by Webb, Peggy
“You don’t sound good, Hunter. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t take too long, buddy. It’s dull out here on the dark continent without you. I haven’t been threatened by a croc since you left.”
A shadow moved under the oak tree. Riveted, Hunter stared out the window. Behind the curtain of moss was the silhouette of a woman with her arms outstretched. In the moonlight her hands shone as white as lilies.
“Hunter?” Rick said. “Are you there?”
The phone dangled from its cord as Hunter bolted toward the door. If he was going to be visited by a phantom, he was going to confront it, face-to-face.
He approached the tree cautiously, afraid that noise and haste would make the vision disappear. As he moved closer he saw the lithe outline of a woman’s body. She was dressed in black and her face was hidden by a dark veil.
She stood unmoving, her head tilted to one side, her hands nestled against her breasts like two snow-white doves.
Hunter could hardly breathe. He was so close to her now that the moss brushed against his cheeks. Still, she didn’t move.
“Are you a vision from heaven or a vision from hell?” he said.
There was no answer. A sultry fragrance perfumed the air, and he knew it was too rich and too close to be the gardenias.
He reached his hand through the mossy curtain, still half-afraid that the woman would prove to be a phantom.
“Who’s there?”
With his hand in the air, Hunter froze. The voice, deep and sultry, came from behind the black veil.
“Kathleen?” Hunter whispered.
She reached out slowly, and when she took her hands away from her breasts, a shaft of moonlight pierced the thick leaves and fell on the gold locket resting against her soft, creamy skin.
Shock almost sent Hunter to his knees. It was the locket he’d left in the knothole of the tree thirteen years earlier right before he’d climbed aboard the freighter going to Africa. His farewell gift to Kathleen. His pledge that he would return to claim her.
But it couldn’t be. She was dead.
The moon shuffled behind a cloud once more, and they were left alone in the velvet darkness.
“Is someone there?” she said. It was Kathleen’s voice he heard, Kathleen’s hands he saw reaching toward him.
“Don’t you know me, Kathleen? Don’t you remember?”
She took a step forward then, her hand stretched out in front of her. It grazed the mossy curtain, two inches from the place where his own hand hovered.
“Is anyone there?”
Even in the dark with the veil over her face, she should have seen him. Standing so close, she should have heard him.
The truth hit Hunter with the force of an explosion, and he doubled his hands into fists and shook them at the uncaring sky. Kathleen stood on the other side of the lacy Spanish moss, the gold locket shining against her cleavage.
The locket drew him like a beacon, and he reached out, his hand hovering so close, his fingertips almost skimmed her satiny skin. She tipped her head back, and behind the veil, her eyes stared straight into his.
“Kat,” he whispered. “Kat.”
She neither saw nor heard.
Silently cursing himself, he drew his hand back. He didn’t dare touch her, not in the dark while she was alone under the tree. She would be terrified.
She sighed, the sound as soft as wind through the leaves, then stepped back until she could touch the trunk of the tree.
“I must have been dreaming,” she said. And then she turned around and left the live oak with small, even steps, counting under her breath as she walked.
Hunter watched until she was across the yard and through the door of the tiny cottage where she’d been born; then he leaned his face against the rough bark of the tree. Her fragrance and the warmth of her hand still lingered there.
He closed his eyes, and down the corridors of the past came her laughter, as clear as bells.
“Listen, Hunter? Do you hear the music?” She lifted her arms and twirled around and around the tree. “I’m going to dance forever.” Dropping beside him on the grass, she covered his face with kisses. “Oh, Hunter. Don’t ever let the music stop for me.”
Hunter’s shoulders shook as he cried without sound. He’d let the music stop for Kathleen. How would she ever forgive him?
o0o
Kathleen felt the presence of the cottage before she got to the door. Resisting the urge to hold her hands out in front of her, she counted the remaining steps to the entrance.
Exactly four. And the door was where it was supposed to be.
Triumphant, she pushed it open and marched inside.
“I did it, Martha. I did it without a cane.”
Martha smelled like bath talcum and the tart lemony soap she used. Her large, solid hand caught Kathleen’s and squeezed her encouragement.
Kathleen took off her hat and hung it on the peg beside the door, then made her way to the table and sat in a straight-backed chair. She tried to move with the slow grace of a ballerina instead of the slow uncertainty of the blind. Sometimes, when she was tempted to curse the darkness, she remembered the final darkness that had claimed her husband, and she knew that being alive was a miracle.
It wasn’t the darkness that bothered her most, but the silence.
“Is the music playing, Martha?”
Martha squeezed her hand once. Yes.
“You won’t let it stop, will you?”
Two squeezes of the large, capable hand. No.
Kathleen held herself very still, and she imagined she felt the beat of the music vibrating the old wooden floor and coming through the soles of her feet.
“Martha, I had the strangest feeling at the tree tonight.” Silence swirled around her, and she pictured the other woman leaning forward, perhaps puzzled by the mysteries of Kathleen’s mind. Martha was a nurse, practical as a pair of rain boots, and just as sturdy.
“I felt Hunter there with me.”
The silence beat through her, and then she felt the glass that was pressed into her hand. Warm milk. It was Martha’s cure for everything.
“Are you going to make me drink this?”
One tap on the back of her hand. Yes.
Kathleen shoved the glass aside and ran her hands through her hair. It felt heavy and glossy. At least she still had her hair. And her arms and legs.
“Hunter was so real to me tonight that I felt his hands on me.”
She shivered at the memory. The presence she’d sensed in the dark had the power of gravity, drawing her out of herself, so that she felt as if she were trapped inside Hunter’s skin with his heart beating against her chest and his blood flowing through her veins. With the old wildness filling her, she’d flown free of the silent darkness and had tumbled headlong into the world of stunning color and heat and light that they’d visited so many years ago.
Even now, sitting on the hard chair in the small kitchen with the old smells of rusty faucets and molding linoleum, she still carried a part of that private world with her, still felt the heat rushing through her blood.
Impossible dreams, now. Impossible love.
“I’m glad it was only my imagination,” she said. “I’d rather die than have Hunter see me like this.”
Martha pressed the glass back into her hand, then tapped it twice, harder this time. Smiling, Kathleen picked up the warm milk.
“You’re a tyrant, Martha.”
Kathleen drank the milk, then pushed back her chair.
“I’ll be in my studio. And Martha... tell the president I’m not to be disturbed, and decline all invitations from England’s queen.”
She hoped Martha laughed. Laughter was certainly better than tears.
The president wouldn’t be calling, of course, nor the queen. Both of them thought she was dead. And that’s exactly how Kathleen wanted it, at least for a while.
She had no intention of being an object of pity. She
’d stay dead until she could grace the stage once more, not as a blind ballerina but as the prima ballerina she’d worked so hard to become.
Sudden guilt slashed her. The news of her death would have devastated her Forever Friends. Still, if she contacted Helen and B. J. and Maxie now, they’d all drop everything and race down to New Orleans to take care of her. The last thing Kat wanted was to disrupt their lives, and as much as she longed to be with them again, she’d couldn’t bear the idea that they, too, might pity her.
Because she wasn’t concentrating, she walked smack into a wall.
She put out her hands to reorient herself. The doorway to her studio was three steps to her right, and when she was inside, she walked the perimeter, holding on to the walls and counting the steps. It wasn’t grand like the one in her flat in New York and the ones Earl had built for her in their houses in Charleston and Paris. But it was full of memories.
When she’d first discovered her love of and talent for dance, she and her mother had knocked down the wall between Kathleen’s bedroom and the dining room, then sold all the furniture in those two rooms except the bed in order to buy mirrors and a ballet barre.
After the room was finished, Karen Shaw had cupped her daughter’s face with her work-roughened hands and said, “You’re going to be the grandest ballerina of them all. Just you wait and see.”
The mirrors were gone now. Martha had taken them down so Kathleen wouldn’t crash into the glass and cut herself.
She went to the small cabinet that held her collection of CDs and ran her hands over the Braille labels. Tchaikovsky. Tonight she would reprise her greatest role. When the CD was in place, Kathleen counted steps to the center of the studio and stood very still, trying to feel the vibration of the music through the soles of her feet and the pores of her skin.
There was nothing except silence.
She went back to the sound system and ran her hands lightly along the front until she felt the knob that controlled volume. When she turned it up, she felt the first vibrations of music through her arms.
“I’m going to do it,” she said. “Just you wait and see.”
Sinking to the floor, she put on her ballet shoes.
o0o
Hunter heard the music coming from Kathleen’s house. Swan Lake. He’d seen her dance Odette/Odile in Paris, sitting at the back of the opera house with his glasses trained on center stage. She hadn’t even known he was there.
Except for a small light in the kitchen, her house was dark. The music came from Kathleen’s studio. He and Karen Shaw used to sit cross-legged on the floor and applaud while Kathleen spun around in the sun.
My very own spotlight, she’d say. Look. I’m dancing.
There was no sun now, no spotlight. Only darkness and the music.
Leaving the tree, he crossed the yard that separated their houses until he was standing just outside the pool of light pouring from the kitchen window. Every fiber in his body vibrated with the need to rush into her house, take Kathleen in his arms, and never let go. But it was very late... perhaps thirteen years too late.
He stood in the darkness and strained his eyes toward her studio window. At first he could see nothing, but gradually he made out her shadow, barely visible in the faint light that filtered down the hall from the kitchen and the small glow of the sound system. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shadow became more distinct.
“My God. She’s dancing.”
Kathleen spun around the room, not in time to the music, but two beats behind, like a graceful shadow hurrying to catch its owner. Suddenly she wobbled. Hunter caught his breath. Kathleen’s arms fought the air until she had her balance, then she spun away once more.
And went crashing into the wall.
Tense, Hunter rushed to help her and was halfway to her kitchen door before he stopped himself.
“Fool. Do you think she wants your help now?”
Through the window he saw Kathleen slump her shoulders and bow her head, a picture of total defeat.
“Come on... come on,” he whispered. “You can do it.”
As if she’d heard, she straightened her shoulders and walked back to the center of the room. Then, with arms lifted and chin up, she leaped into the air once more.
Her landing was solid. In the darkness Hunter silently applauded.
“Brava, Kathleen. Brava.”
With dizzying speed she spun around the room... once, twice. Then she toppled like a tower of cards, vanishing from his view. Hunter clenched his hands into fists and counted to twenty-five before she rose up once more. She walked to the center of the room and stood with her arms outstretched and her chin pointed upward.
She waited, still as a carving while the magnificent strains of Tchaikovsky flowed around her. Hunter held his breath. Suddenly she exploded into movement.
“That’s my Kat.” Slowly he unclenched his hands.
The kitchen light went out, and the studio was plunged into darkness. As music poured into the night a fog settled over the land. Feeling like a thief, he stood outside her window, waiting and watching until at last the music stopped. Then he went to his bed and dreamed that he was searching for Kathleen in the fog.
CHAPTER THREE
Martha was on her second cup of coffee when she saw the wild-haired, bearded man walking toward the kitchen door. At first she thought he must be a beggar or a tramp, but when he came closer, she saw that he was clean and his clothes were well-cut and expensive.
Then what in the world was he doing coming to the back door?
She left her coffee on the table and stood in the doorway with her feet planted wide and her arms akimbo. The sight of all that passive aggression ought to be enough to stop anybody in his tracks. But apparently the man wasn’t just anybody, for he merely narrowed his eyes at her and kept on coming. When he was even with the steps, he stopped.
“I came to see Kathleen Shaw.” Up close, lines of fatigue spread out from his bloodshot eyes. Was he a drunk, perhaps?
“There’s nobody here by that name.” At first the lies had bothered her, but the more she came to know Kathleen Shaw, the more she realized she’d do anything for her.
“And you are...?”
“Martha Kimbrough.”
“Ms. Kimbrough, I’m Hunter La Farge.”
On closer inspection she recognized the black, piercing eyes from the photograph in the locket, and she didn’t have a doubt in the world that he saw her reaction to his name. She tried for a quick recovery, but her sharp intake of breath had already given her away.
“What can I do for you, Mr. La Farge?”
“You can tell Kathleen Shaw that I’ve come to see her.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You must be mistaken. There’s no one here by that name.”
“She’s here. I’ve seen her.”
Martha tried another tack.
“Oh, are you talking about that ballerina that was killed in the boat explosion?” Her laugh wouldn’t have fooled a billy goat, much less the man who stood in the backyard as solid as a mountain and just as immovable. “I guess there will always be sightings of famous people. A man at the grocery store the other day swore he saw Elvis on the St. Charles streetcar.”
He smiled then, and it was a remarkably gentle smile, considering that he was such a big man.
“I know about Kathleen, Ms. Kimbrough. I saw her under our tree last night, and I stood outside her window while she danced in the dark.” That smile again, so poignant, it almost broke her heart. “Won’t you please let me come in?”
Martha dashed a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron. Lordy, she’d always been a sucker for romance. She stepped back and opened the door.
“You can come in, Mr. La Farge, but I can’t let you see Kathleen.”
He had to duck to fit inside the door.
“Where is she?”
“She’s sleeping. Lord knows, she ought to be, dancing all hours of the night, pushing herself till she’s near the point of collaps
e.” She got an extra cup from the cabinet. “Coffee, Mr. La Farge?”
“Yes, thank you. And call me Hunter.”
She poured a cup and set it in front of him, then took a chair opposite.
“The first word she spoke after the accident was Hunter. It was a while before I knew it was your name.”
“She called for me?”
“Repeatedly. In her sleep mostly, but sometimes even when she was awake, especially at first.”
“She called my name....” He spoke almost to himself, transfixed, seeing things no one else could see.
“Yes.” Damned if she didn’t have to wipe her eyes again. She was turning into a soggy old fool.
o0o
He shook himself like a great Labrador coming out of the water, then took a drink of his coffee.
“Everyone thought she was dead,” he said. “What happened?”
“It was my brother who found her, out in his fishing boat. He brought her to me first because I’m a nurse and he thought I’d know what to do.”
“Where was that?”
“A little village near Cape Town... Saldanha. At first we didn’t know who she was.”
“It was in all the papers.”
“Saldanha is not exactly a metropolis. Most folks there don’t pay attention to anything except the weather.”
“Why wasn’t she taken to a large city, to a big hospital? Why wasn’t the press notified?”
“She needed immediate attention. Saldanha has a clinic and a village doctor. After she became lucid, she begged us not to tell anyone she was alive.”
Hunter pushed his cup of coffee aside. Kathleen. Lying in a remote South African village while he searched the globe for her. She’d been so close. How could he not have found her? Why hadn’t he been there when she’d called his name?
“Not even me?” he asked.
“Especially not you.”
He didn’t have to ask why. He remembered the first time he’d ever seen her cry. She was eight years old and she’d been sitting on the back steps of the schoolhouse, hunched over in a dress that was too big and staring at the hole in the bottom of her shoe.
“Why are you crying, Kat?” he’d asked.
“I’m not crying.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.
