A Sea Change (26 page)

Chap
ter Twenty-Eight

Mary Delfino couldn’t sleep. She’d tried everything: warm bath, warm milk, chamomile tea. The mystery she was reading didn’t hold her attention. She practiced deep-breathing and counted backwards from one-hundred. But her mind raced, along with her heart.

She rose from her bed just before dawn and drew her chenille robe around her. Something was different. In the night, something had changed. As Mary poked her feet into her slippers and shuffled into the kitchen, she realized what it was. It was cold. A chill breeze billowed the curtains of the open window, and Mary cranked it closed. She peered at the thermostat before turning on the heat, and was stunned to see the temperature had dropped nearly twenty degrees.

This time, the tea she brewed was her Murchie’s Darjeeling blend. The doctor had told her no caffeine, but there were some things she refused to give up. What was the point of life without a few small pleasures? Besides, one cup a day wasn’t going to kill her.

Mary stood at the bank of western-facing windows and looked out at the gray water. She knew summer wasn’t anywhere near over; that there would be many more warm, dry days to come. But this morning Mary tasted autumn as she sipped her tea.

Watching the headlights of the cars crossing the Narrows Bridge, Mary knew the change in the weather was merely a sign of things to come. The real transition was the materialization of the man Nick introduced as Phil Madvick. The moment she looked at his face Mary felt as though she knew him. But not with the same sense of love and knowledge she’d felt with Maddy. No. This knowing held misgiving.

He’d seemed pleasant enough. Polite. Penitent. His face had an ethereal quality made human by the scar above his eyebrow. He was really quite beautiful; a disconcerting quality in a man his age. But his eyes – a brown so deep they were almost black – contrasted so sharply with his graying hair, they were almost unreal. His eyes mirrored the emotions of whomever he was looking at, but they didn’t seem to have any life of their own.

Although she knew he’d never been in her house, Mary had had to feign a distant graciousness for the sake of the white lie she’d told Nick about her missing tea. But the entire half hour this Phil Madvick was in her home all she’d wanted was for him to leave. Mary doubted she’d hid her feelings at all well, because she’d seen Nick’s puzzled look more than once.

It had been a small relief to close the door behind him. Small, because Mary knew – with absolute certainty – this was the bane she’d been expecting. But there was nothing she could do but wait for him to show his true colors.

The tea had gone cold and Mary set the cup on the windowsill. Dawn crept over the hillside, tinting the cliffs across the Narrows a pale lilac. But the wind had gotten stronger. Whitecaps danced across the water. And from the south, wispy fingers of clouds reached across the sky. It would be raining by nightfall.

*****

The man who used to be Danny Phillips also stood at a window looking out at the coming day. He’d slept fitfully, his mind in turmoil. This sudden barrage of humanity he’d had to confront made him ill-at-ease.

Although Phil Madvick had honed his social skills to a fine art, it was a mask; a role he played to get along in the world. In truth, people made him anxious – nervous. And no one had made him more so than Mary Delfino.

She’d seen through him. Seen through to the worthless piece of jetsam he was sure he was. He knew this for a fact. How long did he have before she told the rest of them? How long before Nick and – most significantly – Maddy found out?

And they’d believe her. He was sure of that, too. Because Mary Delfino was more important to them than he would ever be.

Coming face-to-face with Maddy in Nick’s presence had scared the hell out of him, but she hadn’t even recognized him, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

On the one hand, he was relieved. For one horrible moment, when Maddy first looked at him, he was afraid she’d scream out his given name. Reveal him as her brother. He didn’t want anyone to know who he really was. Not after what had happened with Ted Perry. The pain would be too great.

No. When he revealed himself to Maddy, he wanted her all to himself. He had to make Maddy understand why he’d left her. If she knew the real reason, she’d forgive him everything.

But the fact that they’d been in the same room again after all these years – that they’d stood only a few feet away from each other – and he hadn’t even seen a hint of recognition in her face hurt him deeply. She’d barely looked at him; couldn’t wait to leave the room. Yes, his outer shell had changed, but inside he was still Danny. And Danny Phillips desperately needed her love. Why hadn’t she seen that?

Phil stepped back from the window. On his knees, he reached under the bed and dragged out his backpack. And one more time, he found the photograph that had been his talisman for nearly twenty years, held it to his chest, and whispered, “I’ll try to do everything right, Maddy. Just tell me you still love me.”

Chapt
er Twenty-Nine

The man who calls himself Phil Madvick believes it when the voice in his head tells him he is unacceptable to this world. The voice is actually that of his father’s, but it has been there so long he’s claimed it as his own.

The people who are supposed to love him don’t. And the people who want to love him can’t; he won’t let them get close enough. What would be the point? They will eventually find him out. After all, he is - in his mind, anyway - unloveable.

There have been only two times in his life when he has felt what might be love. Once when he was still  Danny Phillips. And once, much later. The first person was taken from him by force. The second, by death.

He’d come to New Orleans from two years in Greece. His self-imposed penurious lifestyle had left him with a very healthy savings account. Over 18,000 dollars remained of his so-called college fund. Ten years, and only 5,000 dollars, had passed when he arrived in the French Quarter in the fall of 1989.

As he strolled down Bourbon Street on that crisp, sunny afternoon the newly-christened Philip Daniels felt something akin to relief. Sharply-etched shadows threw lacey patterns across stone and stucco. Brick turned the color of copper. The city – rid of the majority of its tourists – seemed to be taking a siesta; seemed to be waiting for the sun to go down before coming to life again. The occasional clatter from a restaurant kitchen, a solo blues guitar lick emanating from a club, the sound of hushed voices in an alley, a delivery truck rattling up a cross street – these were the sounds that welcomed him to his home for the next seven years.

He didn’t know that at the time, of course. He’d always made it a point not to stay in one place too long. That had been easy in Europe, and especially Greece, with all her islands. When he tired of one sun-drenched, white-washed sleepy town – or when someone, male or female, became too strident about their needs and wants – Danny would simply move on to the next dot on the map.

Others saw Danny Phillips as a loner. They didn’t know him, though. Didn’t realize just how much he craved love and connection. But he stayed away from relationships. They made him uncomfortable. Even he didn’t quite understand why.

He needed someone to want him, not cognizant of the fact he was searching for what he’d lost: his family. But in that need, there was a hidden fear: further loss. And so he fought within himself, the part that wanted connection never winning.

Danny came to New Orleans tanned and fit and beautiful. And as he turned right onto St. Ann Street and walked toward the Mississippi River, men and women turned to look at him. He didn’t notice. Not right away. He was too busy breathing in centuries of history that spoke to him from behind filigreed ironwork fences and shaded second-floor galleries.

Along Jackson Square he stopped to admire watercolors and sketches, while the local artists admired him. They talked to Danny in their charming patois. They seemed to recognize him for what he was, and they didn’t care. As he moved on, a feeling of well-being stole over him. And when he took a chair at the Café du Monde and ordered café au lait and beignets for the first of many times, Danny Phillips took a deep breath and smiled. Acceptance was in the air, and he had never – in all of his 29 years – felt like this before. That night he slept on a cot at the Salvation Army. But he’d already decided to leave behind his nomadic lifestyle, at least for a little while.

The next morning, as he wandered along Barracks on his way back to the Café du Monde, Danny spotted the ‘Furnished Room for Rent’ sign taped to the inside of a window. The only references the landlord needed were the five one-hundred dollar bills Danny handed him, to cover two months’ rent. The man didn’t seem to care that he moved in with only a backpack.

Fall became winter, with its cold rain and knife-edged sunshine. He found part-time work as a busboy. He learned the language of the Orleanians. On his nights-off he would close down jazz clubs. He blended into the Quarter in a way he hadn’t been able to anywhere else. He had many acquaintances and no real friends. And he kept his spectacular body to himself, wanting something more than just physical contact but not quite sure what. The photograph of the two children – Maddy’s photo – sat propped against the lamp by his bed. It was the only thing that kept his spirit warm through the winter.

Although there was much to see and do, the short days left him with too much time on his hands. He began to suffer from insomnia. He’d had bouts of it before, but this was worse, and he spent too many nights wondering what Maddy was doing. Wondering if she ever thought of him.

He needed something to keep him occupied; a hobby he could pursue in his room, late at night and into the early hours of the morning. It had to be something quiet and engrossing, to keep him from thinking about how lonely he was. Salvation came in the unlikely form of Charles de la Croix.

Danny was bussing his last table of a very busy Friday night, when he found a checkbook peeking out between the cushion and seatback of the armchair. His tray overflowing, Danny stuck it in his back pocket with the intention of turning it over to the maître’d after his shift. He didn’t discover it again until the next morning.

He walked the ten blocks along Royal Street. As Danny made the right onto Bienville, the light drizzle turned to rain and he jogged the remaining few hundred feet. Number 811 Bienville Street was an ancient, but well-maintained, three-story townhouse. The pale peach stucco contrasted beautifully with the black iron fretwork on the balconies, and Danny wondered what a room in this place would set you back. Judging from Mr. Charles de la Croix’s bank balance, Danny figured he could afford it.

The door was opened by an older – but not old – man. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt spattered with paint, he still managed to exude elegance.

“I’m looking for Mister de la Croix,” Danny said.

“You’ve found him,” the man answered. “But where is Nicole? I specifically asked for a female.”

Danny wasn’t sure what he’d stumbled into, and quickly said, “Are you missing a checkbook?” as he took it out of his pocket.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were the model.” The man put his hand out to take his property. “Where did you find it?”

“I work at Rive Gauche.” Danny started to give it to him, then pulled back. “Why don’t you show me some I.D. first?”

Danny stood in the vestibule as he waited for the man to return. He took in the antiques, the smell of lemon oil, the elaborately framed paintings, and realized this was no rooming house.

“It’s odd…” the man was saying as he walked toward Danny, wallet in hand. “I called the restaurant when I returned home last night. They said they hadn’t seen it.” He gave Danny his driver’s license. “What do you make of that?”

Danny looked at the license, then gave it – and the checkbook – to Charles de la Croix. “I forgot to turn it in after my shift.”

“Well, thank you very much.” He studied Danny. “I’d like to give you something for your trouble.”

“No need.” Danny turned to go, when the doorway was suddenly blocked by two young men and a woman, all carrying satchels of various sizes and materials.

“Upstairs everyone. Nicole hasn’t arrived yet, so begin sketching Mister Bojangles until she does.” He looked at Danny once again. “Are you in a great hurry? I’m sorry, what is your name?”

Danny needed a new start; a new life. He seized the opportunity and gave himself a new name. The idea came to him as suddenly as he understood that Charles de la Croix was an art teatcher.

“Philip Daniels,” he answered. “And there
is
something I’d like from you.”

The man’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. “Yes. Of course.” He picked up his wallet from the hall table.

“Not money,” Danny said. “A drawing lesson.”

Philip Daniels took his first private lesson three days later. Charles de la Croix was delighted to discover his new pupil had raw talent. Danny was thrilled to find that something he needed to keep the night – and his thoughts – at bay. He made an appointment for the next week.

As Danny got out his drawing pad and pencils before his second lesson, he asked how much the fee would be, and was surprised at how reasonable it was. Only thirty dollars for two hours. He didn’t find out until much later what Charles de la Croix really charged, but by then it didn’t matter to either of them.

The two men immediately formed an easy alliance, despite the difference in their age and social status. At fifty-two, Charles still had the verve of a much younger man. His gray-blue eyes took in everything with great pleasure, no matter that his thick hair was silver. And Danny’s childlike enchantment with his new-found diversion was contagious.