The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (47 page)

“Don’t forget this.” He offered me the note from Rain.

I politely took the note, flashed him a heartfelt smile and scurried out the door.

When I exited the boutique it was dark, the quaint alleyway was dimly lit by a few streetlamps, but empty of life. Quite opposite of how it was when I had arrived earlier.

First things first, I needed a minute alone. I ducked into the nearest storefront alcove, which was closed, so I took a private moment to have a little cry then proceeded home.

Most of the stores had been long closed. The sun had set hours ago. Distinctly, I heard a single pair of footsteps shuffling on the pavers behind me in the alley. I turned towards the sound. I could hear a pair of keys clinging. Out of one of the storefronts two females excited onto the street. They huddled near one another. They must have worked later, which was usual in Paris. I could hear them whispering and giggling.

The two girls headed in the opposite direction from me. My instincts told me someone else was in the alley behind me. I wondered if it was Pierre keeping a watchful eye on me. I hoped so. I picked up my pace and headed toward the main road. As I turned the corner from the alley, stepping into the light, I felt a huge sense of relieve. The music wafting from the local bars hit me first. The happy hour crowd was thick. It must have been some kind of block party, people were dancing in the street, laughing and having a good ole’ time. For a minute, I thought about parking my butt somewhere to have a stiff drink then quickly changed my mind.

From the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw a man with dark wavy hair who swaggered just like Jordan Ramsey used to. When I turned around to get a better look, he dipped into the crowd. Whoever he was appeared to be watching me, then suddenly became preoccupied with the festivities and his friends. I realized I had been mistaken.  Of course, I had. 

Last I’d heard, Jordan was still serving out his prison sentence. The man sure looked a lot like Jordan, but that was a ridiculous thought.

I recalled having received a hate letter from Jordan, six-months after he was incarcerated, blaming me for not sticking by him. What did he expect, we barely even knew each other when he was arrested. Then a year later, I received another letter from him, apologizing to the community and me. He promised to find me one day to apologize face to face. I never wrote him back, at the time, I just couldn’t trust him ever again, even if he was sorry.

Ouch, it hit me, I barely knew Rain and had expected more from him as Jordan had me. Nothing like having to look in the mirror.

My teeth chattered from the bitter cold of the night and from the thought of Jordan ever tracking me down. Nonetheless, I slipped my hand into my purse and pulled out my mace.

A beggar old man brushed by me. For a second he frightened the crap out of me. “This might come in handy tonight,” he said and popped open a big red umbrella and to my surprise handed it to me. Before I could say anything, he vanished into the crowd. Stunned, I stood there with the biggest red umbrella I had ever seen, feeling extremely dry. Silly old man, what was he thinking?

Then, out of nowhere, it was as if the heavens opened up. A downpour of rain flooded the streets of Paris that night. The crowd scattered like mice. Me, all I could do was laugh out loud. I twirled my new umbrella and headed toward the brownstone.

-53-

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I felt as if I were trapped at a four-way intersection in a major traffic jam, waiting for the red light to turn green. But, in this case, there were no green lights. There was no patrol officer directing me on which way to go. I had a book deadline to meet, but in order to do that I had to solve the mystery first of who carved the hearts in the step.

I was no closer in knowing who the young lovers were to even begin my book. So, again, I turned to Dr. Piccart.

He appeared to be catnapping on the garden swing in the courtyard as I approached. His head hung down low. His eyes popped opened when he heard my footsteps clicking against the steppingstones.

“Good afternoon, Brielle.”

“Hello,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “Can I talk to you?”

“Yes. What is it, dear?” He stretched out his arms, yawned then patted the thick floral cushion beside him. “Here sit with me.”

I sunk into the corner of the old swing. My shoulders slouched over.

“You seem down.”

“I am. I am worried.”

He asked sincerely, “About?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I pouted. “If I can’t figure out who the lovers were that carved the hearts into the step, my story is ruined. I thought writing about them was a great idea, but now I’m not so sure.”

“I see you have a dilemma, especially if you don’t figure this out soon. The first draft is due in less than six months.”

Hearing him say that did not provide much comfort. Only confirmed what I already knew. “Yes, that’s my problem.”

He sighed. “I told you what I knew, which is virtually nothing.”

I pulled my brows together. “Virtually nothing. Then you do know something more than what you told me before?”

“No,” he said and simply shook his head, staring off into space.

I chewed my tongue on the inside of my mouth. I still felt like he was keeping something from me. Why though? Surely, he didn’t want me to fail. This project was about his success too.

“Brielle, this one will unravel in time as all mysteries seemed to do with logical investigation, patience, and the use of your womanly intuition that I consider, a sixth sense. Open yourself up. You told me your grandmother was said to have been a verifiable clairvoyant. Certainly, that was genetically passed down to you. In the meantime, let me talk to someone that may be able to give you some insight.”

“Who? Do you know someone that may have known them?”

“Perhaps,” he said. His bottom lip turned out. “He’s a young man, but a dear old friend.”

My eyes widened with hope, scanning his face. “Really! That would be awesome. Please give him my number, okay? I would love to meet with him.”

Dr. Piccart pushed up form the swing. “I certainly will. Remember everything unravels all in the nick of time. I will see you soon, Brielle, I have things to do now,” he said and turned on his heels, leaving me there stunned, and certain that he had, in fact, kept information from me. “Brielle, remember you have to open yourself up to all the resources that may come your way. Don’t give up.”

“Don’t worry I won’t. Thanks so much for all of your help.”

“My pleasure,” he called out to me and then disappeared behind the tall bushes just outside the brownstone.

At the end of the week, because I’d never heard from his friend I called Dr. Piccart as a friendly reminder.

“Brielle, I have contacted him. He will be return to the city in a month or so and promised to call on you as soon as he gets back. Speaking of which, I will be leaving Paris tomorrow for a few months, the brownstone is all your when I am gone. So have a party while this old cat is gone.”

“Where are you going?” I pried, enthusiastically.

“Not far...taking a little holiday to the country to visit a lady friend of mine.”

“Nice.” I giggled to myself. For a man well over seventy-five he was still a ladies man.

“In the meantime just start writing.

“I can’t, not until—”

He interrupted. “Their names aren’t what’s important...it’s the content of the storyline that will touch the hearts of others.”

“But I don’t know what to write about yet.”

“Just write, dear. It will come to you. You can fill their names in later. In the meantime, go out and have some fun. Kick up your heels. Dance until dawn. Meet some young men. Fall in love.”

“Fall in love?” I laughed.

“That’s right. Find a muse or a few. They will give you inspiration for your novel.”

“Actually, I have a few all ready,” I blurted out. “And they’re nothing but a distraction.” I growled.

“Well, good. Distractions are welcomed breaks for the mind. Have fun with them if you know what I mean.
Why do you think I’m going on a holiday?”

  Eww, a visual popped in my mind. That was a question I didn’t want to answer. “Well, you have a great time while you’re away.”

“Oh, you can bet your last dollar bill, I plan on it. Did I tell you my friend is twenty-years younger than me?”

“Wow. I’m sure she’s gorgeous.”

“She’s a retired gymnastic.” He snickered under his breath. “I hope I can keep up with her.”

To much information! “Okay, well, I will come down tomorrow morning to see you off.”

“Thank you. TTYL.”

“Huh?”

“Talk to you laters.” He chuckled.

Funny he was text-talking. Cute.

“Okay bye, now.” Shew, I breathed a sigh of relief when I hit the end call button and shuddered to myself.
Yikes,
I thought,
next thing I knew he would be telling me how he’d been practicing Kama Sutra. Dirty old man!

That night I tried to write as Dr. Piccart had suggested. Because of my personal dichotomy between two very different men, my focus was impaired as I struggled to write. My emotions were up and down over Rain and the mystery man, who melted me with his maddening voice the night he hid in the brownstone.

Concentrating on anything that had no structure, no framing like my storyline was virtually impossible. My time felt robbed, all I could think of were these two men. What the fuck was happening to me? They both played on the edge of my mind, far too much.

For weeks to follow, dealing with my obsession over two men was much more complicated than writing a novel, because human beings can be unstable and very unpredictable, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. If these men were even human at all—

I continued to feel strong emotions and obsessed over Rain. I still longed to see him. He was the man of my dreams. I knew he felt something special too, despite his charades. Secretly though, despite him hurting me, I hoped to see him again. His note implied we would meet again one day…someday. Every time my phone rang I secretly hoped it was Rain calling. A few times I had traced my steps back to where the boutique was and couldn’t find it. Pouf! It’s like he had vanished, again, along with his store. I am sure I must have taken a wrong turn.

As for the mystery man, I sometimes felt his presence in the shadows of the brownstone, watching, lurking, yet concealed out of sight. I know Dr. Piccart said there was no one else living there, but maybe this was something else he wanted to hide from me, for whatever reasons. Of course, if I saw someone, I wouldn’t have known if it was he or not. He could have been a flipping troll for all I knew. God, how wished I had gotten a better glimpse of him—his voice that night had been simply unforgettable. Forget Rain. I decided to focus on discovering
whom the man was that hid in the brownstone.

One day, after arriving home from the flower market, I put my flowers in a vase, while doing so, the florist’s card fell out and onto the floor. I picked up the card and read it:
To Brielle, here’s looking at you, beautiful.

On the card someone had drawn a sketch. My hand began to shake. It was an exact replica of the linked hearts that were carved on the step. The card had to have been placed between the flowers by Mr. Sexy Voice. He was the only one that knew about the hearts, well, aside from a few florist employees that had delivered flowers to my flat occasionally. They certainly had to have spotted the hearts, too. Who wouldn’t have noticed them, they were so enchanting.

I was stunned and slightly creeped out by the card, yet my heart was elated and beating fast. Whoever my secret admirer was, he had taken a step in my direction. Still, it was my secret hope that the card had been from Rain. That was impossible though, for he had not known about the hearts. Therefore the card could not have been from him. However, I preferred that it were from my mystery man without a face than one of the delivery boys. Come to think of it, he might have been a safer bet for my heart than Rain, which seemed to be healing quite nicely since my stay in Paris. I hadn’t thought of Spencer in months.

Whenever I raced up the steps to my flat, or when I exited the brownstone, I always caught myself glancing over my shoulder hoping to Mr. Sexy Voice.

“I know your watching me,” I bravely call out to him. He wouldn’t answer but I felt him there. Having a secret admirer was sort of creepy, but mysterious, too, in a good way. I wondered if he was ever going to reveal his face or just watch me from afar.

His unforgettable smooth as maple syrup voice may be all I will ever know. Perhaps, he was shy like Cyrano de Bergerac! Or perhaps, his face was scarred like the Phantom of the Opera, causing him to stay hidden in the shadows. The thought of that made me shudder!

“That’s fine. I know you will come out when you’re ready. I know you’re not shy like Cyrano was. C’mon, you weren’t the night we met, that’s for sure. At least talk to me.” I practically begged. “What’s the problem?” I asked and waited. Again no reply.

As an experiment, I placed one of my books on the step for him. “I’m not sure if you like to read, but I wrote this...it’s a book of poems. You can have it if you want. See you later...or not.” I waved bye to his invisible presence.