Shifting Shadows

by Sally Berneathy

  In spite of her certainty that this was all a game, she gulped and lifted her gaze to Lottie.

  The older woman smiled reassuringly if a little shakily. “It’s all right. This just means you’re chained to the past, and that past involves imprisonment, limitations. It’s still here, I’m afraid, all around you.” Her brow furrowed as she studied the card. “I’d say you can’t be free in this life until you’re free of your past, Elizabeth’s past. You’re doing the right thing, trying to learn what happened to her.”

  Analise shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. Lottie’s words were frighteningly reminiscent of what Dylan had said at the cemetery. Her life ran parallel to Elizabeth’s.

  Lottie turned over another card. “This is much better,” she said. “This one represents the best that can be achieved.” Analise stared at the picture of a family, a man and woman with two children contemplating a rainbow of cups with a house in the background.

  “The Ten of Cups,” Lottie explained. “Happiness, contentment, your dreams come true.” She looked at Analise with a misty smile. “I’m so glad. You deserve it.”

  Analise found herself smiling in return.

  Lottie turned over another card. “Now we see the tools you have to work with. Hmm. Yes, this is good. Justice, equity...Phillip’s a lawyer, isn’t he? Not that lawyers necessarily stand for those things, but there could be a connection.”

  She picked up the card and studied it, as if searching for a hidden message. “Maybe you have to find justice for Elizabeth and for yourself in order to achieve your rainbow. All these cards will pertain to the both of you, you understand. When you selected Elizabeth’s card, you confirmed that you’re linked.”

  Lottie flipped over a picture of a dark tower in a storm, of clouds rolling in and lightning flashing, striking the tower.

  “Oh, dear. Well, it could be worse. This is where you’re coming from, what’s just passed away. It shows misery, deception, distress, ruin, all sorts of horrible things. It sounds amazingly like the last days of Elizabeth’s life. Her husband was deceptive, cruel, and he caused her plenty of misery.” She lifted her gaze to Analise’s. “Did Phillip deceive you in some way?”

  Analise swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. He’s been nothing but kind to me since my accident.”

  Lottie accepted the statement, lifted the next card, looked at Analise again and reluctantly laid it out—a woman blindfolded and surrounded by swords.

  “This is what’s coming into being, what’s directly before you. The Seven of Swords means violence, an accident, possibly a fatal one. You’ve already had one when you fell down the stairs, but that would be in the past. I’m afraid you still need to be careful. You must avert this.”

  Her brow creased as she hurriedly laid out four more cards in a row, muttering as she did so. “Good. Thank heavens. Yes, yes.” But then she hesitated over the last one. Her hand shook, and her eyes met Analise’s as she displayed it.

  Reminding herself this was only a silly game, that these were harmless rectangles of cardboard, Analise forced herself to look at the card.

  Death.

  Chapter Ten

  The room faded to a blurred, unfocused mist. Only the stark colors on the array of cards blazed brilliantly.

  Lottie’s hand fluttered to her throat. “It doesn’t necessarily mean a literal death,” she said, her voice fluttering in the same way as her hand. “It could be the death of a relationship or a way of life or anything.”

  “But you think it means a literal death, don’t you?”

  Analise squeezed the words out, past the obstruction that had suddenly risen in her throat.

  “In the context of everything else, it might,” Lottie admitted. “But remember, Elizabeth died many years ago. That was a literal death.”

  “You said our destinies are linked, that the cards pertain to both of us.”

  Lottie straightened, drew in a deep breath. “Yes, I did. But the cards don’t dictate. They warn. They show what might happen. Look at the three that precede it. Death, Hope, Bravery, Wisdom...you couldn’t ask for better tools. You have only to use them, and you can change that last card. Remember your possibility, what can be achieved.” She indicated the drawing of the family looking at the rainbow.

  Analise couldn’t take her eyes off the pictures before her. She knew the colorful layout was only a product of the random fall of cards, but there was so much that fit her circumstances. She couldn’t ward off the suffocating fear that engulfed her.

  “It’s never easy to find the right path to follow,” Lottie went on, pondering the arrangement, touching each card briefly. “You have to trust your soul to guide you.”

  Analise shook her head and grinned wryly. “My soul isn’t giving very clear directions right now.” It couldn’t seem to figure out whether to throw her into Dylan’s arms or run inside and bolt the door against him.

  “Well, I know so little about your circumstances, I can only guess. But there is some evidence here that you need to work out a relationship, since your dream card—” she indicated the Ten of Cups— “shows a family. And Elizabeth’s marriage didn’t bring her happiness.” She lifted her hands, shrugged apologetically. “The clues are all here. But I’m afraid only you can interpret them.”

  Work out a relationship. Of all Lottie’s speculations, that was the phrase that screamed at her.

  If Phillip was Blake, he’d hurt her in two lifetimes, and now he seemed to be trying to make up for it. Was his soul trying to get things right? Did that mean she’d have to try to work things out with him? She swallowed hard, surprised at the emptiness that overwhelmed her at that prospect. Could she spend the rest of her life with someone whose arms made her feel hollow and cold?

  Yet she couldn’t totally dismiss Lottie’s idea. Maybe the fortune telling was nonsense, but Analise knew in her gut—or in her soul, as Lottie would have it—that something out there had to be resolved, whatever the cost.

  *~*~*

  When Analise finally arrived home, she found Phillip waiting on her porch. A quick glance to her left revealed Dylan on his own porch in front of his easel. She had a sudden urge to go over and grab that canvas, see if he really was painting or only using it as an excuse to spy on her.

  Not, she realized, that she resented his watching her so much as she just wanted to know. She supposed she’d become so accustomed to his always being there that she expected it, would feel deserted if he weren’t there.

  “I brought wine and steaks,” Phillip said, lifting a large brown grocery sack as she approached, and she reluctantly turned her attention to him. “You just sit down and rest, and I’ll have dinner prepared for you in no time at all. Medium with a hot pink center, just the way you like it.”

  She wanted to look again at Dylan, see how he was reacting to her ex-husband’s proprietary attitude, but she didn’t dare for fear of what Phillip might see on her face.

  Instead she smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very considerate of you.”

  He did and said all the right things, all the kind things. He was trying very hard to make up to her for whatever problems they had incurred in their marriage.

  *~*~*

  Being married to him wouldn’t be horrible, she told herself as they sat on the sofa in the parlor after dinner, sipping wine and chatting quietly. He was doing most of the talking, recounting anecdotes from their marriage, feeding memories to her.

  “What did I do?” Analise suddenly asked. “I mean, I’ve only had the antique shop for a few months. What did I do before that?”

  “What did you do?” Phillip repeated. “You were my wife. You helped me with my career. You entertained. You were the perfect hostess. Everyone loved you. And you did a wonderful job of providing a haven for me to return to after fighting the world all day.”

  No wonder I left him, she thought, and realized with a start how much of Analise she’d regained. Elizabeth would not have rebelled at the idea t
hat her identity should come through her husband. She might have been dissatisfied with it, but her world offered no alternatives.

  “I never worked?” Analise asked.

  “You sold real estate when we first married, when I was still struggling to get established. But then my business improved, we didn’t need the money and I did need your charm.” He smiled beguilingly.

  Across the screen of her mind Analise watched the scenes he described unfold, recalled exactly how it had been. She hadn’t wanted to give up her job, her independence. She’d enjoyed meeting people, finding homes for them.

  But Phillip had discouraged her, had claimed the job stole time and energy that she should devote to bolstering his career. They’d rarely entertained in those early days. She hadn’t helped him, been his partner. He’d made her feel so guilty, she’d finally given in.

  In his own quiet, charming way, Phillip had dominated her as much as Blake had dominated Elizabeth. Even if she truly believed that fate dictated she should return to Phillip, she feared she would have a hard time going back into a relationship like that.

  “Analise,” he said, breaking into her reverie, “things could be different between us. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

  Analise considered his words as she stared down into the blood red depths of her wine. He’d learned from his mistakes. Wasn’t that what Lottie said reincarnation was all about?

  Nevertheless, whatever she had to do ultimately, she would not go back into a marriage she couldn’t remember. She lowered her glass and faced him squarely.

  “Thanks so much for dinner,” she said. “I’m really exhausted. Could we call it an evening?”

  “If you’ll promise to let me take you out tomorrow night. We’ll go to your favorite Italian place.”

  “Can we do it another evening? I really need some time for myself.” So much was happening so fast. She had to slow down, take it all in, figure things out.

  He took her hand in his cool one. “Please give me a chance,” he pleaded softly. “Don’t close me out. Give me an opportunity to try to show you how different it can be.”

  She didn’t want to agree. She felt overwhelmed by his continuing presence, desperately wanted to be alone. But he was trying. Wasn’t she obligated to do the same?

  “All right,” she finally agreed, feeling trapped, pushed by Phillip’s persistence and her own uncertainty. “Dinner tomorrow,” she added, lest there be any confusion about what she was consenting to.

  She stood, encouraging him to leave. He rose with her, and she walked outside. He paused on the porch and turned to her, wrapping her in his arms, his thin lips descending to hers.

  She wanted to push him away, but she tried to return the embrace, to respond. He was gentle and skillful, but his slim body felt strange against hers. Surely they’d shared passion at some time, but she could find no remnants of it now, not even the memory.

  “Good night,” she said, hands shoving against his chest, against the cool silk of his shirt.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, then turned and walked toward his car.

  She watched him drive away, lifted a hand to return his wave, then slowly faced Dylan’s house. She couldn’t see him on the porch, but somehow she knew he was there. She could feel his dark gaze on her as surely as she felt it when he stood before her.

  She went back into the house, locking the door behind her. But as she started to draw the curtains, she felt she was not only shutting out Dylan’s surveillance but also shutting in Phillip’s lingering essence, and she didn’t want to do either. She left the curtains open, placed a hand on the glass as if to feel Dylan’s stare, to complete the connection between them.

  Absurd, she told herself. But it wasn’t any more absurd than reincarnation or tarot cards or waking up with someone else’s memories.

  She poured herself another glass of wine and sat down on the sofa, pulling her feet up under her. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric of the sofa, traced the outlines of a pink cabbage rose. Not Mama’s sofa, but hers. One she’d chosen carefully...because it was similar to Mama’s? Because the house had called forth memories of another lifetime?

  She sipped her wine, feeling its warmth radiating to all parts of her body. But it wasn’t just the wine that brought her warmth. This was her home, and she drank in the comfortable sense of belonging.

  She stood, walking around the room, touching the familiar objects—the mantel clock Papa had brought from St. Louis, the lamp she’d found at an estate sale a month ago that looked so much like Mama’s, the crocheted doily under it that her mother—Analise’s mother—had bought for her at a craft show last week.

  The lives of Analise and Elizabeth were flowing together. She didn’t really understand, didn’t totally accept Lottie’s theory of reincarnation, but she no longer felt she inhabited the body of a stranger. She still felt confused, sometimes expected to see Elizabeth in the mirror, but wasn’t surprised to see Analise.

  Like two halves of the same person...fraternal halves rather than identical.

  She strolled into the foyer and looked up the stairs. A chill ran down her spine, and she shuddered in the stillness. Perhaps her sense of identity was clearing, but nothing else was.

  Slowly she walked up the stairs, searching each step for the memories she’d lost there. On the fourth step from the top, she hesitated. This was where she’d found the piece of broken crystal from the lamp in her dream. The crystal was real, sharp and jagged and substantial. It still rested in her handbag.

  So what did that say about her dream? A dream or a memory?

  She forced her feet to move upward to the landing. She would relive the dream, stand at the top of the stairs looking down and see if that would call forth memories.

  She took the last step onto the landing, clinging desperately to the rail, her heart starting to pound. No one waited in the shadows, she assured herself. The electric light banished the dark. No one hid there now.

  But she had to drag her hand away from its secure grip, had to force herself to turn around and stare downward.

  Against all logic, she could feel ghostly hands touching her shoulders. Panic overwhelmed her, stole reason and thought, and she fled down the stairs and out the door onto the porch.

  She welcomed the chilly evening air as it washed over her, chased away the mindless terror and restored her ability to think. She caught her breath, felt her heart rate slow. Could a dream cause such anxiety, such alarm? More and more she doubted it. More and more she felt certain that someone had actually tried to kill her.

  On still shaky legs she moved to the wooden glider on the porch and sat down. Leaning back, she pushed the swing to and fro. Overhead a myriad of stars rode the distant sky, their light clear and cool. The moon had not yet risen to dilute their brightness. She took a deep breath, tried to draw in some detached clarity from all around her, searched for the brief contentment she’d felt in her house.

  The sound of a door opening startled her. She twisted around in the swing. In the blackness of night the light from the open door of Dylan’s house turned the form standing just outside into a menacing silhouette. For one moment she thought the specter of Death from the tarot cards stood staring at her.

  Then Dylan stepped from the shadows and walked to the edge of his porch, making no pretense at anything but watching her. And she was glad to see him, wanted to run over to him, throw her arms around him, feel his hard body against hers, banish the memory of Phillip’s touch.

  She rose from the swing and walked over to lean against the rail of her porch, confronting him squarely. “It’s too dark to paint,” she said.

  Dylan could have argued with her about that. As she stood there in the night, with only the glow from the street lamp and the window of her house illuminating her face, she made a picture that would doubtless find its way into his dreams—the good ones, not just the drowning one. Her pale hair slid softly about her shoulders, capturing and reflecting the minimal light. Her eyes shone larg
e and luminous, almost as if they had their own source of illumination.

  He forced himself to focus on other things. “The moon will be up soon,” he said, a vague reply to her comment.

  “What have you been painting? Still the storm picture?”

  He stepped off the porch and walked closer, then stopped as he realized what he was doing. Getting closer to her wasn’t any part of a solution. He crossed his arms, putting a shield between them, between the effect she had on him and the reality of why he was there. “Actually, I’m doing a work of your house,” he said, looking upward. “You have some interesting architectural details.”

  She looked up too as though she could see through the roof of the porch, through the night. “Yes, it’s a true Queen Anne with just the right amount of gingerbread to be charming, but not an excess.”

  “Your color scheme isn’t authentic, you know.”

  “No, it isn’t. But it looks good. It looks right...don’t you think?”

  She smiled, and his lips involuntarily imitated hers, moving as if they were once again touching hers.

  “Yeah, it looks good,” he said. She looked good, right, standing there on the old porch with her moonlight-colored hair and star-bright eyes.

  “I love this house.”

  “The first time I saw you, when I was moving in, you were on a ladder way up by that attic window—” he pointed “—replacing a couple of those shingles.”

  “Fish-scale shingles.”

  “Yeah. A couple of those fish-scale shingles that had blown down in a windstorm.” The wind had still been blowing pretty strong, and she’d looked fragile clinging to that ladder. In spite of everything, he’d wanted to rush up and rescue her. That feeling hadn’t changed.

  With a start, he realized he’d lifted his arms to her porch rail and was leaning toward her, only inches from her. She had a way of making him momentarily forget his pain, his duty. That wouldn’t do. He stood erect, searching for a barrier to throw up. “Relations seem to be improving with the ex,” he said. That should put a barrier firmly in place.