Hold Back the Night (2 page)

'You can't take it at all. It's far too heavy to carry,' the woman reminded her dryly as she moved behind the sales desk, unlocked a cash drawer, and placed Domini's hard-earned dollars inside. She relocked the drawer and picked up a pen, poising it over a sales bill and looking at Domini expectantly. 'If you give me your address I'll have it delivered.'

'Of course,' said Domini. 'How silly of me.' That was something that hadn't occurred to her, possibly because she was accustomed to carrying unwieldly display props through the New York streets. Freelancing, she saved money wherever she could, and wherever she could meant on delivery charges if the objects were at all portable. As most of Domini's customers were in the SoHo district, within a few blocks of the loft that doubled as her studio, it didn't entail an extraordinary amount of effort ... although one tended to earn a few amused glances while transporting an armless mannequin or an enormous pot of six-foot-high petunias or an oversize ostrich complete with tail feathers. Such things drew attention even in the artist-ridden district of New York's SoHo, where the curious was commonplace.

Domini gave her address with a request that the delivery be made to the dry goods store beneath her studio, where the owner was agreeable to accepting packages on her behalf.

'I'll need your name,' the woman reminded her.

'Greey, with two e's. Domini Greey. And please don't deliver until Christmas Eve,' she added hastily, thinking that would give her at least two days to come up with the rest of the money. Perhaps one of her clients would give her an advance on next year's work? Or perhaps the bank manager could be cajoled this time...

'Now about the balance,' the woman said.

'You can send it C.O.D.,' suggested Domini.

'I'm afraid not. You see, we don't have that kind of arrangement with the delivery service we use. They won't handle cash. But you can give me a cheque.'

When Domini remained still a little too long, not reaching into her purse for a chequebook, the woman finally looked up anxiously. 'You can postdate it to Christmas Eve if you wish, Mrs Greey. Normally I wouldn't allow that, but . . . well, I can see you want that unicorn very badly. I think you can be trusted.'

'Miss Greey,' Domini corrected in a low, level voice. 'I'm not married. And no, you shouldn't trust me. If I write you a cheque it might bounce.'

'But if you could promise to pay on a C.O.D., surely you must have ... '

'If I hadn't managed to find the money by then, the delivery man simply wouldn't have left the parcel,' Domini pointed out, her face set and pale. 'It wasn't dishonest. Yes, you might have missed an opportunity to sell the unicorn to some other customer, but surely the hundred dollars I just gave you would have paid the artist for his disappointment. It was quite a gamble for me. I can't afford to lose a hundred dollars.'

The woman's face changed from accusatory to sympathetic. 'I'm sorry,' she said quietly.

Domini laughed ruefully. 'No, I am,' she said. 'I shouldn't have tried it. It was an impulse. Would it be too much if I asked for my hundred dollars back?'

'You really want that unicorn badly,' observed the woman softly.

Domini nodded, not trusting her tongue. How could she explain to anyone that the unicorn in the window had become not just a desire but a compulsion? That she had to have it for Tasey? To understand, a person would have to know all the joy and pain of Domini's personal history ... the warmth and love of her cosseted and unorthodox childhood, the agony caused by her father's rejection, the terrible circumstances that had attended Tasey's conception by a man Domini had once been infatuated with but had grown to hate.

The woman started to insert a key in the cash drawer and then paused. 'I have an admission to make, now that we're being honest,' she said. 'I put the paint on that unicorn myself. The man who did the carving is blind, you see. I didn't tell you before because I didn't want to influence your thinking.'

Domini closed her eyes as another wave of memory washed over her, the force of it this time like a tidal bore.

But therein lay too much pain to contemplate, and she willed the memory back into the recesses of her mind. This was no time to think of the man who had fathered Tasey.

'By the way,' the woman went on, 'my name is Miranda, Miranda Evans, and I'm a sucker for a trustworthy face. Would it help if I allowed you to pay the balance in January? Mind you, I'd have to have it by the end of the month for sure. The cost of credit nowadays, you know.'

Domini shook her head, a small shivering shake because she wanted so much to say yes and in all honesty couldn't. Finances weren't likely to be easier for some time to come. And once Tasey had the unicorn there would be no going back. The gift once given could not be snatched away, to be returned to the gallery in lieu of payment.

As the cash drawer came open Domini made one last desperate bid. 'I could work it off,' she suggested. 'I do window displays. I'm freelance, and I'm good, really I am. Perhaps you've seen some of my work?' She mentioned several shops in the neighbourhood, earning an admiring nod from the other woman. 'I'll do all your displays for a year, props and everything, and you'll be getting a terrific bargain.'

'I don't need a display person.' Miranda's words sounded like an apology. T hang pictures in the window.'

'Part-time sales help, then.'

'No, I'm sorry. I live directly upstairs, and if I need to go out I simply close up the gallery for an hour. I find I can get along without hiring anyone. There isn't ... '

'In that case I could pay you in instalments,' Domini interrupted quickly. 'A hundred dollars a month. Plus interest, of course.' ,

Domini could practically see the wheels turning in the other woman's head as Miranda fingered the cash, torn between accepting the sale on Domini's terms and waiting for a better offer, which might not materialize in the short time remaining before Christmas. 'I'll have to speak to the artist,' she said slowly. 'He may not like to wait for the money. And he'd have to wait, because since my husband died the gallery hasn't been doing too well. This has been a particularly slow year.'

'A slow sale is better than no sale,' urged Domini, sensing an impending victory. 'Couldn't you phone him and speak to him right away?'

'Even better.' Miranda smiled, reaching a decision and rising to her feet. She started towards the back of the shop where a stairway was half concealed by a movable shelving unit displaying plain wooden toys quite unlike the other items in the Santa's Workshop show. 'To tell the truth he's my brother, and he lives right upstairs. Can you mind the gallery for a second? I'll bring him down and let you speak to him yourself. When he hears how anxious you are, he won't say no!'

Domini turned to gaze at the unicorn again while she waited to meet the artist who had carved it. Not that any man could really be called an artist, reflected Domini, under those tragic circumstances. Any more than Sander could have continued to be a sculptor, especially in a medium as unyielding as stone, if the operation had not restored his sight.

With Miranda gone, Domini allowed herself to think about Sander, about the months in Paris, because at this moment there was no other person present to witness the expression on her face. How ironic that it was a blind man who had carved this creature, a creature she longed to buy because for her it symbolized the father's love Tasey would never get from Sander. Not that Sander had been blind at the time of Tasey's conception. Then his dark eyes had been silvered with anger, a terrible consuming anger such as Domini had not seen in any other person's eyes in her life, not even in Papa's...

❧

The man on the second floor had listened to his sister in silence, his resentment building with every word she spoke. Did she really think him such a fool? Miranda was perfectly capable of making decisions of this sort; there was no need for him to go downstairs.

Too annoyed to answer at once, he continued the task she had interrupted, first unscrewing the lid of the instant coffee. In the kitchen drawer he fumbled for a spoon and then dipped in for a measure of the granules he could not see. By the sound as he scraped the excess off against the jar's rim, he wondered if a large-size spoon had been placed improperly in the drawer. He tested with his left hand, found it was so, and started to return some coffee to the jar. Annoyance at Miranda's transparency caused his hand to tremble. The spoon collided with glass and the granules spilled, causing his fury to turn inward, where there was no more room for rage. Like a festering boil, his temper burst.

'Miss Greey! Unattached, of course!' he lashed out. 'Did you think I wouldn't understand your motives?'

'She might not be unattached,' Miranda replied defensively. 'She has a child.' She moved to the counter and with a curved palm started to sweep the coffee into a small neat pile. The soft sounds grated on her brother's nerves.

'I'll do it,' he snapped, seething at his inability to function in a world designed exclusively for the sighted.

Chastened, Miranda backed away and watched. Moments later the spilled granules went into a mug, along with a scattering of crumbs left from the breakfast toast. For once she held her tongue, saving it for more important matters.

'You'll never meet anyone up here. Was it so awful the last time I introduced you to a woman? It turned out to be quite ...'

'A novelty for her! And why not? She had slept with everything else, in every country of the world. A blind man must have amused her.'

A terrible bitterness had entered his voice, and his movements were far jerkier than usual as he felt for the lever that turned off the gas jet on the outmoded stove. He reached too rashly for the singing kettle, fingers springing away from hot steam and then moving more carefully to locate the insulated handle. He felt for the readied coffee mug, found it, and eased his thumb down over the rim. He lowered the kettle's spout until he heard the faint clink of it against china, and then slowly, to avoid another accident, he poured. The little shock of pain in his thumb told him when the boiling water had reached the right mark. He gritted his teeth, replaced the kettle on the hob, and remained at the counter with his shoulders hunched against Miranda, hating her concern, hating his dependency, hating the awful black abyss in which he existed.

'Well, are you coming downstairs?'

He controlled his voice. 'You know the answer as well as I do. If she's willing to pay, take what you can get.'

'No,' Miranda said fiercely. 'I won't. Either you come and meet her, or there's no sale at all. Make up your mind!'

He lifted the mug and took a swallow that burned his tongue. Damning himself because he had known full well it was still too hot, he dashed the coffee towards the sink, his inaccurate aim splashing the counter and his own shirt. The soggy toast crumbs in his mouth tasted like gall, a fitting bitterness to feed the wormwood that was his soul.

'Will you never leave me in peace?' he raged in a cry that encompassed the whole world. Miranda turned and left the kitchen without a word.

After a few minutes he followed because he knew he must. His pride stuck in his craw, but normally Miranda didn't make threats; she might mean what she said.

On this familiar floor he could move with the outward surety of a sighted person, although in his long night no step could be taken in full, true confidence of its outcome. The internal mechanisms, refined by necessity, told him what path to follow, how many steps to take, when to lift his hand to ascertain the position of the door frame. Against it a white cane rested. He passed it by, bitterly conscious that it was there but not touching it. Only when he neared the top of the banisters did he slow, testing with one outstretched hand to feel what hazards might lie in wait in the sinister void that loomed ahead. There was only Miranda, waiting to lead him down.

❧

Domini was still immersed in her own wrenching thoughts, eyes turned to the window and the unicorn, when she heard the squeaking noises of descent. 'Well, here we are,' came Miranda's voice, sounding artificially bright, from the direction of the stairs. Then, to the person whose measured footfall Domini could now hear: 'Now mind, there's one more step. And watch for those shelves ... '

'I know,' came the rejoinder that sounded very like a curse. 'Now let go of my arm, will you? I'll manage.'

'Stop scolding,' Miranda sighed as the footsteps started to cross the room. 'I'm only trying to help.'

Domini schooled her face in preparation for the introduction. When the footsteps neared she turned, still smiling, and took in Miranda's face on a level with her own. Then her gaze slid upward to find hooded, sightless eyes of a silvered darkness that was graven in Domini's memory. The room started to swirl around those eyes, making it impossible for her to see the rest of the face...

But it couldn't be. It couldn't. It must be a trick of the light, a function of the sudden terrible dizziness that had assailed her, robbing her brain of blood and her knees of strength. Clutching for sanity, she tried to tell herself that her imagination had been working too hard since her first sight of the unicorn, that it had been over-stimulated by the return of too many bitter memories all at once. Sander was in Europe. Sander was not in New York. Sander had regained his sight. Those sightless silvered eyes couldn't be Sander's because Sander was not blind.

'Domini Greey,' said Miranda, 'I'd like you to meet my brother, Sander Williams.'

And then the silver changed to black, all black. For the first time in her life Domini fainted.