Another shrug from Gage. His straight-ahead stare didn’t waver. “He had an accident.”
She wondered why Gage didn’t elaborate. Was it one of those personal things he didn’t like discussing? Had Etienne asked him not to mention it? Whatever the reason, Miranda took the hint and let the subject drop. She could see The Tavern coming into view on a small cul-de-sac. When they got there, Gage held the door for her, and they went inside.
They found an empty booth in a back corner away from the noise. Miranda couldn’t help noticing how many girls perked up as Gage walked through—waitresses and customers alike, calling his name, delighted to get his attention. Miranda recognized serious flirting when she saw it. Gage, on the other hand, seemed not to realize the obvious.
After ordering hamburgers, the two of them settled back in their seats and talked generalities—the high school volunteer program, favorite and not-so-favorite teachers, the football team, movies they loved, books they hated, and, ultimately, hurricanes.
“It never happens to somebody you know,” Gage said. He angled himself into the corner, one elbow resting on the table, a Coke in his other hand. “It always just happens on the six o’clock news.”
“You’re right. And that’s why you still can’t believe it, even when it does happen to you. You just want to change the channel and watch something else.”
An awkward silence followed, as if Gage were working up the courage to ask something personal. When he finally did, Miranda was caught off guard.
“I . . . just keep thinking. I mean, about you and . . .” Gage avoided eye contact. “I guess you must really miss everybody. And the way everything used to be in your life.”
Thank God he wasn’t looking at her. It was all she could do to force back tears. “It’s all gone. Nothing will ever be the same.”
“I’m sorry.” Gage’s voice lowered.
And then, without warning, the need to talk about it became overwhelming. “We lost everything when the hurricane hit. Our house, our furniture, our car, our clothes. Everyday stuff you don’t even think about. I probably won’t see my friends again for a really long time. Maybe never. And there’s just this huge hole in my heart.”
Gage kept silent, but his eyes had gone sad.
“I know Mom’s really worried about money, too. I mean, she just found a job yesterday, but I know Aunt Teeta’s helping us a lot.” Miranda paused, embarrassed. She didn’t know why she’d told him that; she didn’t know why she was telling him any of this. As the waitress set down their food, she was thankful for the interruption; another second and she’d have been bawling her head off. No more moments of weakness, Miranda. Way too risky, feeling that much at one time.
“I shouldn’t have said anything—” she mumbled, but Gage immediately stopped her.
“It stays between us, okay? Maybe this just happened to be the right time, when you really needed to tell somebody. And . . . you know . . . I’m glad it was me.”
An unexpected warmth spread through her. She twisted her napkin in her hands. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”
He smiled that smile. Picking up the bottle of ketchup, he poured it liberally over his Ultra-Supreme-Everything-But-the-Kitchen-Sink Burger.
“That building you were interested in . . .” He agreeably switched the subject. “Magnolia Gallery. I told you I found some information about it.”
“And . . .” Miranda was all ears.
“And . . . you were right. It was an opera house.”
“It . . . are you sure?”
“It was originally built in the early eighteen hundreds. But a long time after the war, it changed from being the opera house to being the gallery.”
A shiver of excitement went through her. She could hardly sit still as Gage continued explaining.
“St. Yvette might have been small, but it was known for its culture back then. There were lots of rich planters around here, and I guess that original opera house was all about prestige. And I guess some pretty famous people performed there.”
Music . . . applause . . . swishing of fans . . . roses . . . a curtain falling . . . a voice singing . . .
Miranda drew in a slow breath. “Really? Like who?”
“Nobody I ever heard of.” Gage chuckled. “But I guess some of them came all the way from Europe.”
While the waitress refilled their glasses, Miranda chewed thoughtfully on a French fry. “Where’d you find this out?”
“The Internet didn’t have much at all. So I stopped by the library yesterday and started looking through their private collection on St. Yvette. We can’t take any of it out, but we can always go back there and do more research. The Historical Society might have some information, too. I thought maybe we could go there tomorrow after school.”
Miranda wasn’t sure she could hold out till tomorrow. She was amazed at Gage’s findings, at how closely they matched the impressions she’d received. And now that this eerie reality began to dawn on her, she wanted to find out all she could.
“Gage, did it say that anything bad happened at the opera house?”
“You mean, besides opera? That’s pretty bad.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “Are you sure something else bad didn’t happen?”
“I’m not sure at all. But you seem pretty sure.”
Miranda tried for casual surprise. “I do?”
“And you seemed to know an awful lot yesterday about a place you’d never seen or heard about before.”
It wasn’t said accusingly, not even suspiciously. More like a gentle reminder. And once again Miranda felt torn. Gage obviously knew something was going on. And though Etienne was the one her grandpa had advised her to trust, she’d trusted Gage enough to share other personal things with him. So why can’t I tell him about the voices, the screams, the soldier in the park—
Startled, she felt a slight pressure on the tip of her chin. She hadn’t noticed Gage leaning toward her, napkin in hand.
“You have mustard,” Gage murmured, “right . . . there.”
She held very still while he cleaned it off. She wanted to concentrate on the opposite wall, but it was impossible to look anywhere but at him. Those big, brown eyes with their long dark lashes . . . innocent and wise at the same time . . . incredibly sweet . . . amazingly sexy . . .
“He was amazing . . .” Roo had said.
As the memory of Roo’s confession caught her off guard, Miranda tried once more to look away from Gage. To focus on anything but his eyes. The fantasy potential there was both endless and irresistible.
“One of the books I found showed some old playbills.” To Miranda’s relief, Gage drew back to his own side of the table, intent again on research. “There were a few pretty bad photos of the building, too. It didn’t say when they were taken though.”
Miranda fidgeted with her napkin. “What about entertainers? ”
“Their names and their acts were listed on the playbills. Singers. Actors. Dancers. Clowns.” His frown was genuinely disturbed. “Why are clowns so creepy?”
“You’re afraid of clowns?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said they’re creepy.”
Miranda watched him, amused. The best defense was an even better offense.
“You’re staring,” Gage mumbled.
“I can’t help it.”
“Why? Do I have a messy face, too?”
“No.” Miranda couldn’t resist. “You have dimples.”
He squirmed self-consciously. “I guess.”
“I bet you get teased a lot.”
“Is there some relevant point to this?”
Miranda did her best to keep a straight face. “Just that they’re so cute.”
“Stop it.”
“Are you blushing?”
“Shut up.”
Oh, Gage, you have no idea . . . if Marge and Joanie were here right now, they’d jump all over you.
Still flustered, Gage signaled the waitress. But it was someone els
e who walked over instead.
“Private conversation?” Etienne greeted them.
“No,” Gage answered, a little too quickly.
“Intimate conversation?”
"I was just telling him about his . . .” Miranda began, but Gage looked so trapped, she didn’t have the heart to bring Etienne into it. “Just telling him about—”
“We were talking about the gallery,” Gage broke in. “That building she was wondering about.”
Etienne glanced purposefully from Gage to Miranda and back again. “I don’t know, from where I was standing over there, you were looking a little embarrassed.”
“The opera house. I was telling her what I found out.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“It’s true!”
“And I said okay. I believe you. You gonna eat the rest of those fries?”
Gage slid his plate across the table as Etienne slid in beside Miranda. Etienne shot her a secret wink.
“It’s not the thing with the dimples again, is it?” he asked innocently. “I don’t know what it is with girls, the way y’all love his—”
“Why are you here?” Gage asked. Getting to his feet, he pointed toward the restrooms. “I’ll be right back. You can leave the tip.”
“I was going to anyway.”
“No, I’m paying for my own.” Miranda picked up the tab, but Etienne’s hand came firmly down on hers.
“Gage and me, we are nothing if not true southern gentlemen. And a lady never pays on her first date.”
Now Miranda was flustered. “It’s not a date. We really were talking about that building.”
“I know that.” Shrugging, he yanked a napkin from the metal holder. “I also know Beth, your waitress. She’s the one who heard you teasing Gage.”
“You are so bad.”
With a vague frown, Miranda settled back to watch him eat. Unlike Gage, it didn’t seem to bother him, being the object of her scrutiny. She could only marvel at his focus.
“Magnolia Gallery,” she said at last, "Etienne ... it was an opera house.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to think.”
“How about the truth?”
For a long moment, she gazed down at her plate. It was the intensity of Etienne’s stare that made her look up again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t pass by your house.” His voice, though lower now, had tightened. “I should have. I wanted to.”
“Don’t apologize. You were my grandpa’s friend. This must be really hard for you.”
Etienne didn’t answer. Resting his elbows on the table, he wiped his mouth with the napkin, then crumpled the napkin in one fist. Miranda wondered what he was feeling. She understood that sense of loss, of being left behind. But with Etienne, it was almost impossible to know what emotions he was hiding.
“Maybe . . . maybe there’s something of Grandpa’s you’d like to have?” she suggested. “To remember him by? I could make sure you get it.”
He seemed to mull this over. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“I’d really like to.”
The hard lines softened around his mouth. “I know,” he said quietly.
Well . . . I guess this is as good a time as any. She hadn’t been able to tell Gage, but Etienne . . ."Something happened to me in the park yesterday. And I know I didn’t imagine it.”
This time she’d definitely piqued his interest. He seemed about to question her when Gage suddenly leaned over the back of their booth.
“I just remembered,” Gage said to Miranda.
Etienne shifted easily to one hip, fished into his pocket, tossed some money on the table. “What’s that?”
“The name of the opera house.”
Gage stood aside as the other two got out. He added his own money to Etienne’s.
But Etienne was only half listening. “Come on, I’ll give y’all a ride.”
“So what is it?” Miranda asked. “What’s the name?”
Gage squeezed in close to her as they pushed their way to the door. “The Rose.”
"The what?”
“The Rose Opera House.” Gage’s expression turned curious. “Have you heard of it?”
Quickly Miranda shook her head. They were at the truck now, and she climbed in tensely between the two boys. Etienne started the engine, and her mind raced back, back to yesterday, to the old building and the sweet smell of roses . . . to the park and the ghostly plea: “Take it . . . the rose . . .”
Connections, somehow? Coincidences?
“Miranda? Here’s your house.”
“What?” Both Gage and Etienne were looking at her. She managed a sheepish smile. “Oh. Sorry. You guys want to come in?”
She was conscious now of Etienne’s thigh against hers. And of Gage’s arm along her shoulders, resting lightly on the back of the seat. The guys seemed to exchange a mutual glance.
“Better not.” Etienne shrugged. “Night job.”
“Homework.” Helping her out, Gage walked Miranda to the door. “Don’t forget about the Historical Society. Right after school tomorrow.”
“I won’t. And thanks for tonight, Gage. I had a really good time.”
Smiling, he turned and headed back to the truck as Miranda let herself in.
Surprisingly, no one seemed to be around. Aunt Teeta’s door was closed, and though the TV still blared from the den, Miranda found her mother sound asleep on the couch. Deciding not to wake her, she shut off the television, covered Mom with an afghan, then hurried upstairs.
The Rose Opera House!
Is that what the Gray Soldier—Nathan—was trying to tell me? Not a flower, but a place? That must be it—why else would I have known about the gallery once being an opera house?
Flopping down on her bed, she gazed numbly at the ceiling. More puzzle pieces fitting together...but still so unbelievable... still so impossible!
No . . . not impossible. The truth. Grandpa knew the truth. And you know it, too, Miranda.
Turning off the bedside lamp, she closed her eyes and drifted. The darkness was sultry and still, a deep hole to hide in. She wished she could turn off her mind as easily as she could turn off the light, but her thoughts refused to cooperate. If only I could find answers . . . figure things out . . .
The Rose Opera House.
“For Miss Ellena . . . take it . . . the rose . . .”
“Help me.”
Miranda shuddered as Nathan’s words echoed over and over in her head. Like a song, like a spell. Over and over and over again . . . exhausting her into sleep . . .
Miranda was floating . . . surrounded by darkness, suspended in time. And there was a faint, faraway voice . . . like an echo underwater . . . rippling softly . . . shimmering sadly . . .
Miranda strained to hear.
“Take it . . . for Miss Ellena . . .”
She was apart from everything—she was part of everything; he could see her—she was invisible; she suffered with him—she was at peace—helpless and trapped in the smoke and the fog and the downpour of rain and the earth running dark, dark crimson with blood . . .
“Help me,” Nathan said to her. The soldier in gray, the young man with the helpless, haunted face. “You’re the only one.”
And his pale, outstretched hand . . . a short length of twine, woven, knotted . . . only this time her fingers brushed over it, this time her fingers closed around it.
Miranda touched his hand. His skin was ice cold; her fingers passed right through.
“Take it . . .”
Jerking upright, she saw the figure beside her bed.
The figure veiled in shadows, just beyond reach of the moonlight through her windows.
She tried to cry out, but couldn’t; her heart leapt into her throat and stuck there as she gasped for breath.
“No!” Miranda choked.
She closed her eyes, willing him away. When she opened them again, he was gone.
Yet Miranda wasn
’t comforted. Tears ran down her cheeks; her covers were damp with sweat. She reached for the lamp on her nightstand, then suddenly froze.
She was holding something. Something clutched tightly in her hand.
Puzzled, she spread her fingers and looked closer. In the room’s pale glow, she could see the small, familiar object nestled there against her palm.
“Oh my God . . .” she whispered.
It was a piece of braided twine.
15
PRAYING NO ONE WOULD HEAR HER, Miranda sped downstairs to use the kitchen phone. As she punched in Etienne’s number, she was still shaking.
“Please, Etienne,” she whispered. One ring. Two. “Please pick up.”
She had to tell someone. There was nobody here she could talk to, and she had to tell someone what had just happened, what she’d just found.
Three rings. Four.
Her grandpa had told her to trust Etienne, and she wanted to—more than anything right now, she wanted to trust him. And I need to trust him. Because he’s the only one now who’ll believe me.
Five rings. “Come on, Etienne, where are you?”
“Yeah?” That deep, husky voice, slightly breathless. “Yeah, hello?”
“Etienne—”
“Miranda? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I hope you weren’t asleep.”
“Me, no, I never sleep.” His tone sharpened. “Something’s wrong, I can tell. What is it?”
Hesitating, she cupped her hand around the phone and glanced nervously over her shoulder. She took a deep, steadying breath, barely managing a whisper. “I need to talk to you. I need your help.”
“Wait for me in your room.”
“What! Now?”
Realizing he’d hung up, Miranda stood there, still clutching the receiver. She hadn’t actually asked him to come by—she’d have been thankful for just a comforting conversation over the phone.
But now that he was coming, she felt better . . . and safer. She only hoped he’d get here fast.
Reluctantly she crept to her bedroom, pausing on the threshold to make sure she was alone. She switched on every lamp, put on her robe, and curled back against the headboard with her pillows around her. She figured Etienne would sneak in the side door downstairs, so when she heard footsteps out on the sunporch, her heart nearly stopped.
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