Midnight Lily

  "No, no, I can put the writing aside for now. I can just as easily talk while I sculpt. Let me just close this file, and I'll get my hands busy doing that." Nyala was in one of her manic-creative moods. It was either create or die, or at least that's the way she described it. Sometimes she'd stay up three or four days straight, moving between writing, sculpting, and painting. Then she'd sleep for a week. She never minded me visiting when she was in one of these moods, though. In fact, the more things she was doing at once, the better, or so it seemed, even when she was in the hospital and art supplies were limited. She hit some keys on her computer and then stood up, gesturing for me to follow her. She opened the door to the room at the back of her apartment, the one that overlooked the garden and had windows on three walls letting in lots of natural light. She had several easels set up and a table where it looked like she was creating the bust of a woman. She sat down in front of the clay and started working it with her hands.

  "Sit down," she gestured to a berry-pink, overstuffed antique settee on the wall opposite her. I took a seat, leaning against the back and sighing loudly.

  "Uh oh. What's that?" Nyala asked.

  "Ryan. I ran into Ryan at a party and then he . . . found me." Nyala's hands paused only momentarily before she started working again, but her eyes remained on me.

  "He did, did he?"

  "You don't sound surprised."

  "I'm not."

  I tilted my head. "Why aren't you surprised?"

  "Fate."

  I groaned. "That's the second time today I've heard that word."

  Nyala glanced up at me. "Fate is the language God uses to speak to us, baby. It's up to us to listen, though. What happened?"

  I tilted my head, taking in her words. I was surprised Nyala believed in God, that anyone with an illness of any kind could believe in a loving God. Why couldn't he heal us then? Were we not worthy? But that was for another day, I supposed. I moved that aside and told her about running into Ryan at the charity event and then about him showing up at the aquarium that morning. "Damn," she said, the word filled with surprise. It was difficult to surprise Nyala when she was in one of her creative moods.

  "Yeah," I said. "I know."

  Nyala was quiet for a moment, focusing on what her hands were doing to the clay in front of her. "You never let go of him," she said.

  I let out a long breath. "No. I still love him. And it still doesn't matter." And to grieve for him the way I had for months and months . . . I couldn't do it. Not again.

  "Oh, it matters. I'd say it matters a great deal."

  I shook my head. "I won't do that to him, Ny."

  "What? Strap him with the burden of you?"

  I let out a small laugh lacking in humor. "Basically, yes." I paused. "He looks so good, Nyala." I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "He looks healthy and . . . happy."

  "And you're not? Healthy, I mean?"

  I shook my head. "No. And I probably never will be, not entirely. You know my past, Ny. What do I have to offer him other than the promise of a chaotic life? Of always wondering if I was just going to . . . go into one of my episodes at a moment's notice?"

  She raised a brow, but her eyes remained on her work. "Episodes? Is that what the specialists are calling them these days?" No, that's what my grandmother called them, and I'd taken up the term.

  "You get my point, though, Ny. After everything Ryan's fought through, does he deserve dealing with that? Dealing with me? Does he deserve that fate?" I bit at my lip, pondering the question as misery settled over me.

  Nyala shrugged. "Deserve it? Do any of us deserve what we get in this life? Is that how it works?" She shrugged, answering her own question. "Sometimes I suppose. Mostly, no."

  I sighed. "I just . . . why do I have to be this way? I just want to be free of it all. God, I just want to cast it all off."

  Nyala was looking at me with sympathy. "You can't. Some things must be carried, and that's just the way it goes. It's not for us to know the why. Listen, baby, life is a series of things we choose and things we carry." She stood up, grabbing a rag on the table in front of her and wiping her hands clean before coming to sit next to me on the settee. "The things we choose, well, those are ours. But we don't get a vote on the things we carry. Some are heavier than others, some we can put down eventually, and some are ours to keep. We don't have a choice in the burdens we're given to bear, but we do have a choice in how we hold them. We can strap them to our backs and walk through the world hunched over under the weight like someone who should spend his or her days in a bell tower. Or we can stand tall and straight like one of those African queens carrying a woven basket on her head." She straightened her spine and held her head high, demonstrating her words, and then she smiled gently. "No, baby, we don't get to choose what we carry, but we do get to choose the grace with which we carry it."

  I let out a small sniffle, a tear streaking down my cheek. I smiled and swiped at it.

  "Now, are you Quasimodo or are you a queen?" she asked.

  I laughed softly, wiping at another tear. "I want to be a queen."

  Nyala gave me a dazzling smile. "Good. Then stand tall. Stake your claim, my love. Ryan—or any man for that matter—would be lucky to have you, brave, beautiful girl." She stood up and returned to her sculpture.

  "Even if I'm a queen, I'm still difficult to love," I insisted.

  "I don't find you difficult to love. I find it quite easy actually."

  I smiled. "That's because you just . . . accept me."

  "Maybe he wants to accept you, too."

  "I shouldn't let him." I want to let him. I want to let him so much.

  "It might not be your choice. And, baby girl, the ones who see what we carry and want us anyway, those are the ones to hold on to."

  "How could it ever end well, Ny?" I asked.

  "Oh, Lily. Happily ever after doesn't mean a lifetime of perfection. I don't think anyone believes that happily ever after means there are no unhappy days, even unhappy years. It means loving forever, despite all the many reasons it's easier not to."

  I sighed loudly again, thinking that Ryan didn't know the extent of what he might be dealing with, what forever might mean between the two of us. "Oh, the angst," Nyala said and laughed. "I should write this into one of my novels."

  I gave her a mock stern look and then smiled. "I should write a novel of my own. I obviously have the imagination for it."

  Nyala nodded. "You have the heart of an artist. It's why so many of us lose our minds."

  I laughed. "What?"

  "No, it's true. Go into any institution in the world and take a poll. I don't have any scientific data to support it, but from my personal observation, the majority of crazy people are artists. They're more sensitive souls—they have to be to create art others respond to. But it means they're more easily broken."

  I shook my head, smiling. "I'm not an artist."

  "Maybe you just haven't found your art yet." She pulled her head back and gave her clay an assessing look and then went back to work. "Think about what it means to be a writer, for example—you have to create an entire world in your head and then fashion characters so believable you know their every thought, their every dream, every intention, every potential, every motivation. You have to live in their head enough to understand them, to tell their story. You have to make them so believable that sane humans actually fall in love with that character. Or mourn their losses, or feel anger on their behalf, feel authentic emotion for them. I think a writer needs to be at least partially crazy to manage something like that."

  Yes. Yes, that's exactly how it could be for me in my own mind. I should never, ever try my hand at writing because I had no problem going there. My problem was that I would stay there. And I wouldn't know whether the world I'd suddenly found myself in was real or not real. That's what it was like to go crazy—like jumping straight into a novel. In any case . . . "I think most authors would say they have a vivid imagination," I corrected.
r />   She snapped her fingers, a small bit of clay flying away from her hand. "Yes! And you and I have the most vivid imaginations of all. Next time one of us sees a person who isn't there, or knows all the thoughts and feelings of a vision, we'll say about the other, ‘Isn't her imagination particularly vivid?’ What a wonder! What a marvel! It's not just vivid, it's strikingly vivid. Astonishingly vivid. The most vivid of all."

  I laughed, my soul feeling lighter. Nyala somehow managed that. Always. I guess some people might call her crazy—and there were times when she sunk into a dark abyss where only she went—but I called her my miracle. She was somehow able to magically change my outlook on an entire situation, to provide that tiny shift in perception that gave me hope to rise above the problem. And it always felt right because she was able to put voice to that which was already in my heart. How she did that, I wasn't sure, but if that didn't speak of miracles, I didn't know what did.

  "Those quacks and pill pushers might try to diagnose us with something else, but Lily, girl, our real diagnosis is a particularly vivid imagination. And we both know it." She gave me a big grin.

  Oh, if only that were true. Still, sometimes you had to laugh. And that's just what I did, collapsing back on the couch.

  **********

  I felt a little bit better when I left Nyala deep in her clay, although seeing Ryan at the aquarium still weighed heavily on my heart. As I walked, I pulled out my phone to call my grandmother. She answered on the second ring. "Hello, darling."

  "Hi, Grandma. I just wanted to let you know I'm headed home."

  "Okay. I need to run out to the store in a little bit so if I'm not home when you get here, I'll be right back. I have a pot of gravy on the stove. Did you have a good time at the aquarium?"

  I hesitated. "Yes. Grandma, did you call someone to follow me around there?"

  There was a pause. "No. Why would I do that?"

  "Because you don't trust me." And could I really blame her?

  She sighed. "I do trust you, Lily. And I want you to get out. It's good for you. I just don't want—"

  "I know. You don't want me to see Ryan. We talked about that. I agreed."

  "Right. Speaking of which, I scheduled the movers. We fly back to Colorado two weeks from tomorrow."

  I swallowed. "All right."

  "All right. I'll see you soon?"

  "Yes, see you soon."

  It took me a little over forty-five minutes for public transportation to get me from downtown San Francisco to Marin. From there, I walked to my grandmother's rental house and let myself in the door. "Hello?"

  There was no answer. I followed the scent of Grandma's "gravy"—rich tomatoes, basil, and garlic—and saw it simmering on the stove. Grabbing the wooden spoon she had set on a spoon rest to the side of the stove, I lifted the lid of the pot, leaning in and inhaling the comforting smell. I stirred the sauce and replaced the lid, moving over to the sink to wash my hands. I'd make a salad to go with dinner.

  "Lily," came the deep voice behind me.

  Startling and turning abruptly, I found Jeffrey standing in the doorway. My heart began hammering in my chest. "H-Hello," I said. "I was just going to make a salad. Will you be joining us for dinner?"

  He shook his head. "No. I have an appointment tonight."

  "Okay," I said, glancing at the nametag pinned to the lapel of his suit. Why would he be wearing a nametag? I frowned, blinking at it, unable to read it from across the kitchen. He suddenly began advancing on me, and I sucked in a breath, my eyes shooting to his face. I pressed my butt against the sink, unable to back up any more than I already had. Jeffrey came to within a step of me. He brought his hand up and ran his knuckle down my cheek. I flinched. "You seem so jumpy around me. Why? I'm here to help you. I only want—"

  "Lily," my grandmother called from the foyer. Jeffrey stepped back.

  "In here," I called loudly. Jeffrey gave me one last assessing look and then turned and left the kitchen. I heard him chat briefly with my grandma and then the front door closed. A few seconds later, my grandma came into the kitchen carrying a bag of groceries. I took the bag from her and she leaned toward me as I kissed her on her cheek.

  "Are you okay? You look peaked."

  "I'm okay," I said softly. "I was going to make a salad." I turned toward the refrigerator.

  "That would be great. All the ingredients are in the crisper."

  "Grandma, about Jeffrey—" The chiming of the doorbell cut me off. "I'll get that," I murmured.

  I walked through the living room and into the large foyer, peeking through the curtain next to the door. It was a woman, turned halfway away, but I recognized her immediately. She was the woman from the charity benefit. The woman who had been with Ryan. "Good grief," I whispered. What more? She turned and saw me peeking at her. Taking a fortifying breath, I opened the door. "Hello?" I asked, pretending I didn't know who she was.

  "Don't pretend you don't recognize me," she said. "I can tell by your expression that you do. My name is Jenna. May I come in?"

  I stared at her. She was somehow even more beautiful when dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. Her auburn hair was down and curled around her beautiful face, and her deep brown eyes were a stunning contrast to her creamy complexion. "How did you know where I live?"

  "I'm good friends with a client who helped organize the charity event," she said, not elaborating. I supposed she had access to the guest list and all the information pertaining to that. I sighed and stood back, holding the door open to her. What a wonderful way to wrap up a wonderful day.

  "Who's there, Lily?" my grandmother called.

  "Someone for me," I called back, gesturing for Jenna to follow me to the formal living room to the right of the foyer. Doubtless my grandmother would listen in at the door, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Not today. I took a seat on the couch and Jenna sat down on the loveseat, facing me.

  "I guess I'll just get right to it," she said. "I know who you are. I know about you, and I've come to tell you to stay away from Ryan."

  What the hell?

  I let out a small laugh. "You know about me? You know what exactly?"

  "I was listening when you talked to him in the lobby. I heard what your grandmother said about you being ill. About you being in a hospital—a mental hospital, I assume. A whole year? You must have been very, very disturbed. Are you still? Disturbed that is?" She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes as if she could tell more about my mental state if she looked hard enough.

  I felt myself pale and clasped my hands in my lap. I wasn't sure I had ever felt such deep loathing for someone before. Snake. "I'm not sure how my situation is any of your business, Jenny, was it?"

  She gave me a smile, but it dissolved into something verging on a sneer. "Jenna," she corrected, her voice dripping phony sweetness. "Listen, Lily, Ryan told me in detail about his own struggles, poured his heart out actually. He's finally healing from his loss. Do you really think he needs to bring more unpredictability into his life? More chaos and uncertainty? If you care about him at all, which I suspect you do by the way you looked at him at the event, surely you see that I'm right."

  I paused, regarding her, trying my very best not to let her see how much her words affected me. It was the crux of my pain regarding Ryan, in fact. How did this horrible woman know that? It was as if she could look right inside my heart, and that was not tolerable. And the fact that he'd shared his deepest secrets with her just . . . hurt. This was the woman Ryan had feelings for now? I supposed I should be personally offended by his poor taste in women. He'd been kissing her. His mouth had been on the mouth of the woman in front of me now, capable of spewing such ugly, hateful things. And I had told him he should be with her? I had practically demanded he choose her. Because I'd thought it was right, better. I didn't answer her question.

  "He and I are just beginning something very special. I suppose he feels some attachment to you being that you were there during a very rough time in his life, and I su
ppose he feels as if he can't turn you away now. He must feel very sorry for you." She shook her head as if the thought was one that made her sad. "So, do the right thing—do him the favor of not having him make a choice that will cause him guilt. He doesn't need one more thing weighing on his mind."

  "I'd like you to leave my home now."

  "Happily. I'm done here." She stood. "Think on what I've said. I'm sure you'll realize I'm right."

  "Goodbye, Gemma."

  She narrowed her eyes at me again. "Goodbye, Lily. Be well." But the look on her face belied her words. If a person could be assassinated with a final glance, I'd be lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

  I didn't stand up. My hands were shaking with anger but also with humiliation. It was almost as if Jenna was the very embodiment of all my deepest insecurities. She walked out of the room, and a moment later I heard the front door close quietly behind her. I heard the soft sound of my grandmother's shoes moving back toward the kitchen and let out a long exhale. A moment later I heard a clatter from the kitchen and my grandmother say, "Oh dear, what a mess."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ryan

  My legs didn't want to cross the threshold, but I knew in my heart it was time. Holden's house. Taking a breath, I stepped inside. I'm here, buddy. I'm finally ready. Everything looked exactly the same, and yet a still emptiness filled the space, a sense of loneliness that had never been here before. God, I’ve missed you. Holden's housekeeping staff had been kept on, so everything was neat and clean—no dust, and fresh vacuum lines were visible on the living room carpet. I wanted to flee this place, flee the feelings it was bringing alive inside me, flee the despair bubbling up my throat, but I didn't. With a heavy heart, I climbed the grand double staircase in the foyer to what had been Holden's bedroom. I'd do a little bit today, and then I'd save the rest for another day, as it didn't need to happen all at once. This house was paid for, and even if it wasn't, I had plenty of money to keep making whatever payments needed to ensure its upkeep. I went directly to Holden's massive, walk-in closet and took a couple suitcases off the shelves. Jenna had been right—people would probably fall all over themselves to bid on Holden's underwear, but that didn't feel right. I'd quietly drop this stuff off at a homeless shelter—or one of those charities that helped provide interview attire for indigent people—luggage included, and I wouldn't say a word about who had owned it. That's what Holden would have wanted, and no one knew that better than I did. He’d been generous to a fault but not showy. Never showy. And everything he had done for charity, he’d done anonymously.