Storm of Visions

by Christina Dodd

  She trembled with fury. “Yet you know and I know Irving would sacrifice anything—including a woman he loved—if he thought it would keep his precious Chosen intact and the mission going.”

  “Well. Yes.” Jacqueline’s wild burst of emotion had McKenna almost cringing with dismay.

  “Right.” She turned and headed for the door once more.

  If only she realized how much her anger betrayed about her relationship with her mother . . . but Caleb wasn’t dumb enough to try to tell her. She needed to figure it out for herself. But damn, he was getting tired of waiting.

  McKenna wrung his hands. “But regardless, Miss Vargha, it doesn’t make sense to go out onto the New York streets when danger stalks you.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll be with her.” In fact, Caleb knew better than to try to stop her now. “Get me one of Irving’s hats. We’ll disguise her Hollywood style.”

  Before Jacqueline left Irving’s mansion, her platinum-colored hair was hidden beneath a large fedora and her face was half covered with a huge pair of black sunglasses. They stepped out briskly, walking for two blocks toward the Met before catching a cab.

  Once inside, she turned to him. “I was right about Irving. He is our traitor.”

  Caleb hated to be the voice of reason, but—“Not necessarily.”

  “What do you mean?” She was loud. Too loud.

  He put his fingers over her mouth and glanced toward the Asian cabbie. Softly he said, “The driver has an execrable accent, but he could easily be one of the Others or one of their employees. You know that.”

  She nodded once, resentful because he was right and angry at herself for being so indiscreet.

  In a voice pitched to reach only her ears, he said, “Irving has done despicable things for the Gypsy Travel Agency, yes, and considers them justified by the results. But that doesn’t mean he blew the place up. If anything, knowing he approved of sending Zusane out to reconnoiter for them makes me more inclined to trust him.”

  “You’re crazy,” she muttered, and sat back against the seat, her arms folded over her chest. “What about my mother?”

  “I served Zusane for many years. She was a woman of strong will and fire. She loved drama. She loved intrigue. They could have never forced her to seduce those men. So I think the truth is—she enjoyed her work as a spy.” He waited, but he got no outburst from Jacqueline, which meant she grudgingly agreed. “At the chalk circle, after the explosion, she ordered me to stay with you. I was glad to do it. I thought perhaps it was her way of giving her permission for me to . . . love you.”

  Jacqueline’s head swiveled toward him, and her eyes were wary.

  He continued. “But now I wonder if she realized how dangerous a situation she faced. Perhaps she even foresaw her own death.”

  “And she wanted you out of it,” Jacqueline said.

  “Yes.”

  “She always loved you.”

  “Yes.” They stopped in Times Square to let the mob of tourists pass. Caleb pulled cash out of his pocket and threw it toward the driver. “We’re getting out here.” Grabbing Jacqueline’s arm, he pulled her through the door and into the crowd.

  He hustled her along until they reached an upscale pet store. “In here,” he said.

  “Are we being followed?” she asked.

  “It never hurts to try to lose them, whoever they are.” He especially didn’t want that woman who spoke in his head to find them again. His gut, and Irving’s reaction, told him she was dangerous. “I need dog treats, and I want to say—” He planted himself in front of her, so close their toes touched, so close she had to look into his face and see the truth in his eyes. “I protected your mother because above all else, I owed her my loyalty, and for that, she loved me like a son.” Taking her arms, he pulled her toward him and kissed her once, hard, on the lips. Then he set her back, settled Irving’s hat on her head once more, and said, “Dog treats.”

  “Dog treats,” Jacqueline repeated, and touched her fingers to her swollen lips. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

  “I thought I’d take you to visit my mother.” Her double take gave him a great deal of satisfaction. “It’s best to bribe her dogs.”

  “Your mother?”

  “You said you wanted to meet her.”

  “Yes. I . . . Yes, I would like that.” Jacqueline looked down at her jeans and T-shirt. “I’m not exactly dressed for meeting anybody’s mother. Not yours, anyway.”

  “Ma knows what happened to you. To us.” He dug around in the bin with the teeth-cleansing chews and picked out two, then grabbed a couple of hard biscuits. He flung them all on the counter and stared down the bored and obviously listening sales clerk. “Remember, she sent you her nightgown.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Do you think she’ll like me?”

  He picked up her fingers and kissed them. “I know she will like you very much.”

  Chapter 29

  Somehow, Jacqueline did not find Caleb’s opinion reassuring. This was his mother he was talking about. This was his mother he was taking her to visit.

  Usually, when a guy took a girl to meet his mother, it meant he had serious intentions. What if Mrs. D’Angelo didn’t like her? What if she didn’t like tall women? What if Jacqueline said the wrong thing?

  Oh, that was the most likely. What if she said the wrong thing? She almost always did. . . .

  And in the pet shop, he’d kissed her in a way that, if she were a woman who thrived on self-confidence, she would think meant he did have serious intentions.

  But she’d thought that once before, two years ago, and her mother had crooked her finger, and Caleb had left Jacqueline without a backward glance. So Jacqueline wasn’t going to allow herself hope, only anxiety. Because she was going to meet his mother.

  They took two cabs, a limo, and a circuitous route through Brooklyn to a middle-class neighborhood of restored brownstones.

  “Stop here,” Caleb instructed the driver.

  They were at the end of an alley.

  Jacqueline got out and looked around as Caleb paid the driver. Kids played on the sidewalk, trees lined the street, and she saw an APARTMENT FOR RENT sign in a window.

  Caleb joined her, took her arm, and hustled her down the alley. “My mother’s place is not as nice as Irving’s, but it’s home.”

  “It’s better than Irving’s. I can relax here. If I break something at Irving’s, I know it’s a priceless antique. If I break something here—”

  “It’s not.” He took her past garbage cans and up the back steps to a wooden door with a lace-curtained window. He knocked, tried the knob, found it open, and sighed.

  “Shouldn’t it be locked? Isn’t that dangerous?” Jacqueline followed him into the utility room. She pulled off Irving’s fedora and her glasses and placed them on the washing machine.

  “Yes, but my mother likes for her neighbors to be able to come in for coffee whenever they want.” He shouted into the house, “Ma! It’s me!”

  A wild barking started in the depths of the house.

  “She has Lizzie as a doorbell. The problem is, Lizzie isn’t as young as she used to be, and she doesn’t hear as well as she once did. I never used to be able to touch the door before she was jumping at me.” He handed Jacqueline a treat and warned, “Brace yourself.”

  She heard the thundering of feet; then a large, ecstatic golden Lab and a small German shepherd with a big bark burst through the door.

  “Lizzie, down! Ritter, sit!” Jacqueline recognized Caleb’s command voice.

  Too bad the dogs didn’t. The German shepherd’s attitude changed from aggression to a polite disdain. The Lab continued to prance for the pure pleasure of their company.

  Jacqueline took one look at Caleb’s disgusted expression and burst into laughter.

  “Lizzie, down! Ritter, sit!” he said again, and this time they obeyed—until they’d received the treat he offered.

  Then Ritter frolicked over to Jacqueline and smiled, positively smiled, unt
il she gave him the treat she held. He crunched it without bothering to stop dancing.

  Lizzie was more subdued, more cautious; she daintily removed the treat from Jacqueline’s hand and walked with it to the kitchen. Ritter slapped Jacqueline with his tail until she scratched his back.

  “Come in. Come in!” Caleb’s mother had a lyrical voice and a pronounced Italian accent, and when she appeared in the doorway, Jacqueline realized why the nightgown fit the way it did. Mrs. D’Angelo was probably fifty, short and plump, with snapping brown eyes and short, dark hair that curled around her smiling, dimpled face.

  She was also quite blind.

  Jacqueline muffled her gasp of surprise. All her life she remembered hearing Caleb talk about his mother, and never had he said anything about a handicap.

  “Darling boy, what an unexpected treat. I didn’t expect to see you today.” Mrs. D’Angelo held out her arms toward Caleb.

  He walked into her embrace, put his arms around her, and gave her a hug. “I brought you some company.”

  “Jacqueline? You brought me Jacqueline at last?” She bussed his cheek, pushed him away, and held out her arms again. “I am so glad to meet you, child!”

  What could Jacqueline do? She walked to her, hugged her, and said, “Thank you for welcoming me, Mrs. D’Angelo. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

  “Yes, but we had to respect Zusane’s wishes, didn’t we? Caleb, why did she yield at last?” Mrs. D’Angelo cocked her head and waited for Caleb’s reply.

  “She didn’t exactly yield, Mama. She was killed in a plane crash yesterday.”

  “Oh, no! The poor, dear lady.” Mrs. D’Angelo’s arms convulsively tightened around Jacqueline. “My poor little girl.”

  Jacqueline became aware of an unexpected stinging in her eyes. Until this woman, this mother, held her and gave her sympathy, she hadn’t really experienced the sorrow of losing Zusane. Now melancholy nudged at her, wanting attention, and she thrust it back.

  Not here. Not in this cheerful place. Not in front of Caleb. Not in front of his mother.

  “Come in. Sit down.” Mrs. D’Angelo drew her into the sunny kitchen/dining area. Italian terra-cotta tile covered the floor, the cabinets were painted a pale yellow, and the stainless steel appliances shone. Two dog beds were on the floor under the window. A small, round, polished wood table sat in the window alcove overlooking the street, and Mrs. D’Angelo led Jacqueline there, pulled out a chair, and pushed her into it. “A cup of coffee. Sugar? Cream? Caleb, fix it for her. Can you stay for dinner?”

  “No, Ma, we can’t stay away that long.” Caleb poured two cups of coffee from the under-counter Mr. Coffee, and refilled his mother’s mug.

  “Of course not. Silly me. You have much to do. The outpouring of mourning for the famous Zusane must be heartbreaking.” Mrs. D’Angelo squeezed Jacqueline’s shoulder.

  “The news of Zusane’s death must be all over the media,” Jacqueline whispered. She hadn’t thought about the publicity. Her chest felt tight; whether she wanted it or not, grief was building.

  “Lunch, then. A frittata.” Mrs. D’Angelo worked her way across the kitchen to her cabinets and with uncanny accuracy retrieved a cutting board and an eight-inch chef’s knife.

  “Please, Mrs. D’Angelo, don’t go to any trouble,” Jacqueline protested.

  “It’s no trouble to cook for friends.” Mrs. D’Angelo gave the hovering Lizzie a pat and told her to go lie down on her bed.

  Lizzie obeyed her immediately.

  “Reports of the crash were on the early-morning news.” Caleb placed the coffee in front of Jacqueline and sat down across from her at the small table, watching her as if he knew the train of her thoughts.

  Ritter pushed his wet nose under her hand, and when she automatically began to pet him, he sighed with delight.

  With his soft head under her hands, the heartache retreated a little.

  “What are they saying? Not that Zusane was”—Jacqueline glanced at Mrs. D’Angelo and lowered her voice—“psychic.”

  “No reason to lower your voice,” Mrs. D’Angelo said cheerfully. “I know.”

  “Ma is right—she does know,” Caleb confirmed. “But no, there’s not a whisper of that on the news. Instead they’re doing retrospectives of Zusane’s life, her marriages, her glamour. They’re showing her with royalty, with men of power, with actors and politicians. They’re talking about her sequins and her diamonds.”

  “She would love that.” Jacqueline took a freer breath.

  “Jacqueline, are you allergic to mushrooms?” Mrs. D’Angelo leaned into the refrigerator and gathered ingredients. “Or shellfish?”

  “No, I’m not allergic to anything.” Except maybe visions. Visions that ripped her flesh, clogged her lungs, and left the bitter residue of panic in her mouth. Jacqueline wet her lips. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Thank you. You are a dear girl to offer. But I have my knives sharpened at Sears. They are very sharp.” Mrs. D’Angelo smiled wickedly. “It’s best to stay out of my way.”

  Caleb said, “The press mentioned that Zusane adopted a daughter, but that she and the daughter were estranged and no one knows where the girl is.”

  “Thank God.” Jacqueline had never meant anything more.

  “Your mother was such a good woman. It seems a shame that her greatest good works must remain hidden.” Mrs. D’Angelo shredded Parmesan and de veined shrimp with speedy efficiency. “She saved our lives, you know.”

  “No. I didn’t know.” Jacqueline’s gaze lingered on Mrs. D’Angelo as she chopped mushrooms, zucchini, and green onions. “What did she do?”

  A little skepticism must have leaked into her voice, for Mrs. D’Angelo scowled and cracked the eggs into her bowl with unnecessary vigor. “Tell her, Caleb. She deserves to know.”

  Jacqueline thought he would refuse. He’d always refused to tell her anything but the most superficial details about his life.

  Instead he settled back in his chair, watching Jacqueline steadily, weighing her reactions as he talked. “I grew up in a small town in Sicily, and the first time I saw Zusane, I sold her some shells from the beach. She was a lady, so beautiful, like an angel, and she talked to me and listened to me. I was eight, almost a man, and I was very flattered. I strutted home.”

  “You really did.” Mrs. D’Angelo vigorously beat the eggs. “When I saw you, I knew something had happened to make you look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  So Mrs. D’Angelo had not always been blind.

  “But charming though I was, Zusane had other reasons for paying attention to me. She had seen the aura of pain around me. She followed me home, and warned my mother that death and violence would visit that night, and we should escape while we could. My father and older brother laughed at her. My mother cried.”

  “Because I knew what trouble your brother had stirred up, and I was afraid.” Mrs. D’Angelo slid the chopped ingredients into the eggs.

  “The rivalries in Sicily never really die,” Caleb told Jacqueline, “and my brother was a hothead who lived to fight. He fought the wrong kid, and won.”

  “He was the best fighter on the island. My oldest. So smart. So handsome. So foolish.” Mrs. D’Angelo stopped cooking, suspended in memories.

  “I didn’t realize what was going on, but the other family was rich and influential, and they had bragged they would eliminate us.” Caleb gave Jacqueline a half smile. “Needless to say, we were not rich and influential. So my father and brother refused to leave with Zusane, and refused to let me or my mother go.”

  “Why?” Jacqueline asked.

  “Pride. Manly pride.” If Mrs. D’Angelo hadn’t been in her kitchen, she probably would have spit on the floor.

  “Oh,” Jacqueline said. “That.”

  “They wrapped me in a mattress and told me to go to sleep. I refused, of course”—Caleb grimaced—“and fell asleep waiting. I woke to the sound of gunfire.”

  Mrs. D’Ange
lo came to him as he sat at the table, and put her hand on his shoulder.

  He covered it with his palm, warming it as if knowing she needed the contact.

  Lizzie came to Mrs. D’Angelo’s side, sat at her feet, leaned against her legs.

  “I peeked out and saw my father and brother gunned down.” Caleb’s voice was steady, but beneath his even tone, Jacqueline heard an old anguish. “My mother picked up a knife and killed one of the attackers, and she was shot.”

  “My God!” Jacqueline’s hand convulsed in Ritter’s fur, and he whimpered and huddled closer.