Nature Of Desire: Mirror Of The Soul Page 6

  Chloe nodded, hurt written across her features in big letters. Gen, older and more understanding, reached out toward her. “Sweetie, we didn’t mean—”

  Marguerite stepped back to avoid the contact, forgetting she was at the top of the stairs. She met air. Falling, the sense of falling. This she knew. And it frightened her as it never had before.

  She was jerked to a halt before it actualized. Both women lunged forward and caught her. Chloe her left arm, Gen her right.

  She took a deep breath, clutched their arms. They cared about her, she knew that. In the normal world, people who worked together enjoyed a rapport. Would exchange light banter over a romantic interest, women especially. This was yet another reason she couldn’t do this. Pain radiated through her chest, but then Chloe wrapped her arms around her in a hug. “I’m sorry, M. I wasn’t trying to be nosy. Okay, I was, but not to be mean. We love you, you know? And you looked happy, the way you guys walked up here, holding hands. You don’t often look happy. You don’t have to tell us anything. We just want you to feel that way. We’re glad for you.”

  Gen put a hand on her shoulder, stilling her, but Marguerite gave her a tentative, stiff squeeze, eased her back. “I know, Chloe. Thank you both. I just don’t do…this. And it’s hard for me to understand how to handle it. I don’t want to hurt either of you, so let’s focus on this morning’s routine, all right?” Her voice sounded a little desperate, even to herself. “Can we just get back to the morning routine? I’ll meet you inside in a minute.”

  They retreated reluctantly with another of those pregnant exchanged glances, leaving her alone, standing with her back to the edge of the stairs. Turning carefully, she stared down the road after his car. She felt the beat of her heart hitting the wall of her chest, resounding in her stomach like a cavern.

  He’d been wrong. It wasn’t her that was the drug. It was him, for as he drove down the street, she felt the emptiness, the desire to have him back beside her like a physical pain nothing could assuage, except something she wasn’t sure she was capable of doing.

  Please, come to me.

  Chapter Four

  The right connections could get you where you had no business being. Tyler went up the walkway of the modest patio home. It was located in a quiet retirement community designed to appeal to senior citizens of modest income, the type of home that would appeal to a widow who’d spent her career as a social services worker.

  She’d opened the door when he drove up, waited for him behind the screen. He felt her assessment of his car, his appearance, even the way he walked as he strode up the paved path. While he made eye contact, determined not to project anything but confidence, he felt like a thief pretending to be the owner of the house he was about to rob.

  “You look like you’ve been mugged.” Komal Gupta said as he made her top step. “Since you look like money I assume that’s the case, since I also assume that’s what greased the wheels that brought you to my door.”

  “No, actually it was my connections in the government, earned by risking my ass in places where hell would be considered a vacation resort.” He met her barb for barb but kept his tone mild. “I know this is wrong, Mrs. Gupta. I know it goes against your ethics and you wouldn’t be doing it unless your former boss, a person you greatly respect, hadn’t leaned on you hard. But I need to understand some things. I’m hitting a brick wall.”

  “Walls of brick are built to protect the occupant from the harshest elements. Helping you pull out the foundation so that wall can crumble and leave the occupant vulnerable doesn’t seem something I’d be willing to help with. Why would I?”

  “Because you care about her. And because I’m in love with her. And sometimes brick walls are a prison, not a protection.”

  She studied him another long moment. “Come in and we’ll see what we can talk about. And I’ll choose what that will be. If you can’t accept that, get back in your car.”

  He inclined his head, stepped over the threshold. After a measuring glance, she closed the door and showed him to a small sitting area with couches and chairs comfortable for the frame of a small woman. It suggested that this had become her home since her husband’s passing. When Tyler looked at her, he saw a woman with a kind round brown face, her hair in a fat gray-black braid down her back. She emanated the reassurance that he sensed would have comforted a child. Many children.

  “I’m sorry for my comment, Mrs. Gupta. I’m sure you’ve dealt with far worse situations than I have. At least most of mine dealt with adults.”

  She cocked a brow. “This isn’t a contest, Mr. Winterman. You may be right, but I’ve rarely risked my life. Perhaps my soul, but never my life.” She sat down, crossed her legs and pinned him with her dark eyes. “There are times you see things so horrible you become certain that nothing like God could exist. And if there is an All-Powerful Deity, It is a murdering son of a bitch for turning Its back on those who are so helpless to the evil of others. But in time you understand that the comfort of God is a balance to the evil of men. The Deity, whatever Its purpose, is not a warden. It’s something you don’t understand with the rational mind, correct? It’s something you feel with your heart, your instinct. It’s faith, for logic and understanding will only send your soul into despair in this human world.”

  “Is that how Marguerite managed? Or Marie?”

  “You did your research. I call her Marguerite. I respected her desire and her need to become a new being.” The reproof was in her tone and Tyler found it took effort to keep his expression steady, non-defensive. “Marguerite has managed, has survived. She did it by adopting many of the expected defenses for an extremely abused child and by being gifted with a wholly non-hereditary strength of character. Tell me what you know of her before you try your interrogation techniques on me.”

  “She…” Tyler, always adept with words, found himself at a sudden loss. The one image that immediately came to mind seemed inappropriate for the company, but he suspected that in order to get what he needed from Komal Gupta he was going to have to answer her questions with brutal honesty.

  “This morning I was sitting in her garden, watching her do yoga. The sunlight was touching her hair, her skin. I could have sat there forever, just watching her.” He hesitated. “She was completely naked. I could see the burns, every scar. But she turns toward me, so strong and resilient. Looks at me with her blue eyes and it’s like I can see down into her soul. She’s in mine, I know it, but I can’t… I can push hard to get what I want, but I’m afraid the wall holding me back is glass. I wouldn’t hurt her if the fate of the world depended on it. She’s given enough. But I want her so much, I want to give her anything, everything…” He stopped, closed his eyes, shook his head. “Jesus, if you can pull that out of me just sitting there with that expectant expression, you were a hell of a counselor.”

  Komal blinked. “I think you had that built up in you and I was just the first recipient you felt acceptable to share it with. I only had moderate success in that area with Marguerite and most of it was deduction, not her opening up.” Humor crossed her features. “And what I meant by ‘tell me what you know’ is what you know of her history.”

  For perhaps the first time since he was sixteen years old, Tyler felt a flush creep up his neck. She laughed, a sound like bells, reached out and touched his knee. “No, don’t be embarrassed. It tells me a great deal about you. It also makes me feel better about our chat. Though you have an intensity that suggests an obsessive stalker.”

  Tyler snorted. “One of my closest women friends has suggested the same.”

  “How intuitive of her. I’m regretting not making you tea, as I would an honored guest but to be honest I was planning to boot you back out the driveway, no matter what Henry said. I can tell your feelings for Marguerite are genuine, so I won’t do that.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes piercing, the humor gone. “But I need to be sure you’ll listen and truly hear what I say to you, whatever I choose to give to you.”

  “Tha
t’s why I’m here.” He locked gazes with her, held it until she nodded. “You introduced her to tea.”

  “Yes, I did.” Komal looked at a set in a hutch behind her, a set similar to ones he’d seen in Marguerite’s shop.

  “She still has the cups and the doll you gave her.”

  “I know. I saw them when she opened Tea Leaves.”

  “So you’ve stayed in touch.”

  “I’ve kept track of her.” Komal crossed her ankles, pressed her hands together in her lap. “When she opened the teahouse, I went to see her. I introduced myself to the hostess as an old friend, asked if Marguerite might have a moment to come out and share a cup with me, my treat, to congratulate her on her success. I remember the hostess was so nice, said she was sure Marguerite would be pleased to see me.”

  Tyler watched the woman recall the situation, a shadow crossing her face. “I was given the best tea on the house, an excellent scone. The hostess was solicitous to my every need. At length she told me that Marguerite was so happy I’d come by but she was very busy today. She apologized on her behalf and said the house would pick up the tab. The hostess was embarrassed I could tell, so I reassured her with my politeness, my understanding and thanks. I sat there for a half hour drinking tea, studied the beautiful haven she’d created, walked the grounds. Then I left her a note on my napkin, that I wished her all the blessings of the world, for she’d earned them all. Throughout my visit, I could sense she was watching me somehow.”

  “She has a two-way mirror, the Victorian mirror over the mantel. At least it’s there now.”

  She nodded. “It’s not unusual for victims of trauma to eschew contact with any memory they have of it. But looking that place told me how carefully she’d constructed her sanctuary, to the point I expect she’s obsessive-compulsive about certain aspects of her life, the ones that help keep that brick wall in place.”

  “And would she be that way about romantic, sexual relationships?”

  Komal shook her head. “Mr. Winterman, a serious obsessive-compulsive cannot control the dynamics of a relationship. If I’m correct, I doubt she can sustain any interpersonal relationship, romantic or otherwise. She would compartmentalize any relationship she has.

  “Now, on the other hand…” She held up a hand when he would have spoken, protested. “Marguerite is extremely strong. Neither of her parents showed a propensity for handling extreme trauma well. She went through more than either of them, at their hands, and she coped.”

  “I’ve seen her interact with her neighbors, her customers. Her staff. They all love her.”

  “Yes, let’s look at that. Where did she build her shop? She built it in a neighborhood where she essentially has no peers, culturally, socio-economically. She can once again keep them at arm’s length. The fact she does give to others suggests to me it’s a way she can connect without risk. But if a person tries to push past a certain boundary she will retreat, shut them off. I suspect you got in because you were somehow part of the ritualized environment she created, so you were already inside the boundary. She didn’t expect you to break out of your role, seek something more personal, so you took her off guard. I also suspect you’ve been frustrated by the fact that she rejects what she cannot keep within boundaries. And you need to consider carefully that may be the safest thing for her survival.”

  His expression darkened. “You can’t believe that’s any way for a person to live.”

  “That’s a very male reaction to a problem.” But her voice was kind, softening the accusation. She opened a candy dish, took out a lemon drop, offered him one. Re-covered the dish when he shook his head. “I’ve done this a long time. Enough to know that people do the best they can. And it’s important for those who love them to understand what their best is, because you can break them by forcing them to your best, or what you think their best should be. Mental handicaps are no different from physical ones in that regard.

  “She’s a contributing member of society, but I suspect she’s chillingly rational about what she is and isn’t capable of. She’s created a very carefully crafted environment, which is what people with serious mental issues do. If you start disrupting that, you may think you’re breaking through, but she may be literally breaking into pieces, shattering.”

  Tyler could not ignore the image that rose in his mind of Marguerite’s wild eyes, the rage of an animal taking her as she attacked him. The report Dan had given him of what had happened with Tim.

  “She’s stronger than you think.”

  “No, Mr. Winterman. I know she’s very strong. Strong enough to kill to survive. To destroy herself to protect others.”

  She turned the lemon drop in her fingers over and over, the powdered sugar coating dusting her fingertips.

  “I’m going to tell you about Marguerite’s father. Not because I think you should be privy to such information without her consent, but because I believe you when you say you’re in love with her. But before I share, you’re going to give me something you don’t want to offer. An even trade, a surety if you will. Will you agree?”

  He inclined his head but even so he wasn’t ready for what she asked, a woman old enough to be his mother, surrounded by the trappings of a modest, conservatively lived life.

  “You and Marguerite obviously are having a sexual relationship. Based on my knowledge of her, there is almost no way short of a miracle that she can handle sex in a traditional way. Her history makes her a likely candidate to be a Dominatrix. But you don’t strike me as a sexual submissive. And I would think that may be one of the strongest conflicts you have physically. Would that be accurate?”

  It was difficult, but looking at it through her eyes, Tyler knew it was quid pro quo. He gave a curt nod. “I’m a sexual Dominant. You’re right about the way she’s chosen to express herself sexually. That’s how I met her, through a mutual club membership. But with me…she submits. And it scares the shit…it scares her, very much.”

  “And you’ve pushed it.” Her attention moved to his cheek. “Pushed it until she lashed out somewhat literally?”

  Tyler rose from the chair, moved to the other side of the coffee table. At her assessing look, he gave a short, irritated laugh. “That was a defensive movement, wasn’t it?”

  “Entirely. You’re not comfortable with how you’ve pushed her.” She put down the lemon drop. “And that also makes me feel better about you, Mr. Winterman. You have a conscience that won’t let you rationalize your actions, at least not indefinitely. Treasure that. It’s a great gift and one that can save your soul in the long term.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t need a lesson in spiritual development.”

  “You must have God’s ear, then.” Her eyes glinted. “A pity. Because I’m approaching this my way.”

  Tyler sat back down across from her, ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean it that way. I know where my limits are, the lines I can’t cross and I’ve learned them the hard way. But now…” He spread out his hands. “Mrs. Gupta, I don’t claim to know everything of the mysteries of the world and certainly not the mysteries of a woman’s heart. But I know sometimes the hardest lessons you learn in life will help you to succeed later, in moments where success doesn’t seem possible.

  “I sensed…I sensed there was something wrong from the first. I know this part is right, that she wants to surrender herself to me during sex and I hope to God as I’m saying this you don’t have any moral judgments about it, because you probably will boot my ass out on the street. But I respect and love her, believe in her strength. But when I sense that wrongness… I know I’m in a very dangerous area. What happened earlier this week—” he touched his cheek, “—just underscored it. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t,” he added fiercely. “And that’s why I’m here. I need help. I need to know how to move around in a jungle where I’ve got no light at all. But I’m not backing out of that jungle. That’s not an option. I’m in there now. I know she wants me there. I just have to find her so she won’t be frig
htened by the sound of snapping twigs, thinking it’s her nightmares rather than me.”

  Komal cocked her head, her eyes thoughtful. “Be quiet, Mr. Winterman. I’d like a moment to collect my thoughts.” She leaned forward, took the lid off her candy dish again. “Take one this time.”

  He did after a moment, put it in his mouth automatically, sat back on the edge of the small chair and wished the ache in his chest wasn’t adding to the throbbing pain in all other areas of his body.

  “Isn’t it funny how candy can ease a child’s pain for at least a moment through distraction but it’s so difficult to find anything to do the same for adults?” Komal spoke at last, when he’d about sucked the candy down to half its size. “As far as I can tell, Marguerite’s father was a normal, decent man up until she was eight years old.”

  Tyler straightened, his attention on her. “There are photographs,” she continued. “Photos that were removed from the house that I got to see. There’s one of him carrying her on his shoulder, the lights of a carnival behind them. Everything was fine then. It’s in their faces, their eyes. But trauma can change people in unexpected ways, uncover weaknesses in character and exploit them to a terrifying degree.

  “When Marguerite was seven years old, her paternal grandmother shot and killed her husband, Marguerite’s grandfather. No one knows exactly why. There was no hint of infidelity or other disturbance in their relationship. We will never know, because she placed the gun in her mouth and blew out the back of her skull. Our best guess is that perhaps she had early dementia and there was some interaction in the drugs she was taking. The problem was Marguerite’s father found them. Or more specifically, his mother called him to come over. She said she was worried about some things she wished to discuss with him. When he got there she was sitting in her favorite chair, knitting. She set her knitting aside when he saw his father lying on the floor in blood. Then she pointed a finger at her son and said, ‘You never should have been born. I’m sorry.’ She picked up the gun on the side table and killed herself in front of him.”