Mystical Love (4 page)

“Was that Agatha I heard leaving skid marks on our parking lot pavement again?”

“Who else?”

They both laughed in unison. Jasper pulled his collar free and stole a peek at Muriel's face.

“How's the headache?” he asked.

“Subsided about an hour ago.” She returned his stare. “Yours?”

“Finally subsiding.” His gaze found the pulpit stand. “Funny, though, I'm still having trouble concentrating. My energy is diffused and unfocused. It's an odd feeling.” He swung his gaze back to Muriel. “I don't ever remember feeling this way before.”

Jasper heard her sigh as she turned her gaze to the colored windows opposite them.

“We've shared a lot of things the last fifty-five years, Jasper, but I don't remember us ever sharing a headache.” Her gaze found him again. “Strange as it is, I don't sense any negative vibrations, do you?”

Jasper shook his head.

“No, I don't sense fear of any kind.”

Muriel took his hand and squeezed it lightly.

“I called Dr. Wharton. Asked if it was possible the headache is an unexpected side effect of my stroke. He was adamant in his denial.”

Jasper grasped the fingers entwined over his.

“Called you a damn fool, no doubt. Probably even told you to take two aspirins and call him in the morning.”

Her bright laugh reverberated through the stillness, pleasing him. He loved the sound of Muree's laughter. It was warm and enchanting.

“Indeed. Exactly so,” she bantered. They broke into another bout of laughter and then fell silent. Jasper was the first to share his thoughts.

“We can cancel the trip, Muree, if you're not up to it.”

She swung around, her gaze challenging his.

“Cancel? Whatever for? You know we've both been anxiously awaiting this trip.”

Jasper swung his gaze away and, like her before him, studied the full stained glass etching of the Virgin Mary.

“Perhaps it's too soon for you to travel after your illness. Sometimes headaches are warning signs.”

“Jasper Grisomb!” He heard the censure in her voice and flushed. “I have spent the last six months climbing up and down Chrysler Hill. You never once objected to that. Almost shoved me out the church door yourself. And now you're worrying that I'm not well enough to ride for a couple of hours in an airplane?” She gave a sharp sniff. “This is really too aggravating of you! You know how I hate being coddled and fussed over. I wouldn't let the children do it in the hospital, and I certainly won't let you do it to me now!”

“Hold on, Muree, no need to get so lathered up.” Jasper cautioned, “I only meant it's your first big trip since the stroke … “ He broke off, touching his forehead again. “Actually, it isn't you I'm worried about at all. It's not being able to see whether we should go. I've always been able to tap in and get some sense of what might happen. I'm totally baffled. And if the truth be known, it unhinges me not to be in control.”

He felt a gentle touch on his brow, felt warm fingers probing gently, brushing through his scruffy locks.

“That smacks of vainglorious pride, my dear.”

“Indeed, it certainly does. Right up my alley, to my way of thinking.”

They laughed simultaneously and then, patting his hand, Muriel signaled for him to rise. He stood, extricating himself from the pew, and then turning, helped Muriel to slip from the long bench. Once out in the aisle, he shrugged out of his long robe and handed it over to Muriel.

“I understand Adrian Magus is quite a showman, Muree.”

“Extremely handsome too, from the picture I've seen in the trade papers.”

“Well, if it comes to that, Janice Kelly is quite a knock-out in that department.”

“Indeed? And how would you know? I don't remember seeing her picture on the front page of the New York papers.”

“Caught a fragment of her once.”

“You never said so before.”

“Didn't seem important before. Besides, my head was aching at the time.”

Muriel reached out and plucked at his shirt collar.

“If the headaches don't subside, we'll call Dr. Wharton when we return.”

“Good idea.”

“Now, how about we go straighten up the vestibule?” Muriel urged. She offered him his robe. “Though Sam has promised to look in while we're away, I don't want to overburden him with responsibilities.”

Jasper took the robe and bent over, giving Muriel a feathery nuzzle on her neck.

“I love you, Muree. Did I tell you that today?”

“Not even once.” she scolded lightly. “And, indeed, I think it pretty shabby of you to forget.”

Jasper dipped his head in a mock salute, then stretching his arm across the back of Muriel's left shoulder, he prodded her forward. As one, they made their way up the aisle and into vestibule, slamming the door behind them. A second later, a swirl of lights hit the closing door and bounced upward. A second after that, the stained glass window of the Virgin Mary rattled loudly and drained of all its color.

THURSDAY — 10 AM — MACEDONIA, MAINE

It took only a moment for the smell of jasmine to penetrate Lloyd's nose. He looked up from the check he was writing and surveyed the room behind him. There it was again. That sickly sweet smell of jasmine. He twisted further in his chair, his eyes casing the dimly lit shadows at the base of the ceiling. For three days straight, the smell had come and gone, sending the house staff through an annoying game of hide and seek. His housekeeper had tried to remain nonplussed by the search, but now she was nervous and crabby, and who could blame her? He was on edge himself. Houseguests were arriving in a matter of hours and tempers were flaring in the kitchens at the smallest of inconveniences.

Pushing back his chair, Lloyd arched his back. He was tired. So tired that he had given himself a headache again. He slammed shut the ledger in front of him and pulled his six-foot frame to its full height. No more pencil pushing tonight. He arched his shoulders, eliciting small cracks along the tired joints, and then sighing, he removed his reading glasses from his nose and flipped them to the desk. Jesus! He was learning to hate the smell of jasmine! He sniffed the air again and almost gagged. It was all around him, seeping into his pores, making him want to puke.

Forcing down the rising bile, Lloyd turned from the desk, urgently needing a fresh spot of air. He found it in the warmth of the blazing fireplace. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the aroma of burning wood chips and was grateful to have a different tang of air invading his lungs. Exhaling, he caught sight of himself in the mantle-piece mirror, and his mind tripped ahead one day. How would his houseguests find him? Handsome? Time-worn? A bright mockery invaded his smile as he listened to his own thoughts. The others be damned! How would Janice find him? Would she still think of him as only a tried-and-true mentor? Or could he make her see him differently just for once?

Lloyd's eyes sought the framed photo displayed with special prominence on the otherwise barren mantle-piece. Janice Kelly had blossomed considerably since her university days. He smiled at the current photograph. It profiled a woman of extraordinary beauty — high cheekbones, red hair, green eyes, a tempting full bodied lower lip — just right for kissing.

Lloyd pushed that disturbing thought away with a growl, deeming himself an old fart trying to hold on too long to his vanished youth. He let his gaze rest again on his own reflection. Was he still attractive at sixty-two? He tried to assess himself through a feminine eye. His massive shoulders still filled the coats he wore. There were age lines around his mouth and eyes, but he thought they added strength to his character. His hair still held its bulk, texture, and color. An Iowa cornfield, Janice had deemed it once during one of their late night sessions. His jaw line was strong, forehead broad, mouth generous. He didn't smile enough, of course. But then, the weight of running a seven-acre retreat nine months of the year didn't leave him much time for smiling.

Lloyd bent to stoke the glowing embers, and again, the smell of jasmine invaded his nose. Damn! He shooed the air around him and straightened, feeling the first stirring of real pain along his temples. This goddamn smell was nauseating! He'd stress to his housekeeper the importance of using a strong air freshener before she left for the weekend.

Above him, lights snapped on, and Lloyd winced in surprise. Spinning, he saw the object of his thoughts scowling at him from the doorway. Standing in repose, Dora always reminded him of a cartoon character lost in folds of fat and fabric. He saw she was wearing the pink and white frilled apron that housed gigantic, bottomless pockets. Lloyd could already see her unspoken censure forming so he threw up a hand in protest and moved toward her.

“No need to look so disapproving, Dora. I haven't been standing in the dark for long.”

He heard her tell-tale snuffle.

“I should hope not!” She met him half way, offering a glass and two aspirin tablets. “Here, take these!”

Grateful, Lloyd took the glass and tossed the tablets down.

“Have you become a mind reader in the last weeks, Dora? Perhaps I should have you tested along with the others.”

She sniffed disdainfully. A sniff that sounded to Lloyd like some large, aberrant animal wheezing.

“As if I'd let you poke around inside my head with all that magic drivel! Don't care to know what's rattling around in my head. Don't care to have other folks knowing it either!”

Lloyd handed the glass back, marveling at its skillful disappearance into the folds of one large pocket. He pushed by her, settling in his desk chair once more.

“You're eminently sensible, Dora. It's far and away your best quality.”

She took a chair beside him, a noticeable creak emanating as she sat.

“Waste not, want not. That's my motto.” She pulled a notepad from her other miraculous pocket and grinned at him.

“You're a terrible snob, Dora,” he stated.

“Yes, sir. Proud of it.”

Lloyd let the remark slide and turned to retrieve his own typewritten sheet.

“Everything ready downstairs?”

“All taken care of and the solarium's been arranged as Mr. Magus requested. His boxes arrived this morning.”

“Good.” Lloyd brushed at his temple. “I expect one hell of a show here next week, Dora. We spare no expense. No shortchanging the bed sheets.” At the half-censure, Lloyd expected to hear one of her haughty sniffs but it never came. He stole a peek at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was relaxed; she was listening to him attentively. “Have we a final guest tally?” he asked.

“Five for the weekend, twenty-two starting Tuesday. I'll return with the staff Sunday afternoon to finish up the room arrangements.” Dora stiffened suddenly. “There's that obnoxious smell again.” She lumbered from her chair and approached the terrace doorway. Once there, she flung the latch back and began to fan the air repeatedly. “This room reeks of lilac and dead frogs.”

Lloyd scanned the room, his gaze coming to rest on Dora's rigid figure.

“It's jasmine, Dora, remember? We've been smelling the stench for three days.”

“Well, it's obnoxious nevertheless.” She fanned the air again. “Shall I send Giles up to investigate?”

“Don't bother. By the time he comes, the smell will have evaporated.”

“But suppose the guests should smell it?”

“Suppose they should.” Lloyd commented. He rose, seizing her elbow and propelling her to the doorway. “It's not so bad. I'm actually becoming used to it.” He saw her look of repugnance and groaned. He never could tell a lie well. She was seeing right through him and he detested her for it. “Will you stop being a scaly prig and make one last check of the bed sheets?”

Taken back by his attack on her person, Dora pulled her elbow from his grasp and barreled out the doorway with a final sniff. Lloyd cringed inwardly again. That sniff said it all. He was dead meat. Well, at last he knew what that infantile phrase meant. He heard the door slam and released a long drawn-out sigh. Yes sir, he was dead meat. And all because of a damn sickly sweet smell and an overworked nasal passage.

Whirling about, he caught a whiff of clean, fresh air. No jasmine! Gone! Vanished, just as he predicted. He sought his pipe on the desk. And if the smell returned? Let it! He'd not be here to endure it. He had guests arriving over the next four days and all of his time would be spent getting them settled and seeing to their needs.

Stoking his pipe, Lloyd dropped into a turquoise recliner and shifted its angle more in line with the blazing fireplace. Leaning forward, he lit his pipe from a glowing remnant of ash and then settled back. At last his nose was clearing and the room was livable again. His eyes gravitated to the top of the mantle-piece and he laid his head back, studying the photograph. She was still there, smiling at him. He felt the hammering in his head begin to ease. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. A vivid image of words began to dance in his head. He transported himself to an alpha state and once there, he could almost hear Janice's lyrical voice offering inspiration.

Cherish yesterday. Dream tomorrow. Embrace today.

FRIDAY — 3:30 PM

Squaring her shoulders, Janice inhaled deeply. The cold ocean spray splashing against her skin was invigorating — just what her tired, screaming muscles craved after a long day of traveling. She clutched the handrail, jostling her feet along the wooden deck and smothering a groan. If she didn't erase the numbness that threatened to invade her lower limbs soon, she'd reach Carrington House curled into a tiny ball fast asleep atop the orange crates stacked nearby.

Pensively, she shifted her gaze to an orange life jacket hanging along the forward rail. ANNIE B. The words were bold, but fading. Her glance skimmed left. The ANNIE B seemed a sturdy vessel, trim and seaworthy as her bow coasted through the crested waves with a graceful rhythm. To the out-islanders cut off from the mainland, Janice surmised, the ferry would be a welcome lifeline, serving as postal, passenger and delivery ferry.