Eternally Yours (29 page)

I peeped again; I couldn’t see them. Oh God, if I heard their footsteps on the metal stairs outside I didn’t know what I would do—jump out the window? Scream for help? You’ll appreciate this irony: The person I most wanted to see was Reyn. If he were here, I’d be okay.

You
are
a coward, my hateful inner voice whispered. And a hypocrite. And a user.

If I had my way, my inner voice would never work here again.

The couple came out of MacIntyre’s. Shading her eyes, the blond woman looked up and down the street, glancing at the row of shops. I sank lower, unable to swallow. Were they looking at the farm car? Could they feel my energy still attached to it?

My next cautious look showed them standing there, talking to each other. After several minutes of me not being able to breathe, they finally got back in their fancy car and drove away. I lay down on the floor, feeling as if I’d just run ten miles.

For another half hour I lay there silently, to make sure they weren’t coming back. Before I left the apartment, I looked out every window, searching each shadow, each
parked car to make sure they were really gone. At last I peered around the front door, then slunk down the metal steps as fast as I could. Rushing across the street, I leaped into the farm car and set a new speed record going home. All the while my brain was frantically trying to convince itself that it had been a weird coincidence, that they hadn’t done anything to me then, and they hadn’t done anything today. It didn’t matter. My fear wasn’t rational, but it was real, and profound, and only an idiot would ignore it. I was becoming slightly less of an idiot these days.
Slightly.

Having actual faces to be scared of spooked me more than anything else.

When I got back, I went looking for River and found her in the kitchen garden with Reyn, Joshua, Amy, and Brynne. They were pulling up plants and throwing them onto a fire that was surrounded with white stones, with four large gray stones at the four compass points. The spring cabbage, Brussels sprouts, peas, turnips—all of those had died, withering and turning black.

Since the awful scene in the hayloft, I’d seen Reyn only at breakfast. I’d expected him to be cold and reserved, obviously angry, but he seemed to be making an effort to look normal. He should be glad that I had been honest, at least.

As usual, River’s clear brown eyes looked intently into mine, as if she could see down into my soul. I tucked the end of my fleecy scarf a little tighter around my neck.

“You went to town?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t talk to her here. Reyn spared me not a glance as he pulled up turnips and threw them on the fire. Brynne and Joshua were working side by side, their heads close. When she heard my voice she straightened, looking adorable in a red sweater, brown corduroys, and paisley-print cowboy wellies. Making sure that Joshua couldn’t see, she gave me a wide, goofy grin and clasped her dirt-covered hands together: true love. Swoon.

Joshua looked up, so I couldn’t react. Why was she so attracted to him? He was distant, taciturn, a loner, a fighter—

Okay, never mind. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.

“You get those.” Amy’s low direction to Reyn made him look at her. She gave him a little smile and pointed to the carrot beds. “I’ll get these over here.” He nodded, just as I remembered once again that before Ottavio had come, Amy had had a crush on Reyn. Maybe had it still. I didn’t know.

Reyn could act on it now, if he wanted to. He was probably done with me forever.

“You okay?” River patted my shoulder, careful not to get dirt on me.

I nodded and decided to go back to the house. Maybe I would voluntarily meditate or have some tea or something.

“Lunch!” Roberto was heading toward us, his brown, too-long hair flopping stylishly over the collar of his plaid shirt and suede vest. The ensemble would look goofy on anyone else, but River’s youngest brother could pull it off. Had he
really remembered where we’d met? Because I needed that embarrassing complication right now.

“Okay, let’s take a break, guys,” said River, peeling off her gloves. She looked around the ruined garden and sighed. “I guess we’ll try to replant here, after we dispel any bad energy?”

“Definitely,” said Amy. I wondered how long she was going to be around. She was just visiting, which implied an end to the visit. Oh God, I’m such a loser.

“What’s for lunch?” Joshua asked his brother.

“I don’t know. Pasta or something. I didn’t cook.”

“I want mac ’n’ cheese,” Brynne said, dropping her gloves into a basket.

“Yes,” said Roberto. “That would be groovy.” His espresso-colored eyes met mine for a split second, then he turned and headed back to the house. But not before I’d seen a hint of a grin. I rubbed my temple. Yeah, he remembered.

To my surprise, Reyn was the last to go. He took his gloves and dropped them in the basket, then rolled down his shirtsleeves, buttoning the cuffs. A navy blue hoodie was draped over a raspberry stake, and he picked it up.

I looked at him—he seemed bleak rather than angry.

“So, when can you free up some time for a sword lesson?” Of the two of us, I was the more shocked that those brash words had come out of my mouth.

“I saw some creepy people in town,” I said quickly while he was still looking for some no doubt scathing response.

Straightening slightly, he actually met my eyes. “What do you mean?”

As we walked to the house, I told him about the weird couple and the unexplainable effect they had on me. Despite everything, I was driven to share my fears with him. As though he might still care.

Why yes, I confuse the hell out of myself. Why do you ask?

He was silent after I finished my tale of muscle-freezing fear. Would he just walk ahead, ignoring me? Would he use this moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability to throw my rejection back in my face?

“Maybe sometime around four,” he muttered, then left me behind while he took the kitchen steps two at a time.

I lingered outside for a moment, enjoying the unexpected and unearned warm glow of happiness inside.

I
’ve had so many different names. As I’ve said, all immortals must change their names and identities every so often; if you live in one place for forty years and never look older, well, people talk. Or come after you with pitchforks and torches. That kind of thing. I’m one of the lazy ones—never loving any place so much that I would go through the pain in the ass of pretending to age or die. I always just moved on after ten or twelve years, started over some place with new forged documents.

In my life, I’ve been Icelandic, Norwegian, Swedish (okay, somewhat unimaginative at first), Italian, German, Bohemian (from Bohemia), Swiss, Austrian (Austria is so pretty), Dutch, French, French, French, French again, French one more time (I was having a good run), American, English, American, German, Finnish (owned a small vodka distillery), French again (it was the 1930s, and I loved the clothes), Swedish again, Norwegian again, American again, English again, and now, as Nastasya, English. Mostly. I have several different current passports, driver’s licenses, etc.

Have you noticed the distinct lack of Hispanicness? No South American, Brazilian, nothing farther south than France in Europe and Texas in America. No Australian. Maybe it’s just where I’m from, what my original cultural heritage is, but I’m not an emotionally open or demonstrative person, and those cultures seem to embody that. You may be thinking, Oh, Nastasya, you’re a cuddly, little, affectionate open book! In which case I would think that you were crazy, or perhaps had come into this story late.

Because I’m not. The only person I
ever
kissed and hugged of my own volition, many times a day, was my son, Bear. I’d kissed him constantly on his sweet, bright face; his smooth, round arms; his chunky legs. He was the being, the soul, that I’ve loved the most in my entire life. It didn’t end well. I’ve never been inclined to go overboard since then.

Somehow, hundreds of years of increasing insularity, ever-thickening walls of protection, and a growing dislike of
being touched physically or emotionally, had culminated in Los Angeles in 1982, when Nastasya Crowe was born.

Innocencio had finally put
his foot down about Tahiti and Sea Caraway. I think I could have stayed for several more decades, working on the best tan I’d ever had—we Icelanders are not a supertan bunch. But I left my hut behind, and we met up with Cicely, Stratton, Boz, and Katy in London. Then Incy and I went to New York to see if it was fun enough for everyone to come over.

“Who are you going to be?” Incy asked. He had already ditched the name Sky and reverted to his favorite one, Innocencio. We were lying on opposite couches in the living area of a suite in the Four Seasons, because our apartment wasn’t ready.

“It’s cold here,” I said, and took a deep sip of my whiskey sour. Room service had brought up a large pitcher, to save time.

“It’s New York. It’s November. Of course it’s cold.” Incy’s voice was a little bored, a little impatient. I hadn’t wanted to leave Tahiti, but no one could withstand months of Incy’s cajoling sprinkled with alternate bits of whining and insistence. I’d finally caved after he promised me a gorgeous high-rise apartment, interesting people he wanted me to meet, and an exciting art scene.

The apartment was being turned into a condo, so there was a ton of legal stuff to work out. The interesting people became interesting only after snorting coke in the bathrooms at Studio 54, and then it only lasted about half an hour. The art scene
was
exciting, but it was also angry and often political.

“I thought we decided we hated New York.” I pushed my feet under a couch pillow to warm them.

I could hear his let-out breath from eight feet away.

“That was in the seventies, at the height of the recession,” he reminded me in a too-patient tone. “This is the eighties, business is booming, and New York has new life pumping through it.”

To think I could be in a cloth hammock between two palm trees right now—I unclenched my teeth to swig more whiskey. Usually I was much more agreeable, but I just didn’t want to be here. There was no way he’d let me go back to live in Tahiti by myself. Bread ’n’ butter, that’s what we were. He was my best friend, the person I was closest to in the world. Why was I so pissed?

I shrugged, which was lost since I was lying on my back. “It seems dirty here. There’re homeless people everywhere. I had to step over one to get to a taxi yesterday.”

Innocencio sat up. His naturally curly hair had been gelled straight on the sides and poufed into a small pompadour on top. Sharp, angled sideburns struck a slightly sinister beauty to his face. “Fine! Where do you want to go?” he
demanded, and stood up to point a finger at me. “And don’t you dare say Moorea!”

“Paris.”

“No. Paris is horrible in winter; you know that.”

“And yet here we are in
New York
.”

His mouth twisted angrily, and one hand smoothed his hair with controlled force. I lay on the couch, watching him with a mulish, petulant expression, wondering how far I could push him.

It was amazing, how he could will himself to change his mood, his face, change what he wanted or was willing to do. When he let out another breath, most of the tension left his body. He came to sit on my couch, nudging me over with his leg.

How well I knew that charming, rueful expression. It was the one he wore right before he got what he wanted by making it look like I was getting what I wanted. This ought to be good.

“As it so happens, just this morning I heard from my friend Lee, in Los Angeles. You know Lee—you met him in Boston. Maybe Milan.”

“Can’t place him.”

“His name was… Amerigo back then. It must have been Milan.”

“Oh. Him.”

“He’s in Los Angeles, and get this—he’s a regular on a soap opera.”

“Is that a TV show?”

Incy looked pained at my ignorance. “Yes. They come on every day. My
point
is, he’s mingling with all these Los Angeles movie and TV stars. We should go
there
.”

I used two fingers to fish around in my drink for the maraschino cherry and ate it.

Incy jumped up, happy again. “It’s sunny there all the time, remember? Sunny and warm, the way you like it. We’ll go, we’ll mingle with stars, we’ll crash parties—it’s perfect. I’m calling a car to take us to the airport.”

Somewhere on the way to the airport, I became Nastasya. Doors slammed shut inside me. The poor, broken-down neighborhoods we drove through seemed to reflect exactly how I felt inside. Incy was bouncing, glad to be doing something new, excited about the idea of mingling with stars and knowing he could now claim that he had done all this just for me so I would be happy. I was so tired of fighting with him—the last year in Tahiti had been fight and make up, fight and make up. It was exhausting.

And really, it took so little to make him happy, as he’d pointed out a hundred times. What did it cost me to go to Los Angeles for a while, for the winter? Nothing. But look how much joy it brought him. My life would be so much easier now. In fact, my life was so immeasurably better when Incy was happy that it was almost as good as being happy myself.