and even to my own ears when he’d repeated my question.

  Ridiculous? Yes. Unless you’re familiar with some of the delusions that drive people.

  Without knowing it, Keith may have affirmed my sense at church that Sunday evening when he welcomed me to the world of celebrity and reminded me that people follow me now. I know he didn’t mean they literally follow me, but…

  I rolled over, turning my back to Keith, and stared into the ink of night.

  Why was Keith dismissing my feelings? It wasn’t intentional, I was certain. As he’d said that Sunday evening, he was attempting to reassure me. Perhaps, he’d done the same tonight.

  God knew, I wanted reassurance. I wanted to feel safe.

  But I also wanted respect. I needed Keith to respect both what I was feeling and the knowledge that supported those feelings.

  Was I angry with Keith? Yes. But again, anger was new to me. Of course Keith and I had disagreements from time to time, but we worked through those issues.

  Maybe I just needed to try harder to make him understand what I was feeling.

  Or maybe I was just making a big deal out of nothing. That was it, wasn’t it? I was imagining things. Allowing the stress of this new life—marriage, success, celebrity—to get to me. It was all unfamiliar. My mind was looking for something wrong, when in fact, everything was right.

  Like adding water to dilute an alcoholic beverage, the train of thought diluted my feelings and their impact. The anger I’d identified slowly dissipated and was replaced by a sense of, if not peace, at least calm.

  And relief.

  I turned back over and slid closer to Keith and wrapped my arm around him.

  Eyelids weighted, my breathing slowed, and soon I felt myself drifting into what I was certain would be a deep, restorative sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Adelia

  May 5, 2017

  With my backpack slung over one shoulder and my duffel bag dangling from my hand, I enter the house and drop the duffel and backpack in the entry hall. I brought just the necessary clothing—jeans, hiking boots, shorts, T-shirts, a swimming suit, and a few other items. I won’t need much, even if I end up here longer than I hope. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be long gone in five weeks, by mid-June. Maybe sooner.

  I wander through the house to get my bearings, accompanied by the rumble of the river running behind the house. Riverfront property was one of the other essential items on my checklist when looking for a rental. After checking out the two bedrooms and kitchen, I wander into the small living room next to the kitchen and open the sliding glass door. I step onto the large deck that overlooks the middle fork of the Kaweah.

  The river below rages, and I’m ravaged by its roar—assaulted by the memories the deafening sound draws from my depths, where I thought they were safely locked away. I turn and walk back into the house, shutting the door on the river.

  I wander until I find the small laundry room, and finally the family room, where a leather sectional sits in front of a massive brick fireplace that covers almost the entire back wall. A large-screen TV placed at an angle in the corner faces the sectional, and the floor beneath the sofa is covered in a soft shag area rug. None of those items really interest me. The items I’d seen online that ticked the final box on my list are off to one side of the large room—a universal weight machine, a rack with free weights atop a dense rubber mat, and an exercise bike.

  I go and perch on the bench of the universal machine, lean against the backrest, and reach for the bar above my head. I pull it down to chest level then loosen my grip and let the pulley system take it back up. I let go of the bar, get up, and go to the back of the machine, where I move the pin to increase the weight load.

  I do a few stretches then sit back down and do reps until my shoulders burn.

  By the time I’ve unpacked, unloaded my ice chest, and put away the groceries I’ve brought, it’s late afternoon and the sun has already dropped behind the mountains. I have one more thing to do. I go back to the entry hall and dig through the backpack. I pull a phone out
of one of the pockets, along with the charger. I tap the six-digit code into the phone—the code known only to me. Then I make the call I agreed to make before I left. I wait as the line rings. As soon as it’s answered, I speak the words he’s waited to hear. “I’m here.”

  I tap the icon on the phone’s screen for the organizer app I use, log in with my password, and then scroll through the list of instructions, the timeline we’ve created, and additional notations. When I’ve read through everything, I close the app, make sure the phone is locked again, and then plug it in to charge in an outlet near the bar.

  That done, I stand in the kitchen for several minutes, staring out the window. The house, even with the constant drone of the river, is still. Perhaps it’s time to confront what’s beyond the window. I cross the kitchen to the slider off the nook and step onto the deck. In the diffused light of late afternoon, I take in my surroundings and notice what I didn’t take time to see when I arrived. From the deck, looking upriver, Moro Rock, that domed granite monolith, and snowcapped Alta Peak loom above, the sentries of Sequoia National Park.

  I make my way to the deck’s railing where the river roils just beyond the deck, frothing and angry.

  Kaweah, the name given the river by the original people, the Yokuts, means “cry of the crow.” The symbolism of the crow, that of death, meant nothing to me during the first summers we spent here. But that last summer changed that—it changed everything.

  And now truth has unraveled the lies so tightly woven into our pasts.

  Planted on the deck, I look out at the swirling water. “I won’t die here—I won’t let you have me!” I shout my vow, but my voice, even to my own ears, is lost to the tumult.

  Has the river heard me and taken my oath as a dare? I would expect nothing less.

  Something upstream flutters, a bird maybe, and draws my attention away from the water. But it’s only Moro Rock I see. Understanding comes as I stare at the dome. Moro will be my sentry while I’m here—a constant reminder of my Rock.