Firebird (56 page)

Ruby was napping in the nursery, Danny and Olivia were on their way home to Queens for a well deserved rest.  Almost normal.

She moved to the barred window and looked toward Washington Square Park.  Skittering leaves, reminding her that it was already the first day of November.  Taxis, buses, bikes.  Dogs, the mailman, neighbors hurrying down the blustery street.  But no blue-eyed stranger staring at her through the glass.

Was it really over?  How had everything changed so much, in just twelve hours?

Anthony was in a coma. She’d been told Panov was no longer a threat.  And Ivan - Rens Karpasian, she corrected herself - was in Intensive Care, holding on to life, with Tatyana Danilova and their son sitting by his side.  And a Federal Marshall standing just outside his door.

Would he ever regain consciousness?  Would he ever meet his son
?

She’d talked with Billie Jordan for almost an hour.  As they’d suspected, her brother Charles’ car crash had not been an accident.

But before his death, Charles Fraser had given Eve the Firebird brooch, and that brooch had set everything else in motion.  Maybe now, with the answers, she and Billie could move on with their lives.

Move on
. 

A small sigh escaped her as she turned to the unfinished oil portrait of her sister, still propped on its easel by the north window.  Yes, time to move on.  Would she be able to finish the portrait now?  One final promise to keep.

Help me paint your face, Eve.  Help me find you one more time
.

Standing in the quiet, she listened.  But her sister didn’t answer.

A quick knock on the door.

She froze, and then remembered…  no need for caution any longer.

She freed the lock, and opened the door to her niece.  Her smile fell away when she looked into the glazed, red-rimmed eyes.  “Oh, Jules.”

“I just can’t wrap my mind around it, Aunt Zan.  My step father was good to me.  He loved the horses.  I thought he loved my mom, how could he…”  Unable to finish the sentence, Juliet just shook her head, reached into her backpack and handed Alexandra a small painted box.  “I came to thank
you
, Aunt Zan,” she said softly.  “For finding out what really happened to my mom.  For keeping your promise to me.” 

“What’s this?”  Alexandra caught her breath.  “The music box!  The one I gave you in California?  My God, Jules, you were so young.  You kept it all these years?”  She opened the cover.  A tiny ballerina spun around as the chimes of Tchaikovsky’s
Sleeping Beauty
filled the room.  “Oh, Jules.  You told me you didn’t remember it.”

“I lied.”

Very carefully, Alexandra lifted the pure white shell nestled inside the music box.  Sweet God in Heaven.  “You still have the sand dollar…”

“You told me it held tiny doves, remember?”

“Yes.  And that when the shell is broken, the doves are set free.” 

Watching the emotions swirl like bright green water in the girl’s eyes, Alexandra thought,
Your shell is cracking, darling.  You are learning to fly, just like the doves. 

Go with your heart
, she heard her sister say.

She took a deep breath.  “We’ve been through hell together, Jules. And it’s almost Thanksgiving.  What do you think about having dinner with us?”

“Thanksgiving, with you and Ruby?  Like… a
family
?”

Alexandra smiled into the shocked green eyes.  “Like.  But it’s not as if I’m asking you to join the three-legged race on family day, Jules.”

“I’m not some rescue dog like Hoover!”

The abandoned child, still so afraid to trust
. 

I won’t turn away from her grief, not this time.  “It’s not about needing to be rescued. It’s about being together.”

Alexandra reached out, brushed the orange spikes back from the smooth forehead.  “Bad things have happened to you, Jules.  But you can’t let it define you.  Take your time.  Ruby and I aren’t going anywhere.  You’re not invisible to us, we love you.  So why don’t you go down the hall and get to know your cousin?”

* * * *

Another sharp knock on the door, followed by an excited bark.  “Grand Central Station,” she muttered, once more unlocking the bolt. 

A black Lab bounded through the door with a soft woof, lunged, placed two huge paws on her shoulders and licked her face happily.  Behind him stood Garcia, holding an enormous shopping bag from Bloomingdale’s.  A guitar case was slung over his shoulder. 

“Hoover!” she cried, staggering back under his weight.

Garcia set the guitar and shopping bag on the floor and locked eyes with her.  “Hello, Garcia, how nice to see you, too,” he prompted.  “Please come in.”

With a suspicious glance at the Bloomingdale’s bag, she asked, “Has something else happened?  Is there any more word on Ivan?  Or Anthony?”

“No changes.  If only –” he stopped as if struck, for the first time aware of his surroundings.

She watched him catch his breath in surprise as he saw the dazzling unframed canvases of contemporary art that covered the soft cream walls, waited for his reaction to the vivid, intense shapes and primary colors. 

“Madre,” he murmured, bending closer to examine a soaring swirl of light.  “Beautiful. The energy, the brush strokes…  The
passion
!  These are bloody brilliant.  Who’s the artist?”

“Me,” she said from behind him.

He turned to her, astonished.  “My God, Chica, you belong
on
the walls of the Baranski, not behind them.  When did you paint these?” 

“Before my marriage.  I wanted to be the next Mark Rothko – all those gorgeous whirls of violet, orange, green.  But my husband said they looked as if I’d thrown paint onto a canvas, and had them moved to the attic.  After the divorce, well, I decided to take back my life.”

He gave her a long measuring look and gestured toward the oil paints and covered canvas on the easel by the window.  “And now you’re painting again?”

“I keep trying to paint my sister,” she said, shaking her head.  “But her face still won’t come.  I just can’t conjure her essence.”

He reached out, touched a strong finger just above her heart.  “Oh, it will come, Chica.  You’ve found your sister.  You’ve brought her home.  Maybe now you’re ready to forgive her for dying.”   

She lifted her face, feeling his words like hot tears on her heart.  “Garcia…” she began.

Happy sounds erupted from the end of the hall.  And so she said, “Juliet’s here.  And Ruby.”

He looked down at her.  “I don’t have to leave just yet.  It’s time I met your daughter.”

CHAPTER 63

“as a man looks at a woman...”

Wallace Stevens

Garcia watched Alexandra run down the hallway.  Her feet, as usual, were bare.  She was wearing the familiar narrow black turtleneck and leggings, her hair all fire-y spikes framing her face.  Not his type at all.

And yet – she had created all these astonishing paintings.  Flickering light, swirling shapes, bold colors that pulsated with life.  Dios.  They were so –
her
! 

Did she kiss with as much passion as she painted
?

Don’t go there.  She deserves more than -

He stopped, his earlier words echoing presciently in his head. 
She deserves the run-into-a-burning-building-for-her kind of love
.  Damned if he hadn’t run into a burning building to find her after all.

With an oath he turned away, saw the huge bouquet of chrysanthemums on the coffee table, towering over his tiny spray of violets.  How many blasted admirers did the woman have?  In spite of himself, he bent to check the card.

To Alexandra, an original,    Yuri Belankov
.  

Belankov.  A dark reminder that it was time to get back to the Russian mob investigation he’d put on hold.  “You’re still in my sites, Yuri,” he murmured.  “And that’s a fact.” 
 I still don’t know why you gave Charles Fraser that brooch.  But I’ll find out.  Just stay the hell away from Alexandra
.

“Garcia.”

He turned.  Alexandra was holding a little red-haired girl close in her arms.  Juliet stood to one side, grinning at him as if she knew a secret. 

“Hey, Gar-cee-a,” said the teen, sinking to the floor to nuzzle the Lab.  “I’ve missed you, Hoover boy!” she whispered.

Fear and tension eased from the girl’s face as she wrapped her arms around the dog and buried her face against his neck.  Garcia met Alexandra’s eyes over Juliet’s head.  An unspoken thought seemed to pass between them. 

Love heals
. 

“This is Princess Ruby,” said Alexandra, coming closer.  She smiled down at her daughter, a confection in pink sparkles and tulle, and then gestured toward him.  “This is my friend, Garcia.”  Her fingers carved the baby sign for ‘friend’ in the air.

Ruby buried her head shyly into her mother’s shoulder.

Garcia bent closer and moved his hands in the ‘hello’ sign.  “Hola, bonito pequeno rojo!” he said softly. 
Beautiful Little Red
.

“In English, Garcia!”  But he saw the light in the mirrored eyes.

Ruby’s tiny fingers fluttered at him.  He grinned down at her.  “Bilingual is
good
.  My Madre is going to love her.”

“She’s going to meet your mother?”  Ruffling Ruby’s curls, Alexandra cocked a thoughtful eyebrow as if surprised to find herself thinking of the future. 
Her
future.

One more heart
, he thought,
beginning to heal
.

He only smiled and turned to Juliet, who was backing toward the door.  “Not so fast, kiddo.”

“Got a class!  Bye Little Girlfriend, see you later, Hoover baby.” 

With a graceful wave, Juliet ran to the door.  Stopped.  She hovered for a moment as if en pointe, then turned, ran back across the room, and kissed Alexandra on the cheek.   A final blown kiss to Ruby and Hoover, and she spun out the door.  They could hear her light steps echoing down the hall.

Alexandra stared after her, dumbfounded, her hand to her burning cheek.  “Did she just… 
kiss
me?” she gasped.

“If you have to ask, Chica, it’s been too long.”  He raised an amused eyebrow at the flush that washed over her skin, then caught Ruby’s knowing, beguiling smile as the child looked up at him.  Smart kid, he thought suddenly.

He gazed at the tiny, pink hearing aids curling around Ruby’s delicate ears.   “Can she hear me?”

Alexandra shrugged.  “Some.  The aids allow her to hear some sound.  I use simple sign language as well.  Somehow this brilliant brain of hers is finding a way of developing listening and spoken language.  She’s learning to read lips, and beginning to say words – duck, cookie, kitty.”

As if on cue, Hoover padded over to sniff out his competition and gave a low, friendly woof of approval.

“Puuup!” shouted Ruby with delight.

Garcia laughed as his fingers moved in the air.  “My name is Garcia,” he said.

Ruby, peeking out from behind her mother’s shoulder, smiled and wiggled her tiny fingers at him.  He took her hand.  “Did you know that starfish and bees are completely deaf?” he asked her, speaking slowly as he moved his fingers against her hand.

Alexandra looked at her daughter’s tiny palm resting on his big hand. “Why did you learn to sign?”

“A deaf cousin in California.”  He chuckled again as Ruby smiled and reached for him.  “The old Garcia charm still has it.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes.  “She says everything except Mama.”

“Patience, Chica.  All in good time.” 

“Her deafness took me by surprise.  The signs were so subtle.  One day I realized she didn’t startle at sounds, she wouldn’t turn when I said her name.  She lives by a voice that only she can hear, and I’m still struggling to accept the idea that she may never hear Puccini, never hear the sound rain makes on the roof, never hear the words I love you...   Oh, damn it all!”

She held out her hands, moving her fingers slowly.  “A deaf child of a hearing parent - what language does she learn?”

“Spoken or signed, does it matter so much?”  Garcia’s fingers brushed the tiny but powerful pink chips behind Ruby’s ears.  “She’s a child who happens to be deaf.  It’s a proud culture.”

“It can be.  But she also could grow up feeling different, isolated.”  Her voice faltered.  “She’ll be shut out of conversations.  I know what it’s like to feel invisible.”

“You’re assuming it’s better to be hearing than deaf.”

Tears of frustration filled Alexandra’s eyes.  “I want to talk to my child,” she whispered.  “But her words are all nouns!  Cookie and puppy and flower are fine, while she’s still so young.  But how do I teach her concepts, feelings, ideas?”  Grief shimmered in her voice.  “How do I teach Ruby about dreams, Garcia?”

Very slowly, he reached for her hand.  “The same way every mother teaches her child.  Just say these words to Ruby every night.”

He moved his fingers slowly, on the tender inside of her wrist above the bandages, signing the letters for ‘Sweet Dreams’ as he spoke the words.

Her breath hitched, and they stared at each other.

He was the first to turn away, reaching into the Bloomingdale’s bag to hold a colorfully wrapped gift in front of Ruby.  “Speaking of hearing music…  for my new girlfriend,” he said.  The child reached for the rainbow ribbons happily. 

“I warn you, Garcia,” Alexandra said with amusement as she set her daughter down on the carpet, next to Hoover.  “Ruby usually prefers the box to the contents.”

“Not this time, Chica.”

With a cry of delight, Ruby tore the bright red drum from its wrappings.

“Oh, Garcia.”  He saw the light in her eyes as her daughter pounded the instrument with a fierce and total joy.

“Bom, Bom,” shouted Ruby, enchanted by the drum’s vibrations.

“You’re going to be the next Ringo Starr,” he smiled.   “Ouch.  I hope your neighbors have a sense of humor.”

Without speaking, Alexandra took his face between her bandaged palms and touched her forehead to his.