Firefly Cove Page 15

  Asha described how Luke Benoit also followed the standard pattern on an emotional level. This was referred to as “reduced emotional reactivity,” which went a long way to explaining how he appeared so, well . . .

  “Normal,” Emeka supplied.

  “Not a very clinical description, but yes,” Asha agreed. “Normal in dress and mannerisms. Very reserved and controlled in speech.”

  “You are saying this is different from how the patient was prior to his episode?”

  “Night and day,” Asha agreed.

  Emeka ate a slice of apple, then half a cracker, followed by a sip of tepid tea. Thoughtful. Intent. “Has there been a case where the clinician has actually observed the moment when the individual’s personality fashioned the split?”

  “Never,” Asha replied. “Not once in the history of psychological research.”

  “Which means this article could launch your career into the stratosphere. Congratulations, Ms. Meisel.”

  But Asha thought his response held little real enthusiasm. “What is it?”

  He shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

  “No. Please. I want to hear what you’re thinking.”

  His motions became very slow, almost formal. He laid down his knife. He arranged the items on his tray. He turned the handle of his cup. Then, “Have you considered the alternative?”

  “You mean, that Luke Benoit is telling the truth? That he actually died, and this other person just somehow popped into his physical form?” Asha gave the doctor a chance to deny it, then said, “Are you seriously considering this?”

  “I have been an urgent-care physician for eleven years. Head of the ER wing here for five. And in this time I have seen some things that would make Benoit’s case appear, well, utterly pedestrian.”

  Asha had no idea how to respond.

  Emeka nodded, as though agreeing with her silence. “My name comes from the Igbo language, spoken mostly in the northwestern provinces of Nigeria. The literal translation is ‘God does great things.’”

  Emeka continued to nod slowly, a gentle rocking, only a few inches in each direction, almost a trancelike motion. His gaze, however, remained piercing. Brilliant as a dark-rimmed fire. “When I came to the United States to do my medical training, I discovered a distinct division among doctors regarding my religion. Many within the medical community tend to discourage, even scorn, the very concept. As though a Christian doctor risks returning to the dark ages of medicine. But for others, attending church is considered part of a normal existence. Perhaps a bit outside the mainstream these days. But a churchgoer is still an accepted member of society, which is the same in my home country. And yet, within this American religious culture, there is a distinct difference from what I knew at home.”

  Asha opened her mouth, searched for some proper response, but came up blank.

  “‘Confining.’ Yes, that is the word I am looking for. Americans see themselves as a powerful people. And rightly so. But they carry this sense of power and control into their churches, and the result is, the room for miracles becomes very small. But in some ways I remain a product of my native land. And in Nigeria there are very many aspects of daily life that cannot be understood, much less controlled. So my name, the pronouncement that God still abounds and manages to surprise and astonish, that miracles do still exist in this modern era, has validity.”

  “So you’re saying that Benoit . . .”

  “What I am saying, Ms. Meisel, is that your study of this patient holds a very real interest to me personally. There is a great deal of discussion these days over near-death experiences, and yet the medical community treats it as a passing fad. They would prefer for it to simply go away. Incredible as that may seem.” Emeka stood and gathered up his tray. “Would you be so kind as to keep me informed of this patient’s progress? I would appreciate that more than I can say.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The sun spilled through the Quarterfield Classics’ west-facing showroom windows. It turned the car positioned at its center into a burnished reflector, hearkening back to a world that had no place in this day and age. The vehicle was a defiant note against the whirling dervish of constant change.

  It was the same model Buick that had stood in that very same position the day Lucius had first met Jessica.

  Lucius could not remember what the color of the original car had been. But he knew the model. He set his hand upon the front fender, marveling at its presence.

  A saleslady said, “Sorry, sir. That car isn’t for sale.”

  Lucius did not turn around because he did not want to reveal his tears. “I’m actually here to have a car serviced.”

  “Is that your Jaguar that Mike’s been going on about?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his eyes. “This is one beautiful machine.”

  “Certainly is.” She offered him a card. “Mike says you’re not interested in selling your Jag. But I’d be glad to help in case you change your mind.”

  Lucius accepted the card without actually focusing on the young lady. “Would it be all right if I stayed in here for a while?”

  If she found anything wrong with his fractured demeanor, the saleslady gave no sign. “Sure thing. You’re not allowed to bring drinks in here, but there’s coffee and cold beverages in the service waiting area.”

  “Thank you.” Lucius pretended to inspect the car while she walked away. There were a couple of prospective customers loitering at the showroom’s other side. Their voices echoed a refrain of money and softly-spoken passion around the chamber. But here by the Buick, Lucius was left alone.

  He pulled over a chair from an empty sales desk and seated himself. Precisely where he had been on that fateful morning. So very, very long ago.

  * * *

  Lucius was so utterly captured by memories and loss that he did not notice a thing until the cane tapped his leg. “Young man, this establishment has failed to lay out a welcome mat for loiterers.”

  He should have risen to his feet. He should have done a hundred things. Instead, he was unable to do more than gape at the woman who towered over him.

  She was narrow-framed and her features were pinched by far more than age. She leaned on a cane and her hand trembled from the effort required to keep herself upright. “Well? Are you incapable of offering some faint hint of an apology?” Then she glanced at the car, and her eyes went round in horror. “Is that your handprint on my machine?”

  The saleslady rushed over. “This gentleman has brought in a vintage car for restoration, Ms. Wright.”

  “That does not give him the right to paw my Buick!” She glared furiously as Lucius struggled to rise. “Do you have any idea what you were leaning against?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I know the machine.”

  “I doubt that very much.” She joined her hands together on the cane. “Well, go on then.”

  “This is a sixty-eight Riviera. The car was redesigned in sixty-six and now shared its platform with the Olds Toronado and the Caddy Eldorado. This is the Gran Sport model, with a four-hundred-thirty cubic-inch V-eight, which replaced the old 425 Nailhead—”

  “All right, that’s enough.” His answer only seemed to heighten her peevishness. “What possible reason could a young man like yourself have for being obsessed by old machines?”

  “This particular Riviera changed the way cars were seen in America,” Lucius replied.

  “And you have failed to answer . . .” She noticed the service chief hovering nearby. “Yes, what is it now?”

  “Sorry, Ms. Wright. I just wanted to let the gentleman know about his car.”

  “Well, go on, then. Though why that couldn’t wait is beyond me.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” But not even his boss’s perpetual bad mood could completely erase Mike’s grin. “The lady is fairly close to being ready to roll.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Young man,” Jessica snapped. “Mike Alderson happens to be the best i
n the business. Not to mention as fixated on outdated machinery as you appear to be.”

  “I put in a new battery and turned her over. She purrs, man. As lovely a sound as anything you’re likely to hear,” Mike went on. “Of course she needs new points and plugs and hoses and tires and brushes. But I can have that done by tomorrow.”

  Lucius was grateful for the chance to focus on something beyond the woman glaring at him. “So do it.”

  Jessica demanded, “What manner of vehicle has this young man brought in?”

  “A Jaguar Mark Ten, Ms. Wright.”

  She faltered slightly. “A Jaguar, did you say?”

  “One of the sweetest ladies I’ve seen in a long while. Barely broken in. Been kept under wraps for how long?”

  “Years,” Lucius replied softly. “Decades.”

  “Just waiting for today,” Mike said cheerfully. “You should hear that lady sing.”

  Jessica waited until Mike stepped away, then said, “Young man, you may walk me out.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The only thing that kept Lucius tied firmly to the here and the now was his hold on Jessica’s arm.

  He did not actually support her at all. He merely touched the back of her left elbow, the arm that did not hold the cane. She stumped across the showroom, ignoring the nervous looks cast by everyone within sight. Lucius perceived everything with absolute clarity. But the only things that mattered were his three fingers that touched this lady’s arm.

  She waved an impatient thanks at the salesman who held open the showroom door. Jessica did not speak again until they were crossing the sunlit forecourt. “I suppose you know all about my car as well.”

  Lucius saw the uniformed woman standing beside the open passenger door, and realized she was headed toward . . .

  His car.

  The last he had ever owned.

  She barked, “I do not care to be kept waiting, young man.”

  He had to swallow hard. “I know it.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s a sixty-eight Impala.”

  “Right so far.”

  His voice sounded strangled. “The four-door version was known as a Caprice, but this one has many of the features designed for the SS. Three-ninety-six V-eight, full-coil suspension, Powerglide transmission—”

  “Very well, that’s enough.” She offered grudging approval. “I suppose you could go on for hours if I allowed.”

  Lucius did not reply.

  “Are you this knowledgeable about all vehicles?”

  “Mostly American models,” he replied. “Fifties and sixties, mainly.”

  “How remarkable. May I ask why?”

  He had no idea how to respond, except, “It used to be my work.”

  “I would have assumed a handsome young man such as yourself would have preferred to lose himself in electronic gizmos and the like.” Jessica allowed the woman to help lower her into the passenger seat. Then she raised one arthritic hand and halted her aide from shutting her door. She looked back toward the showroom. “Clunkers, they’re called nowadays. Gas-guzzling dinosaurs that should all be sold for scrap.”

  Lucius followed her gaze. The showroom windows formed a series of sunlit mirrors. The car on display was invisible. But he knew they could both see it clearly. He turned back. And drank in the sight of her. “I think they’re beautiful.”

  The afternoon light was not kind to Jessica. Every line was visible, every scar of age. But her features still bore the stamp of determination and her gaze still held a fiercely brilliant light. Lucius thought she was regal as a queen.

  Jessica said, “This place never made financial sense.”

  “It doesn’t need to,” Lucius replied.

  “Is that so?” She glared up at him. “And what, may I ask, do you do with your time when you’re not idling away the hours in my front room?”

  “I study finance at Cal Poly.”

  She tightened her gaze. Lucius wondered if this was perhaps as close to a smile as she could manage these days. “This particular way station on the highway to nowhere costs me a small fortune to keep open. I claim it brings in the sort of high-value clients that also acquire our more expensive new models. But we both know I am, what is it they say these days? Blowing smoke.”

  “You don’t need to justify a passion,” Lucius replied. “This place and these cars bring you pleasure. Not to mention how you come here and meet others who share your enthusiasm.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. And the Miramar Highway is most certainly not leading nowhere.”

  “You know my town, do you?”

  “I did. Once.”

  She nodded. “As you must return to collect your vehicle tomorrow, you may stop by my residence for tea. Three o’clock. Be on time.”

  Lucius thanked her, then shut her door and watched as Jessica Wright departed. She did not look back.

  He was still standing there long after his car had vanished into the afternoon heat. Struggling to breathe around a broken heart.

  CHAPTER 38

  No one at the dealership found it strange when Lucius asked for help booking a room in Miramar Bay. After all, he had a pristine vintage Jaguar in the shop, due for its rollout the next afternoon.

  Of course it could have also been how the entire business came to a standstill at the news that Jessica Wright had invited him to tea.

  Even the patrons found it necessary to come in and inspect this odd duck who managed to charm the dealership’s owner. Lucius pretended not to notice the stares, but there was little he could do about the young saleslady’s chatter as she drove him into town. “That woman scares me to death. How on earth did you get on her good side?”

  Lucius was still recovering from the meeting. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “We talked cars.”

  The saleslady’s name was Clarissa, and she drove a restored convertible MGB very fast. “Humph. I know cars. Why do you think I work there? For my health? That lady gives me a heart attack every time she walks in the front door.”

  “Heart attack” was how Lucius described this lady’s driving habits. “Watch out for the truck.”

  “I see the truck. I didn’t even know Ms. Wright had a good side.” She downshifted and gunned the engine. “What did you say to her?”

  “Vintage American vehicles are beautiful. You can’t pass over a double yellow.”

  “Don’t say ‘can’t.’ Never say ‘can’t.’ ‘Shouldn’t’ sounds bad enough.” She glared at him. “Why are you smiling?”

  “You sound like Jessica.”

  “ ‘Jessica’? You call her Jessica?” She red-lined the engine and did a controlled four-wheel slid around a corner.

  Lucius gripped the door with one hand and the windshield’s metal rim with the other. “Maybe I should walk from here.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s another three miles.” She looked over once more, and this time was defeated by his grin. She slowed considerably. “Sorry. I drive crazy when I’m mad.”

  They did not speak again until Clarissa pulled into the parking area of a fifties-era motel, a low-slung structure once known as a motor court. She cut the motor and said, “Ms. Wright keeps threatening to shut our place down. Twice now, she’s ordered me to move someplace else, last time it was Ojai, become assistant sales manager. Pretend I love new cars. Make something of myself. Build a proper future. But I don’t want to leave Miramar. And I don’t want to leave Quarterfield Classics.” She turned in her seat. “Did you actually call her Jessica?”

  “Not to her face.”

  “Oh. I thought maybe that was the secret. Speak her first name, and Ms. Wright goes from angry lioness to house kitty.”

  “I doubt very much anything would ever make Jessica become a kitten.”

  “There you go again. Jessica. Maybe it’s because you think her name.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “She really asked you to tea?”

  “Yes. That reminds me. I don’t know where she lives.”
/>
  Clarissa pointed in a vaguely eastern direction. “Head back over the first ridgeline, and look for the clouds of sulphur.”

  CHAPTER 39

  A blustery wind blew off the Pacific as Lucius left the Miramar Bay guesthouse and strolled down the town’s main avenue. The motel was a nice enough place. Lucius was fairly certain he recalled it from before. It had been spruced up, of course, and the rooms had been redone as efficiency apartments. He found the sense of familiarity to be most reassuring.

  Lucius walked down to a men’s shop the guesthouse proprietor had suggested. The wind was strong enough to toss the trees around and cause the few pedestrians to scurry. He watched two incoming rainsqualls slowly draw toward the coast. Miramar had changed, but not nearly as much as he had feared. Everywhere he looked were signs of new wealth. Even so, the town somehow maintained the same low-key charm that had so appealed to him.

  Lucius was the shop’s last customer of the day. He purchased a pair of hemmed slacks and a dress shirt, underwear, and socks. He had not planned on staying the night when he’d left San Luis Obispo, and had no intention of arriving for tea in the same clothes as today.

  The rain arrived as he was climbing back up the central road. He slipped into a restaurant several blocks from the guesthouse, thankfully one he did not recall. A strikingly beautiful woman said, “Welcome to Castaways. Are you escaping the downpour or looking for a place to eat?”

  Lucius thought he had never heard a more appropriate greeting. “A little of both.”

  “Table service hasn’t started yet. And in any case we’re all booked up. But you’re welcome to take a seat by the bar.”

  “The bar,” Lucius replied, “will do me just fine.”

  * * *

  Lucius had sea bass cooked in a sauce as delicate and light as anything he had ever tasted. He tried to do the meal justice, but his mind remained locked on the events of that afternoon. Being with Jessica again had left an indelible mark upon his soul. Just as Lucius had known it would.