to go.”
I stared at her. Before I could say another word, her brothers—men from high deserts—began loading my boxes into a car. These people knew how to seek water. I would be in Bellemeade within a few hours, and then, Sainte’s Point. Maybe I’d be better off out on a barrier island with three half-sisters who made me feel ordinary by comparison. Relief weakened my restraint. I pushed the strange events of the day from my mind.
Please, leave me alone, I said to the unknown man.
Once more he didn’t answer. Or didn’t exist. Or was lurking in some recess of my life, down the road somewhere. Afraid of his silences and my own, I left one stranger and hurried into the car of another stranger’s family.
I had taken a step forward. I was on my way to the sea and the Bonavendiers.
And to him?
Out on the island, Lilith stood like a statue atop a wide, white-marble dais that had been carried to the New World in the hold of an Italian frigate. The frigate now lay in the waters off Sainte’s Pointe, and the dais, a stunning work with gentle tendrils of vining roses carved around its circumference, sat grandly on the wooded banks on the island’s bayside. A massive maritime oak dipped its limbs around it and wept in mossy tendrils on its surface. The shadow of the nearby lighthouse fell across the oak and the fantastic marble dais at certain hours of day, marking the passage of forgiving time.
Lilith shielded her eyes and gazed across the bay to the southwest, just making out the sand dunes and turreted roofline of Randolph Cottage, sitting like a separate world from Bellemeade. The cool wind melted a flowing white top to her body in the breeze, and a long skirt of sheer silks swayed around her bare legs and feet. She moved with the wind and she listened.
Something had stirred inside Griffin, some part of Undiline’s heritage that vibrated like the lightest touch on a symphonic chord. And something had happened inside Alice because of him. Lilith pressed a hand to her chest and bowed her head. They were both safe, for now. She held out her arms to the water with grateful joy, knelt down for a moment and pressed a kissed fingertip to the dais, then went to call her sisters and prepare for Alice’s arrival.
Alice Bonavendier—not Alice Riley—was finally coming home.
Late afternoon. Hours on the road. My body ached. I was terrified. I left Maria and her family in Bellemeade, lying to them, saying I had arranged for relatives to meet me and that I would wait alone.
“It will be dark in only two hours,” Maria protested.
I almost laughed. “I’m not afraid of the dark.” She sighed. Her brothers carried my boxes to the veranda of a charming bay front inn called WaterLilies. I thanked Maria and she hugged me.
“You have a special power,” she said. “May you find happiness and bring it to others.”
“I’ll be looking,” I answered, my eyes already shifting helplessly to the bay across the street. Not more than twenty yards from me the water of the world lapped one tendril of its vast tongue at Bellemeade’s coquina seawalls and weathered docks, beckoning me. As Maria turned to go, a quiet sense of knowing came over me. “Maria,” I called. She looked back, and I spoke to her in soft Spanish. “You will have the child you want, within two years. A boy. Healthy.”
She put a hand to her heart and stared at me. She and her husband had been told she would never conceive. “Mia Madre,” she whispered, “you are truly gifted, I pray.” Then she turned and hurried to her car.
My knees wobbled. Now I had become a fortuneteller, divining people’s lives. But I had no doubt I was right about her baby. I shook my head to clear it. As soon as Maria and her family drove away, I deserted my boxes and stepped off the inn’s elegant porch, moving like a nightwalker across a sleepy street lined with beautiful shops, passing, hypnotized, beneath the winter shade of small pines twisted like bonsai by the
I stared at her. Before I could say another word, her brothers—men from high deserts—began loading my boxes into a car. These people knew how to seek water. I would be in Bellemeade within a few hours, and then, Sainte’s Point. Maybe I’d be better off out on a barrier island with three half-sisters who made me feel ordinary by comparison. Relief weakened my restraint. I pushed the strange events of the day from my mind.
Please, leave me alone, I said to the unknown man.
Once more he didn’t answer. Or didn’t exist. Or was lurking in some recess of my life, down the road somewhere. Afraid of his silences and my own, I left one stranger and hurried into the car of another stranger’s family.
I had taken a step forward. I was on my way to the sea and the Bonavendiers.
And to him?
Out on the island, Lilith stood like a statue atop a wide, white-marble dais that had been carried to the New World in the hold of an Italian frigate. The frigate now lay in the waters off Sainte’s Pointe, and the dais, a stunning work with gentle tendrils of vining roses carved around its circumference, sat grandly on the wooded banks on the island’s bayside. A massive maritime oak dipped its limbs around it and wept in mossy tendrils on its surface. The shadow of the nearby lighthouse fell across the oak and the fantastic marble dais at certain hours of day, marking the passage of forgiving time.
Lilith shielded her eyes and gazed across the bay to the southwest, just making out the sand dunes and turreted roofline of Randolph Cottage, sitting like a separate world from Bellemeade. The cool wind melted a flowing white top to her body in the breeze, and a long skirt of sheer silks swayed around her bare legs and feet. She moved with the wind and she listened.
Something had stirred inside Griffin, some part of Undiline’s heritage that vibrated like the lightest touch on a symphonic chord. And something had happened inside Alice because of him. Lilith pressed a hand to her chest and bowed her head. They were both safe, for now. She held out her arms to the water with grateful joy, knelt down for a moment and pressed a kissed fingertip to the dais, then went to call her sisters and prepare for Alice’s arrival.
Alice Bonavendier—not Alice Riley—was finally coming home.
Late afternoon. Hours on the road. My body ached. I was terrified. I left Maria and her family in Bellemeade, lying to them, saying I had arranged for relatives to meet me and that I would wait alone.
“It will be dark in only two hours,” Maria protested.
I almost laughed. “I’m not afraid of the dark.” She sighed. Her brothers carried my boxes to the veranda of a charming bay front inn called WaterLilies. I thanked Maria and she hugged me.
“You have a special power,” she said. “May you find happiness and bring it to others.”
“I’ll be looking,” I answered, my eyes already shifting helplessly to the bay across the street. Not more than twenty yards from me the water of the world lapped one tendril of its vast tongue at Bellemeade’s coquina seawalls and weathered docks, beckoning me. As Maria turned to go, a quiet sense of knowing came over me. “Maria,” I called. She looked back, and I spoke to her in soft Spanish. “You will have the child you want, within two years. A boy. Healthy.”
She put a hand to her heart and stared at me. She and her husband had been told she would never conceive. “Mia Madre,” she whispered, “you are truly gifted, I pray.” Then she turned and hurried to her car.
My knees wobbled. Now I had become a fortuneteller, divining people’s lives. But I had no doubt I was right about her baby. I shook my head to clear it. As soon as Maria and her family drove away, I deserted my boxes and stepped off the inn’s elegant porch, moving like a nightwalker across a sleepy street lined with beautiful shops, passing, hypnotized, beneath the winter shade of small pines twisted like bonsai by the
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