Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  A short while later the other two joined him. Twice they tried to draw him into their quiet conversation, and both times he ignored the gesture. He couldn’t think about anything but Rachel. He needed to see her. To know that she still breathed.

  And so they sat, three people who were bound by the ties of their business to a woman whose only tie to them had been her beauty. Even though the words were never spoken aloud, each of them had a reason, besides Rachel’s welfare, for keeping vigil there. If things were as bad as they seemed, then facts would have to be faced. As much as they might like her, as much as they truly cared for her well-being, Rachel Austin’s fifteen minutes of fame were probably already over.

  Just after daybreak Esther Goodman exited the elevator, escorted by her cousin Maury. Although she’d never met the people who had made Rachel famous, she recognized them from Rachel’s descriptions.

  The short, stocky one must be Mikeowitz, the agent. The woman was too chic, too cosmopolitan for anyone but the ad executive, Maris Binder. And the dark man wearing the Rolex and the Italian suit must be Farrier.

  They saw her coming. Maris recognized her instantly and set aside the Styrofoam cup she’d been picking to pieces.

  “Oh wow,” she said softly. “Would you look who’s here?”

  They looked up. Mikeowitz shrugged. “Who’s she?”

  Jules stood. “That’s Estie Goodman, you fool. She could buy and sell all of us a hundred times over. Get up.”

  Mikeowitz stood, not because he was impressed with her money but because she’d come on behalf of his client.

  Maris went to meet her. “Mrs. Goodman, I’m Maris Binder, a friend of Rachel’s. We met a couple of years ago at a fund-raiser for the Met. Sorry to see you again under such circumstances.”

  Esther nodded. “How is she? How is my Rachel?”

  Maury clucked nervously, shooing Esther toward a vacant chair. “Sit, Estie, sit. You can talk while you’re sitting.”

  Esther gratefully accepted the seat, but wouldn’t be put off from the answer she so desperately needed. Maris scooted her chair next to Esther’s.

  “Mrs. Goodman, this is Jules Farrier, the owner of Farrier Cosmetics, and Tom Mikeowitz is Rachel’s agent.”

  Esther nodded. “Please,” she said, clasping Maris’s hand. “How is she?”

  Jules took a seat nearby and leaned forward. “We don’t know much, only that she’s out of surgery. She suffered a lot of minor cuts, a couple of serious ones, and a couple of broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. Her face was burned—”

  Esther gasped.

  Jules hastened to add. “But not seriously. We were assured it’s nothing that won’t heal in time.”

  Maury gave his cousin a nervous glance. The trip alone had been grueling for Estie. The shock of this news could be bad for her health.

  “Estie, I think you should—”

  She silenced him with a look and then returned her attention to Farrier.

  “Please continue.”

  Jules sighed. “They told us that she suffered a pretty severe concussion from the blast.”

  “And both her corneas were scratched,” Maris added.

  Esther shook her head in disbelief. “What is the prognosis?”

  Jules looked away. Maris started to cry. It was Mikeowitz, ever the pragmatic, who answered.

  “They’re not certain, because she wasn’t awake enough to make a positive determination, but they’re pretty certain that she won’t be able to see.”

  Esther’s chin quivered. It was the only sign of the shock that went through her.

  “Is this temporary?”

  Mikeowitz shrugged. “They don’t know. And at this point her sight is not their primary concern. Her concussion was severe. I think they’re more concerned with the fact that she’s slipped into a coma.”

  “Who have you called?” Esther asked.

  They all looked startled. “Well, no one. Her parents are dead and she has no siblings.”

  Esther frowned. “There was a man from her hometown. She never mentioned his name, but I know that she cared deeply for him.”

  Maris nodded. “I suspected as much myself. But I was not in her confidence. I don’t know his name, either.”

  Jules stared down at his fingers, absently noting that he needed a manicure. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and bent over, methodically wiping a smudge from the toe of one of his custom-made shoes. When he had finished, he straightened and began folding the handkerchief into a small, perfect square.

  “His name was Houston. Houston Bookout,” he said.

  Maris turned, staring at Jules in disbelief. “My God! Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  Jules couldn’t answer and wouldn’t look up.

  Esther frowned. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is Rachel. We don’t know how to get in touch with this Mr. Bookout, but I’m certain there are people in Mirage, Texas, who do. Call information. If he doesn’t have a phone, call the local authorities. The name is unusual. They’re bound to know him.”

  “I can do that,” Mikeowitz said, and jumped up, moving a short distance away so that he could talk undisturbed.

  Esther leaned back and closed her eyes. She could sense Maury hovering nearby, but she was fine. And she would be even better when she knew that her Rachel would live.

  Downstairs in admissions, an insignificant clerk had been reading down a new patient list when one name jumped out at her. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she lifted her wrist to her nose and sniffed lightly, savoring the fragrance of her new scent. Timeless. Her boyfriend, Daryl, had gotten it for her for her birthday. Could this be the same Rachel Austin whose face had launched the line?

  She leaned back in her chair, absently tapping the pen she was holding against her leg. Her rent was due, and it was a week until payday. Maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to make a little extra dough.

  Well, she thought, there’s only one way to find out. As easily as that, the decision was made to interfere in another person’s life.

  Houston sat on the side of the bed, sick to his stomach and shaking. He’d had the same dream about Rachel again. He rubbed his hands on his face and then glanced at the clock. It was almost nine A.M.He groaned. Good thing he wasn’t working for Dale Emery anymore. Today was the day he would have gotten himself fired.

  He dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom. Moments later he was standing beneath the showerhead, using the sharp jets of water to wash away what was left of the nightmare. He stood in the shower until the water ran cold, and then he turned it off and got out. He was reaching for a towel when the phone began to ring. He wrapped the towel around his waist and then bolted for the phone beside his bed.

  “Hello.”

  “Houston Bookout?”

  Houston frowned. He didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bookout, forgive the intrusion, but I need to ask you a question.”

  Houston’s frown deepened. “Who is this?”

  Mikeowitz sighed. “Sorry. It’s been a hell of a night. Let me start over. Mr. Bookout, my name is Tom Mikeowitz. I’m Rachel Austin’s agent. Do you know her?”

  Houston sat down on the side of the bed. “Jesus,” he whispered, and closed his eyes, picturing the nightmare. “Is she still alive?”

  Mikeowitz’s attention focused. “Why, yes... but how did you—”

  Houston’s hands were shaking. “A dream. I kept having this dream.”

  Mikeowitz shuddered. This was too damned spooky for him. He made a mental note to tell the police to check on the man’s whereabouts at the time of the explosion. Just because he was in Texas now didn’t mean he couldn’t have been in New York yesterday. Then Mikeowitz continued.

  “She’s in Bellevue Hospital in New York City. Um... it’s at First Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street.”

  Houston’s voice was shaking. “What happened? How badly is she hurt?”

  “She suffered cuts, br
oken bones, and a ruptured spleen. Also some burns, but they were minor. It wasn’t actually a fire. It was more of an explosion. Right now she’s in a coma.”

  Houston covered his face with his hands, imagining Rachel alone and afraid. She was hurt. He couldn’t bear the thought.

  And then he remembered the last part of his dream. Of Rachel lost and crying out, and of him standing in front of her, shouting her name. And no matter how loud he shouted, she still couldn’t see him. Suddenly everything began to make a cruel sort of sense.

  “Mr. Mikeowitz...”

  “Yes?”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Mikeowitz cleared his throat. There was no easy way to say this. “Well, the doctors can’t say for sure how long the condition may last, but for now, Rachel’s blind.”

  Houston closed his eyes, trying to picture the Rachel he knew forever in the dark. “Sir, would you do me a favor? Tell the hospital that I’m on my way.”

  “Yes, sir, I expected you would be,” Mikeowitz mumbled. “Some of us will still be here . . . waiting.”

  By the time Houston hung up the phone, his purpose was clear. Despite what had happened to her, he felt a terrible sort of relief. At least she was alive... and he knew where she was. After that, everything else seemed inconsequential.

  Only after Mikeowitz disconnected did he realize

  that they were all watching him.

  “Well?” Maris asked. “Was it him?”

  Mikeowitz crossed himself. “Yes, it was him.”

  “What’s wrong?” Maris asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Mikeowitz took a deep breath. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  Jules had had enough. His worry about Rachel, coupled with the long, sleepless night, had just about done him in.

  “Damn it, Mikeowitz, either spit it out or shut the hell up.”

  “He knew.”

  Jules sighed in disgust. “What do you mean, he knew?”

  “Said he’d dreamed she’d been hurt.”

  Jules blanched and looked away. A part of him resented like hell that another man would have that kind of connection with Rachel.

  “My God,” Maris gasped. “You aren’t serious?”

  Mikeowitz nodded.

  “Is he coming?” she asked.

  “Of course he’ll come,” Esther said. “That’s what people in love do.”

  It wasn’t until Maury took her hand and squeezed it that she realized she’d been rubbing at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist.

  “Well, now,” she said softly, meeting his worried gaze. “I’m fine, Maury dear. It’s Rachel who needs your prayers, not an old woman like me.”

  Maury lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed first her palm and then the row of numbers tattooed on her skin.

  Esther lifted her chin, and in that moment the wrinkles on her face seemed to disappear. “She’s a survivor,” she said softly. “Just like me.”

  Eleven

  “Passengers, please prepare for landing. Return your seat backs to their upright positions and fasten your tray tables. We will be touching down in just a few minutes. Enjoy your stay in the New York area, and on behalf of the captain and all of the crew, thank you for flying Continental.”

  Houston glanced up at the passing flight attendant and then took a deep breath. Enjoy? That might be damn near impossible. But he pulled the seat belt a little tighter across his lap and then turned to the window to his left.

  It was night now. Almost midnight. There’d been hell to pay getting a flight out of Midland-Odessa airport, but he’d done it. Then the connecting flight in Dallas had been late. He kept thinking of Rachel, hurt and alone in a hospital room, and he wanted to cry. He was scared—as scared as he’d ever been in his life. But not for himself. For Rachel.

  He stared down at the city below, trying to picture the Rachel he knew being happy in a place like this. She’d always liked space and privacy, and being able to run barefoot whenever she chose. He couldn’t yet distinguish individual buildings, but there was a blanket of lights as far as the eye could see. That meant people. Millions of people. He shuddered. But Rachel had chosen to come here. And she’d stayed. Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d left him. Maybe he hadn’t allowed her to be herself because he was too busy loving the woman he wanted her to be. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the seat. As long as she was alive, he would ask no more.

  The plane began to descend. A short while later Houston was in a taxi on his way to Bellevue Hospital.

  Mikeowitz had gone home hours ago. After being assured that Rachel was resting comfortably and could not receive visitors before tomorrow, Maris had also gone home a little after nine P.M.

  But neither Esther nor Jules had been willing to budge. Each sat within sight of the door to Rachel’s room, and each also had a better-than-average view of the elevator. And each had an agenda for staying.

  Jules was exhausted and hungry and about as soul-weary as he’d ever been in his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. Not until he saw for himself the man who held Rachel’s heart.

  And Jules knew he was coming. He’d listened without comment as Mikeowitz had related every word of his conversation with Houston Bookout. There was a deep streak of jealousy within him that resented the connection between Houston and Rachel. He kept thinking back to the moment of the explosion—of how he’d been on his way out of his office to meet some people for dinner and how distracted he’d been when Maris had called. He’d had no inkling of what had happened to Rachel, and he was in the same damned city.

  So he sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor and trying to imagine how he was going to piece the bits of his world back together without Rachel Austin in it.

  Even if she healed completely, her recovery would be too slow for him to use her in his cosmetics campaigns again. Of course his company would see to all of her medical bills, and they would honor her contract as well. It wasn’t as if she was suddenly going to become penniless. But there was that nasty bit about her not being able to see. He frowned and put his head in his hands. That he wouldn’t accept. To know that those stunning green eyes would be forever sightless was an abomination.

  And her face.

  He kept seeing her face.

  So perfect.

  And now so terribly ruined.

  He sighed. As much as he hated to accept it, she would have to be replaced.

  In the span of her years, Esther had been at far too many bedside vigils. She knew the significance of having someone near who cared. She also knew how swiftly fate could change one’s hopes for the future, and she couldn’t bear to think of Rachel without someone near her who cared. And although she was at the point of exhaustion, there was no way she was leaving this hospital until the man from Texas arrived.

  He was coming for certain. Tom Mikeowitz had assured them it was so. But until she saw for herself that he was the kind of man she could trust, she wasn’t about to budge.

  The noise level began to increase down at the nurse’s station. They both glanced up. The shift must be changing.

  Jules glanced at Esther. “Mrs. Goodman, can I get you anything? Some coffee? A blanket?”

  Esther shook her head, then added, almost as an afterthought, “But thank you for asking.”

  He nodded, then stood, stretching his arms and then his legs as he looked around to see if there was any coffee left in his cup. From the corner of his eye, he saw a man getting off the elevator. He turned, his curiosity swiftly turning into a full-fledged stare. The man was tall, very tall, and dressed in western-style clothing. He had a suitcase in one hand and a small box in the other. What he could see of the man’s face beneath the brim of his Stetson was expressionless, but there was a purpose to his stride that Jules recognized. He stiffened instinctively.

  Esther saw the man also, and before Jules could stop
her, she was on her feet, going to meet him.

  “Houston Bookout?”

  Houston stopped, staring with surprise at the tiny, white-haired woman who’d called him by name.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m Esther Goodman. Rachel is a dear, dear friend of mine. And this is Jules Farrier. He owns the company Rachel was modeling for.”

  Houston looked up and over Esther’s shoulder.

  Jules’s fingers curled into fists.

  And then something clicked in Houston’s mind and he looked back at Esther.

  “Was modeling?” The past tense of the word devastated him. The suitcase he was holding dropped to the floor with a thud, and his face paled. “Oh God, please don’t tell me that she—”

  “Oh no, my dear! I’m so sorry!” Esther cried, and grabbed Houston by the arm. “I didn’t mean to imply—” Then she sighed, dabbing at her eyes with the tip of her handkerchief. “It’s been a long day and night.”

  Houston inhaled slowly, vaguely aware that a doctor was being paged and that someone was crying in a room across the hall. He couldn’t think past his next question.

  “Then she’s still alive?”

  Esther nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d best sit back down.”

  Houston could tell that the old woman was drained. Impulsively he took her by the arm and quickly helped her to a nearby chair. When she was seated, he squatted down in front of her.

  “You okay?”

  Esther smiled and brushed the side of his face with her hand.

  “I’m fine, young man. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You came to see my Rachel. So go.”

  Houston’s gaze softened. “Yes, ma’am. I aim to do just that.” Then he stood and gave Jules a considering look. “Where is she?”

  Jules pointed down the hall. “Fourth door on your right.” When Houston started to walk away, Jules grabbed him by the arm. “Wait! You can’t go in there now. Visiting hours are over.”