It Must Be Love

by Rachel Gibson

  His lips formed a straight line, but she'd gone too far to turn back now. "I don't know how this happened," she continued. "Until a few days ago, I didn't even know I liked you very much." With each word she uttered, creases appeared on his forehead. "I've never really fallen in love before. I mean, I thought I was in love several years ago with Fletcher Wiseweaver, but what I felt for him doesn't compare with my feelings for you. I've never felt anything like this."

  He took off his sunglasses and massaged his temples and forehead. "You've had a real bad day, and I think you're confused."

  Gabrielle looked into his tired eyes, the brown irises like rich, dark chocolate. "Don't treat me like I don't know what I'm feeling. I'm an adult, I don't confuse sex and love. There's only one explanation for what happened today. I'm in love with you."

  He dropped his hand, his features turned blank, and an awkward silence filled the air.

  "I just told you I'm in love with you. Do you have any reaction to that at all?"

  "Yes, but none I think you want to hear."

  "Try me."

  "There's one more explanation that makes more sense." He rubbed the back of his neck and said, "We had to pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Things got real hot, real fast, and we got all wrapped up in it. The lines got blurred and confused and we started to believe it. We took things too far."

  "Maybe you're confused, but I'm not." She shook her head. "You're my yang."

  "Pardon?"

  "You're my yang."

  He took a step backward down the stairs of her porch. "Your what?"

  "The other half of my soul."

  He shoved his glasses back on his face and covered his eyes once more. "I'm not."

  "Don't tell me you don't feel the connection between us. You have to feel it."

  He shook his head. "No. I don't believe in all of that entwining of souls stuff, or seeing big red auras." Taking another step back, he stood on the sidewalk below her. "In a few days you're going to be real glad I'm out of your life." He drew a deep breath into his lungs and let it out slowly. "Take care of yourself, Gabrielle Breedlove," he said and turned away.

  She opened her mouth to call to him, to tell him not to leave her, but in the end she held on to the last shred of pride and self-respect she had and stepped into her house, closing the door on the image of his broad shoulders walking away from her and out of her life. Her chest felt as if it were caving in on her heart, and the first sob broke from her throat as she grasped the T-shirt over her left breast. This wasn't supposed to happen. Once she found her yang, he was supposed to know her, recognize her. But he didn't, and she'd never imagined her soul mate wouldn't return her love. She'd never imagined how bad it would hurt.

  Her vision blurred, and she leaned her back against the door. She'd been wrong. Not knowing had been better than knowing he didn't love her.

  What was she supposed to do now? Her life was in total chaos-real upheaval. Her business was a wreck, her partner was in jail, and her soul mate didn't know he was her soul mate. How was she supposed to go on living her life as if she weren't dying inside? How was she supposed to live in the same city, and know he was out there somewhere and didn't want her?

  She'd been wrong about something else too; uncertainty wasn't the worst thing she'd ever felt in her life.

  The telephone rang, and she picked it up on the fourth ring. "Hello," she said, her voice sounding hollow and distant in her ears.

  There was a short pause before her mother spoke. "What's happened since we spoke last?"

  "You're psychic, you tell m-me." Her voice broke, and she sobbed, "When you told me I would ha-have a passionate dark ha-haired lover, why didn't you tell m-me he would break my heart?"

  "I'm on my way to pick you up. Throw some things in a suitcase, and I'll drive you up to stay with Franklin. He could use your company."

  Gabrielle was twenty-eight, would be twenty-nine in January, but running home to her grandfather had never sounded so good.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gabrielle knelt beside her grandfather's old leather recliner and rubbed warm ginger oil into his aching hands. Franklin Breedlove's knuckles were inflamed, his fingers gnarled from arthritis. The gentle daily massages seemed to bring him a measure of relief.

  "How's that, Grandad?" she asked, looking up into his heavily lined face, pale green eyes, and bushy white brows.

  He slowly flexed his fingers as best he could. "Better," he pronounced and patted Gabrielle on the head as if she were his old bow-legged beagle, Molly. "You're a good girl." His hand slid down her shoulder to the armrest, and his eyes drifted shut. He did that more and more often. Last night he'd fallen asleep in the middle of dinner, his fork poised before his lips. He was seventy-eight, and his narcolepsy was getting so bad that he only wore his pajamas. Every morning he changed into a clean pair before he headed down the hall to his study. The only concession he made to the day were the wingtips on his feet.

  For as long as Gabrielle could remember, her grandfather had worked in his study until noon, then again late at night, doing what she'd never been quite sure, until recently. As a child she'd been led to believe he was a venture capitalist. But since she'd been home, she'd intercepted calls from men wanting to place five hundred or two thousand on such favorites as Eddie "The Shark" Sharkey or Greasy Dan Muldoon. Now she suspected him of bookmaking.

  Sitting back on her heels, Gabrielle lightly squeezed his bony hand. For most of her life, he'd been her father figure. He'd always been abrupt and cantankerous, and he didn't care for other people, children, or pets. But if you belonged to him, he would move the heavens and earth to make you happy.

  Gabrielle stood and walked from the room that had always smelled of books, leather, and decades of pipe tobacco-comforting and familiar smells that helped promote healing in her mind-body-spirit since the night a month ago when her mother and Aunt Yolanda had picked her up on the back porch of her house and driven north for four straight hours to her grandfather's home. That night seemed so long ago now, and yet she could remember it as if it had happened yesterday. She could recall the color of Joe's T-shirt and the blank look on his face. She could remember the scent of roses in her backyard, and the cool rush of air blowing across her wet cheeks as she'd sat in the passenger seat of her mother's Toyota. She remembered Beezer's soft fur in her fingers, the cafs steady purr in her ears, the sound of her mother's voice, telling her her heart would mend and her life would get better in time.

  She moved down the long hallway to the parlor she'd turned into her studio. Boxes and crates of essential oils and aromatherapies were stacked against the walls, blocking out the September morning sun. She'd kept herself occupied since the day she'd arrived with little more than a bag of domes and her oils. She'd thrown herself into work, keeping her mind busy, letting herself forget sometimes that her heart was broken.

  Since she'd come to stay with her grandfather, she'd traveled to Boise only once to sign papers offering Anomaly for sale. She'd visited Francis, and made sure her lawn was mowed. She'd set her sprinkler system to come to life every morning at four, so she didn't need to worry about her grass dying, but she'd needed to hire a lawn service to mow. The time she'd been in town, she'd gathered her mail, mopped the layers of dust off her furniture, and checked messages on her answering machine.

  There hadn't been any word from the one person she wanted to hear from most. Once she'd thought she'd heard the squawk of a parrot, but then the tape had filled with the sound of a telephone ringing in the distance and she'd dismissed it as a prank or a telemarketer.

  She hadn't heard from Joe or seen him since the night he'd stood on her porch and told her she'd mistaken sex for love. The night she'd told him she loved him and he'd backed away from her as if she had had an airborne illness. The ache in her heart was a continuous thing, with her when she woke in the morning and when she went to bed at night. Even in her sleep, she couldn't get away from his memory. He came to her in her dreams, as he always
had. But now when she awoke, she felt hollow and lonely and without the urge to paint him. She hadn't picked up a brush since the day he'd barged into her house looking for Mr. Hillard's Monet.

  Gabrielle walked into the parlor and moved to the worktable where all her bottles of essential and carrier oils sat. The shades in the room were drawn against the damaging rays of the sun, but Gabrielle didn't need to see in order to choose a small bottle of sandalwood from the rest. She took off the cap and held it to her nose. Immediately his image filled her head. An image of his face, his hot, hungry eyes looking at her from beneath lowered lids, his lips moist from kissing her mouth.

  Just like the day before, and the day before that, grief rolled through her before she screwed the cap back on the oil and sat it on the table. No, she wasn't over him. Not yet. It still hurt, but maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe tomorrow she would feel nothing. Maybe tomorrow she would be ready to go back to her home in Boise and face her life again.

  "I have your mail," her mother said as she breezed into the parlor. Claire Breedlove had a basket of fresh-cut herbs and flowers hanging from one elbow and a big manila envelope in her hand. She was dressed in a brightly embroidered Mexican dress with a serape thrown over the top to ward off the morning chill and a necklace of worry dolls to ward off misfortune. Sometime during her trip to Mexico, she'd gone nativo and never come back. Her long auburn braid hung to her knees and had liberal streaks of gray. "I received a strong sign this morning. Something good is going to happen," Claire predicted. "Yolanda found a monarch on the lilies, and you know what that means."

  No, Gabrielle didn't know what seeing a butterfly in the garden meant, other than the fact that it was hungry and searching for food. Ever since her mother had fated her a dark passionate lover, her psychic predictions were a sore subject. Gabrielle didn't ask about the butterfly.

  Claire offered anyway as she handed the envelope to Gabrielle. "You're going to hear good news today. Monarchs always bring good news."

  She recognized Francis's handwriting as she took the package from her mother and tore it open. Inside were Gabrielle's monthly utility bills for her home in Boise and various junk mail. Two pieces of mail caught her immediate attention. The first was an engraved envelope with Mr. and Mrs. Hillard's return address scripted on the back. The second was from the Idaho State Correctional Institution. She didn't need to see the address to know who'd sent the letter. She recognized his handwriting. Kevin.

  For a few unguarded seconds, joy filled her, as if she were hearing from an old friend. Then just as quickly anger and a spot of sadness replaced her joy.

  She hadn't spoken to Kevin since before his arrest, but she'd learned through her attorney that three days after Kevin's arrest, he'd struck a bargain with the prosecuting attorney's office. He'd sung like the proverbial canary, giving information, naming names, and plea bargaining in return for a reduction in the charges against him. He'd named every collector and dealer for whom he'd ever brokered a deal, and he named the thieves he'd used to commit the Hillard theft. According to Ronald Lowman, Kevin had hired two Tongan brothers who'd been out on bail and awaiting trial for some residential burglaries they'd been later found guilty of committing.

  For his cooperation, Kevin had been sentenced to five years in prison but would be out in two.

  She handed her mother the engraved enve-lope from the Hillards. "You can read this if you're interested," she said, then took her letter and moved across the hall to the morning room. She sat on a lumpy chaise lounge, and her hands shook as she opened the fat envelope. A four-page letter written on legal paper fell out, and she skimmed the slanted script by the light pouring through the windows.

  Dear Gabe,

  If you are reading this then there is hope you will give me the chance to explain myself and my actions. First let me say that I am extremely sorry for the pain that I most certainly have caused. It was never my intention, nor did I ever imagine, that my other businesses would impact negatively on you.

  Gabrielle paused. Businesses? Is that what he called fencing stolen paintings and antiques? She shook her head and returned her attention to the letter. He spoke of their friendship, and how much she meant to him, and the good times they'd shared. She was beginning to almost feel sorry for him when the letter turned in a new and remorseless direction.

  I know that a lot of people view my actions as criminal, and perhaps they are right. Receiving and selling stolen property is against the law, but my only TRUE crime is that I have wanted too much. I wanted the good things in life. And for that I am serving a harsher sentence than men convicted of assault. Wife beaters and child abusers have lighter sentences than me. My purpose in pointing this out is that when put in perspective, my crimes seem truly minor in comparison. Who was hurt? Rich people who are insured?

  Gabrielle dropped the letter in her lap. Who was hurt? Was he serious? Her gaze quickly skimmed the rest of the letter filled with more rationalizations and excuses. He called Joe a few choice names, hoped she'd been wise enough to realize that Joe had only used her to get to him, and he hoped that she'd dumped him by now. Gabrielle was surprised he hadn't learned of her involvement, and toward the end of the letter, he actually asked her to write to him as if they were still friends. She dismissed the idea, and with the letter in her hand, she walked into the parlor once again.

  "What was in your envelope?" Claire asked from where she stood at the worktable, blending fresh lavender and roses with a mortar and pestle.

  "A letter from Kevin. He wants me to know that he's sorry, and that he's not really that guilty. And besides, he only stole from rich people." She paused to drop the letter into the trash. "I guess the butterfly that told you I'd hear good news today was full of it."

  Her mother looked at her in that calm, composed way she had. Clear of judgement, and Gabrielle felt like she'd just kicked a peace-loving love child.

  She guessed she had, but lately she just couldn't seem to help herself. She just opened her mouth, and all the anger she had inside her soul poured out.

  Just last week her aunt Yolanda had been raving about her favorite subject, Frank Sinatra, and Gabrielle had snapped, "Sinatra sucked, and the only people who didn't think so are women who paint on their eyebrows."

  Gabrielle had immediately apologized to her aunt, and Yolanda had seemed to accept and forget about it, but an hour later she'd accidently appropriated a turkey baster from the IGA market.

  Gabrielle wasn't herself at all, but she didn't have a real clear sense of her own identity anymore. She used to know, but having her trust and heart broken by two different men on the same day had knocked her belief in herself and her world out of whack.

  "The day isn't over yet," Claire said and pointed the pestle at the small engraved envelope on the table. "The Hillards are having a party. The invitation says they want everyone involved in the recovery of their painting to come."

  "I can't go." Just the thought of seeing Joe made her stomach feel all fluttery, like she'd swallowed that mystical monarch from her mother's garden.

  "You can't hide out here forever."

  "I'm not hiding out."

  "You're avoiding your life."

  Of course she was avoiding her life. Her life was like a black hole, stretching ahead of her and filled with nothing. She'd meditated and tried to visualize her life without Joe, but she couldn't. She'd always been so decisive in her unconstrained life. If something wasn't working, she turned and headed in a new direction. But for the first time, everywhere she turned seemed worse than where she stood.

  "You have closure issues."

  Gabrielle picked up a sprig of mint and twirled it between her fingers.

  "Maybe you should write Kevin a letter. Then you should think about going to the Hillards' party. You need to confront the men who've hurt you so much and made you so angry."

  "I'm not all that angry."

  Claire simply stared.

  "Okay, I'm a little angry."

  She'd d
ismissed the idea of writing to Kevin out of hand, but maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should confront him so she could move on. But not Joe. She wasn't ready to see Joe, to look into his familiar brown eyes and see nothing looking back at her.

  When she'd come to stay with her grandfather a month ago, she and her mother and Aunt Yolanda had talked about Kevin, but mostly she'd talked about her feelings for Joe. She hadn't mentioned that Joe was her yang, though, nor did she intend to. Her mother knew anyway.

  Her mother believed that soul mates and fate were intertwined, inseparable. Gabrielle wanted to believe her mother was wrong. Claire had coped with the loss of her husband by changing her life completely. Gabrielle didn't want to change her life. She wanted her old life back, or at least as much as possible.

  But maybe her mother was right about one thing. Maybe it was time to go home. Time for closure. Time to pick up the pieces and live her life again.

  Joe plugged the tape into the VCR and pushed play. The whir and click of gears filled the silent interrogation room as he leaned his behind against a table and folded his arms across his chest. The film flickered and jumped, then Gabrielle's face filled the television screen.

  "I'm an artist myself," she said, and hearing her voice after a month was like feeling sunshine on his face after a long, cold winter. It poured into all the cracks and crevices and warmed him from the inside out.

  "Then you can understand Mr. Hillard is quite anxious to get them back," his own voice spoke from off camera.

  "I would imagine so." Her big green eyes were filled with confusion and fear. He didn't remember her looking so scared and trying so hard not to show it. He saw it now because he knew her so well.

  "Have you ever seen or met this man?" he asked. "His name is Sal Katzinger."

  She bent her head and looked at pictures before shoving them back across the table. "No. I don't think I've ever met him."