“I never said I was perfect.”
“But you always pretended to be so happy.”
“I didn’t always pretend. I was happy once—but that was a long time ago.”
“Here’s a riddle for you,” Cosette said. “If love is such sweet sorrow, then why is it that people pursue it the way that they do?”
Before he could reply she closed her eyes and called up the painting of The Wild Girl that hung in the Newford Children’s Foundation. A moment later she was standing in front of it, her new shoes scuffing the carpet.
“It’s because usually we don’t know any better,” the dark-haired young man said to the empty fire escape where she’d been sitting. “And even when we do, we can’t stop ourselves.”
IX
What was that?” Alan said, turning toward the kitchen window. “What was what?”
“I thought I heard something out there.”
He rose from his chair and looked out the window, but between the darkness outside and the glare from the kitchen window, he couldn’t see anything beyond the fire escape.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Marisa said.
“I suppose it was just a cat or something.”
But he sounded doubtful and stayed by the window, gaze fixed on something that Marisa realized only he could see. There was something terribly for-lorn about the way he was standing. She wanted to get up and go over to comfort him, but she remained at the table, hands on her lap, fingers entwined.
“Some nights,” he said, “I feel as though there are ghosts out there—not just of people who have died, but of the people we used to be. The people we might have been.” He turned to look at her. “Do you ever think about things like that?”
“I guess so. Not that they’re ghosts or anything, but I think about the past and the choices I made.
And what might have happened if I’d chosen differently.”
Alan returned to sit at the table. He toyed with his empty mug. “Is marrying George something you wouldn’t have done if you were given the choice?”
Marisa shook her head. “If I hadn’t married George, I’d never have moved to Newford and met you.”
She watched him as she spoke, expecting to see him flinch, or withdraw behind his shell again.
Instead he reached across the table and took her hand. She knew he wasn’t promising her anything by the gesture. They were comforting each other, that was all, and for now it was enough.
X
Isabelle awoke to find Rubens kneading the pillow by her head his face pressed up close to hers, whiskers tickling her cheek. She turned slightly to see that Jilly was still asleep on the other side of the Murphy bed, before she pulled a hand out from under the comforter to give him a pat. The motor deep in his chest immediately started up.
“I know, I know,” she whispered to him. “You want to go out, but you can’t.”
When she didn’t get up, he butted his head up against the side of her face. “We’re not at home anymore,” she explained patiently, as though he could understand.
After a while, he trod daintily down to the end of the bed and lay down. She had to get up, just so she could get away from the reproachful look on his face. Once she was washed and dressed, she decided to forgo having breakfast here. She and Jilly had stayed up later than planned last night, just talking, catching up on gossip and each other’s news, so she was going to let Jilly sleep in.
She’d spent a restless night herself, just hovering on the wrong edge of sleep all night. City nerves, she’d told herself as she lay there, not wanting to move around too much for fear of waking Jilly. She just wasn’t used to all the ambient noise. It wasn’t the real reason, and she knew it, but she refused to let her mind dwell on what was really keeping her awake: Kathy and the book. The fact that Jilly had seen John Sweetgrass when he was supposed to be dead.
After shaking some dry cat food into Rubens’s bowl, she wrote a short note and left it propped up on Jilly’s easeclass="underline"
Good morning, sleepyhead,
I decided to get an early start on some errands. I hope you don’t mind my leaving Rubens. I’ll be back around noon to pick him up.
Rubens ran up hopefully to her as she opened the front door, but had to settle for the quick hug she gave him before she slipped out into the hall. She waited a moment to see if he’d cry.
Good boy, she thought when he didn’t. You just let Jilly get some sleep.
Trailing a hand along the wall, she made her way down the steep stairs from July’s studio and out onto the street. There she stood on the pavement, checking her pocket for the key that she already knew was there, before she caught the southbound subway that would take her downtown to the bus terminal.
The key proved to be useless. It fit into the slot, but it wouldn’t turn. She tried it a half-dozen times, compared the number on the locker with the one on the key. The numbers matched, but the key wouldn’t work. Logically, it was what she should have expected. It made no sense that what Kathy had left for her in the locker would still be waiting for her after all this time. But still she was disappointed that, even from beyond the grave, Kathy hadn’t been able to work one last bit of magic. Isabelle had never known anyone who could manipulate luck better than Kathy had been able to. It was a gift that had only deserted her at the end.
Eventually Isabelle went looking for the security office, which she found tucked away in a short corridor on the far side of the public rest rooms. There were two uniformed men inside. The one who was her own age was slouched in a chair, reading a book. He looked up at her when she came in, giving her a glimpse of a pair of startlingly dark eyes before he returned his attention to his book. The older man stood at the counter, his admirable straight-backed posture at odds with the paunch that stretched over his belt.
“You have to understand, miss,” the older man said when she explained her problem to him. “We clear those lockers out every three months. Whatever we find is stored for awhile longer and then we dispose of it.”
Isabelle’s heart sank. She had no idea what Kathy had left for her in that locker. While it might have been of no intrinsic value by most people’s standards, it had still been important enough for Kathy to send Isabelle the key. The idea of it having been thrown away was unthinkable.
“Can you tell me where you would send it?”
“We treat it as abandoned. Anything that can be sold ends up in places like the Goodwill where the money can help out. The rest gets thrown away.”
“Yes, but—”
Behind the older security guard she could see his younger companion regarding her over the top of his book, a curious expression in those dark eyes of his. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and dropped his gaze when she looked back at him.
“It’s been five years, miss,” the older guard said.
“I know.”
“And you can’t even tell me what it was that your friend was storing for you.
“I understand,” Isabelle said. “It’s just ...”
Just what? she thought. There was nothing the man could do for her.
She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and turned away so that the man wouldn’t see them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d love to help you.”
Isabelle nodded. “Thank you. I I ...”
She gave him a helpless shrug and was starting to leave when the younger security guard put down his book and called her back. He opened the drawer of his desk and rummaged around in it for a moment. When he met her at the counter, he was holding a photograph that he laid down in front of her.
There were three people in the picture: Kathy, Alan and herself. They were sitting on the grass in Fitzhenry Park, a summer’s day, the sky a glorious blue behind them, the three of them so young. Isabelle couldn’t really remember ever having been so young, but she could remember that afternoon, Alan using the timer on his camera, setting it on one of the benches so that all three of them could be in the picture.