by Unknown
Feeling awkward, John kicked off his shoes. The driver smiled and nodded his head encouragingly. “Okay.”
John entered the little building and found himself in the first really clean place he’d seen since landing in India. In fact, it wasn’t just clean; it was immaculate. The inside of the shrine was whitewashed just like the outside. Even the floor was white. A circular fountain stood in the middle of the tiny room with water bubbling up from its center. The temple smelled like honey, roses, and tropical jasmine mixed with some kind of incense, which burned in the corner on a brazier. Clearly someone was taking excellent care of this place, but at least for the moment, John was the only one there.
In the back of the temple, a solid gold statue of the goddess Sita sat cross-legged and serene, a blissful smile on her lips, her eyes half closed in ecstasy. She was draped in scarlet silk; her wrists, ankles, fingers, and toes where encrusted with richly-colored gems. A garland of yellow daisies hung around her neck, but at the center of her forehead an empty crater gaped.
On the altar at Sita’s feet, more incense burned and more flowers were heaped; rose petals were scattered across everything. A golden tray with little cups of what looked like tea fought for space with a golden bell, and there were two large candlesticks, which lit the goddess softly, making her skin glow.
It was cool in here and John gratefully splashed some of the water from the fountain over his face and rinsed his hands. Then he stood there not quite sure what to do. The place had such a stillness about it. He realized he hadn’t done his morning prayers or any meditation in too many days. He walked to the altar and sat down on the floor in front of the goddess.
For a long time, he just sat there and stared at her. Something about her half-closed eyes made him feel safe. This was a little corner of the world that operated on a different psychic playing field, a place where time stopped, or maybe had never begun in the first place. A time of eternity.
He didn’t say any of his usual prayers or do any kind of formal meditation. He just sat and felt the shadows of the sun setting outside the temple, listened to the soothing ripple of the fountain, and soaked up the emanations of the golden goddess on the altar.
Dusk was just starting to settle when she came. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Veronica stood in the doorway.
If she was surprised to see him, she didn’t let on. She moved to his side, by the altar, and kneeled down next to him. She was wearing an amber-colored sari with birds and flowers embroidered along the hem and a silk scarf covering her dark hair. She looked as natural in it as if she had been sporting Indian garb all her life, but of course, for much of her childhood she probably had found it necessary to dress in the exotic clothing of the many countries her father had dragged her through.
“How long have you been here?” she asked softly.
“Since early this afternoon.”
“I’m glad you came.” Her smile was so warm he could almost feel it against his skin.
“So am I,” he breathed as he really took her in. He felt as if he were looking into a part of her very few people had ever seen. With newly enlightened eyes, he witnessed the graceful humility at her core, which had been hidden beneath that ever-changing protective exterior. Her inner beauty shone like an interior lamp illuminating her dark blue eyes and he felt a quiet intimacy between them so much deeper even than the passion they had shared or the flashes of painful hidden scars revealed.
“Do you know about Sita?” she asked.
“Your father filled me in.”
She smiled. “Poor Daddy.”
“You’ve given him a tough time over the years. The man is wracked with guilt,” said John seriously.
She met his gaze unflinchingly. “Do you know why Sita and her husband, Rama, incarnated into human flesh?”
“No.”
She turned to the golden goddess and said, “They incarnated to end the evil and wickedness in the world and to re-establish the rule of the righteous.”
Before he could comment on that, she reached into the folds of her sari, part of which she had tied up like a hobo’s knapsack. The Hope Diamond and the white brilliants fell into the palm of her hand. She laid the smaller stones that had made up the chain on a little golden plate that matched the bell and tea set on the altar. Then she rose, and leaning into the shrine, firmly pressed the fabled blue diamond into Sita’s third eye where the gaping hole had existed for the past three hundred years.
The goddess looked complete as the stone exploded with blue fire. For a long moment, they both sat and watched the diamond shine. For the first time, John understood what Veronica meant about gems possessing a magical life of their own. He could feel that magic now in the tiny, whitewashed temple. It didn’t bother him anymore that a fake was on display in the Smithsonian Museum. Sitting here, he understood the diamond had never really belonged outside of this temple in the first place.
“What are you going to tell Lillian Spencer?” Even at a whisper, his voice sounded loud in the stillness.
“I’m not going to tell her anything,” she said evenly. “Her money will be waiting for her in the specified bank account just as planned.”
“How’s Nicholas Bezuhov mixed up in all this?”
She tore her eyes away from Sita and smiled at him. “Nicky has all the jewelry I’ve pinched over the years. He’s cutting it down and selling it for me. That Children’s Library Fund is going to be getting their money back plus a sizeable donation I think will knock their socks off!”
“You’re selling everything?” he asked, stunned at the thought of the incredible collection she had amassed over the past fifteen years.
“Everything that didn’t originally belong to me.”
John whistled. “No wonder you were crying so hard that night.”
“It seems silly now, doesn’t it?” Her face looked so peaceful and serene, she almost reminded him of the golden statue above them.
“That’s quite a risk Bezuhov took for you.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Veronica. “I told you he was a good friend. You must understand, over the years Nicholas was the only person in the whole world I could confide in. He kept my secrets and I kept his.”
John thought about what she said and it made sense. Maybe Bezuhov wasn’t his favorite person in the world, but for Veronica’s sake, perhaps he could keep more of an open mind about him in the future.
“So does this mean you’re retiring for good?” John asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously and licking her lips with the tip of her tongue she almost purred, “I’ve decided to move on to bigger game.” And she looked at him in a way that sent a shiver up his spine.
Suddenly the heat was so palpable between them, he move to pull her into his arms and settle things for good. She gently put out a hand to block him and said, “Close your eyes. You may never be in a place this sacred again. Soak it up so you can carry a little bit of it with you wherever you go.”
Obeying, he closed his eyes and said a silent thankful prayer to this goddess who, until recently, he had never even known existed. He felt his heart open and faith, pure and joyful as a bubbling spring of clear water, flooded him for a moment bringing a smile to his face and tears to his closed eyes. He had walked a long, strange road trying to grasp that intangible, fleeting thing called faith. Tomorrow morning, when he woke up, it would probably be gone. Or maybe, as Veronica said, maybe a little bit of it would seep into his heart permanently; a building block upon which to grow.
He opened his eyes and turned to tell her, but she was gone—the Ghost in action.
He knew she couldn’t have traveled far and jumping to his feet he ran outside. Night had fallen and he could just barely make out the black outline of ancient trees against the dark background of the sky.
“It is good, Ji?” came a voice from the darkness.
“Are you still here?” asked John surprised, trying to see where his driver wa
s.
The man silently stepped forward into the light that spilled from the temple. “Yes, I am still here. I told you I would wait,” he answered good-naturedly, as a skinny, walnut-colored hand opened in front of him. A man’s ruby ring winked up at him. Even in the dim light John could tell it was a perfect blood red and weighed at least ten carats. It looked somehow familiar.
Then he remembered. The last time he had seen this jewel it had been kindling hot against Veronica’s breasts. Now that the gem had been restored into its original setting, he recognized it for what it was—The Fire of the Maharaja.
“The lady says to give this to you. She says the man who owns this before, he is no longer alive.”
John just stood there staring.
“Take it. It is for you, Ji,” urged the man with his toothless smile as he pressed the ruby into John’s hand.
It was true. The Italian businessman Veronica had stolen the ring from so many years ago had since crashed his sports car on the Ponte Milvio in Rome, leaving no heirs behind. The ring felt heavy and finely crafted in his palm. Slowly, he slipped it onto his finger.
“She says to give you this, too.” The driver handed him a note.
John took the paper and turned toward the light to read it. It was written on elegant stationery with the crest of the Royal Alpine Hotel in Lech at the top. The address and phone number were printed on the bottom in dark blue ink.
According to the ancient lore of India, in order to bring good luck, a gemstone must be given freely, never coveted, and never taken by fraud or force.
By the way, do you like to ski?
- V
He didn’t like to ski, but that was okay. Somehow John had a feeling they’d be spending most of their time curled up by the fire telling Ghost stories as the snow floated down outside the window of Veronica’s cozy chalet—that is, when they weren’t otherwise occupied.
Epilogue
Nicholas Bezuhov poured a glass of champagne for Jessica as she settled next to him on the fresh green grass along the Thames. It was a fine day for the Henley Regatta. They sipped champagne and watched the handsome young Oxford and Cambridge crew teams straining in the sunlight as they rowed toward the finish line. British aristocrats milled around the gaily striped pavilions that had been erected in the Royal Enclosure, the ladies showing off their pretty hats and the gentlemen in classic bow ties and straw boaters. Nicholas was also properly attired, although the diamond pin stuck in his lapel was perhaps a bit more flashy than those of his British counterparts. Jessica, however, fit right in. She wore a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a becoming pale blue bow.
With lazy elegance he pulled a little box from his breast pocket and presented it to the American debutant. “For you, slatkaya.”
Her face flushed with pleasure. “Oh, Nicholas, how exciting!”
She carefully opened the black velvet box and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as she took in a beautifully designed bracelet of pink and yellow diamonds crafted into exquisite little daisies on platinum stems.
“Nicky!”
“You like?” he asked, pretending he didn’t know she was about to explode in a shuddering orgasm in the middle of the genteel affair.
“Oh, Nicky!” she gasped again.
Nicholas smiled. He had sold the majority of Veronica’s hot collection and deposited the cash in the bank, just as he’d promised he would. But a few small gems, here and there, he had kept for himself. The bracelet now shimmering in the sunlight on the debutante’s slender wrist had been made from some of those jewels. Whether she was aware of it or not, Jessica had run part of the risk when the stones were hidden in her car. It seemed only good sportsmanship to see to it that she reaped at least a small reward.
“Oh, I just can’t wait to show Mummy!” breathed the debutante.
“Please, slatkaya,” said Nicholas smiling indulgently. “You are going to make a scene.”
“Oh,” Jessica flushed slightly, and lowering her hand to her lap brought her voice down to a more demure tone. “Of course. Forgive me, Nicholas.”
****
Delores Pigeon poured out nice, piping hot cups of cocoa, sprinkling them with nutmeg before Antoine thoughtfully carried the tray with its old-fashioned Wedgwood china and home-baked cookies into the rose garden. The Welsh mists were burning off as the sun peeked out and smiled over the charming little cottage garden that overlooked the sea.
“You have settled in a lovely place,” said Antoine as he pulled out a chair for her.
“Oh, I’m so pleased you like it!” exclaimed Delores beaming. “And I’m so happy you brought your nice friend Gaston,” she turned her smile on the good-looking young man dressed in pinstripe pants and a tight white T-shirt stretched across his well-muscled chest.
“Well, we had to go to London anyway for the nineteenth-century Swedish antiques auction at Christie’s, so I thought it would be best to bring the rest of your money to you in person,” replied Antoine.
“Always so thoughtful,” said Delores, pinching his cheek. “So how did I do?”
“We did better than expected on the Puck. It turned out one of the Saudi princesses has this wild thing for Katie Park, and when she found out she might be able to get her hands on the Puck Diamond…well, let’s just say Daddy went all out to make his princess happy.”
“Every girl deserves such a good father,” glowed Delores.
Antoine leaned over, placed a friendly hand on hers and put on a sympathetic face. “I know you really were wanting to get the Hope, but I have to tell you, I think it would have been a nightmare to sell.
“But, you know,” Antoine changed to a more upbeat tone, “with all the other nice jewels you were able to grab, I think we did even better than you would have with the Hope.”
Delores nodded understandingly. Things certainly had not gone according to plan the night of the Diamond Ball, but she hadn’t made it as far as she had in the jewel thief racket without being able to think on her feet. So when the lights had gone out and everyone was in a panic, what better time to grab as many handfuls of jewelry as she could?
“And I’ll tell you this, Granny,” said Antoine, lowering his voice and giving the rose bushes a paranoid sweep with his eyes, “A lot of people think you’re a big heroine for what you did.”
“Oh,” she blushed and shook her hand at the boys, embarrassed at the compliment.
“No, no!” insisted Antoine. “You are a heroine, really you are!”
Gaston nodded his head in agreement.
“It was pure luck. I just happened to be escaping out into the hallway right behind that nasty Dornal Zagen, and I still had the cake cutter in my hand from serving up my famous double chocolate sin cake…”
“Ah! I love that cake!” gushed Antoine. Then realizing his rudeness, “I’m sorry to interrupt. I just…I can’t even hear you talk about that cake. It’s so magnificent.”
“Anyway,” said Delores with a sigh, “that Austrian has been causing trouble for everyone for so long. It was such a relief when they locked him up, but then he breaks out of prison!”
“I know,” Antoine agreed, “good riddance to bad garbage.”
“That Veronica Rossmore is such a pretty girl. I just thought what a shame it would be to see that lovely milky-white throat cut.”
“Yes,” Antoine nodded his head in a show of support.
Delores’ eyes lit up. “Oh, I almost forgot! I have something for you. Now you just sit there and let me get it.”
Delores scuttled inside the cottage, returning a moment later with a pale blue afghan tied up in a big white silk ribbon. “I crocheted this for you, for being so helpful and nice.”
Granny placed the afghan in his lap.
“You know this is my absolute favorite shade of robin’s-egg blue,” he turned to his partner, “isn’t it, Gaston? Don’t I always point out how much I like this shade of blue?”
“You do!” agreed Gaston.
Antoine turned and l
ooked Delores straight in the eyes. “I absolutely, positively, L-O-V-E, love it!”
Granny’s heart glowed with happiness. Everything had come out just right in the end.
****
Even the usually unflappable Parisians couldn’t help turning their heads as Marguerite Gateaux made her way into Au Chien Qui Fume, the fashionable Les Halles bistro. She sauntered in on the arm of Placido Del Toro, the handsome young Spanish bullfighter who had set the continent abuzz with his daring antics in the ring, and lately with his sizzling hot romance with France’s favorite criminal, Maggie La Chatte.
The flaming-haired star smiled as she slipped into a choice, burgundy leather banquette. Settling in, she allowed Voltaire out of his Hermès carrying bag. The King Charles spaniel was in good company. Lining the bistro walls were paintings of various canine breeds smoking pipes or cigarettes in long, elegant holders. Behind Marguerite, a boxer terrier dressed in a suit and cravat held a fat cigar between his teeth, his bug eyes staring relentlessly at Placido. Fortunately, the handsome bullfighter saw only her.
“Tonight, you will let me take you back to Barcelona,” he said in a divinely low, masculine voice.
“Placido, you know my new show opens at the Paris Opera tomorrow,” replied Marguerite as the waiter poured her a glass of her favorite bordeaux.
“Give it up!” cried the Spaniard dramatically. “Come home with me and become my wife!”
Maggie only laughed and then playfully slipped off her red satin shoe and rubbed the tip of her toe against his crotch. “Cher, you know I don’t want to get married.”
“You will kill yourself,” complained the bullfighter, his brow darkening. “You cannot expect to escape with your life after every fall like the one you took at the White House.”
“It was the Smithsonian, chere, and let me tell you—that was no accident.” Her green eyes glittered with feline intensity. “Someone didn’t want to compete with me.”
“That whole business you certainly must stop,” he complained. “It’s crazy. You are crazy.”
