Mirror of My Soul, Joey Hill [ereader iphone .txt] 📗

hold, letting all the worry, fear and anxiety spill out of her in tears and muffled sobs. She only knew the plump hand never ceased its stroke and the squeezing reassurance of her hold did not ease. Not until she herself felt the compulsion of a lifetime kick back in to make her straighten, ease back, wipe her own eyes and fumble for a napkin beside her half-finished cup of tea.

“I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat, heard the hoarseness in her voice. “I

didn’t…please, have a seat.” She pressed the tissue to each of her eyes carefully, wiped her nose, crumpled it and placed it in the wastebasket next to her desk, stared at the surface for long minutes. Inventory records, her blinking computer screen with her financial software, the three tiny teacups holding sample teas sent to her by a company in India.

“India is beautiful, you know. I’ve been.”

“Have you? Is it the first place you went overseas?”

She nodded, still focusing hard on everything before her. “The first time I got off the plane, I thought, ‘This is different. Separate.’ Somewhere else, where no one knows me, no one ever has to know me.”

“For it is through others we know ourselves.”

Marguerite closed her eyes. “That’s what he’s done. He held a mirror up in front of me. It’s me, but it’s not the me I thought it was. He loves me. I know nothing about love except the pain of losing it.”

“You know love, Marguerite. You had it in David, your mother. Even at one time with your father.”

“Then it’s a temporary, transitory thing, as substantial as standing on water.”

“There was once a man who so believed in the power of love that he did walk on water. Love is not temporary. It endures everything even if it changes form. Even when it must be put away to handle harsher things, it’s always there, ready to be called.”

53

Joey W. Hill

Marguerite made herself turn her head a millimeter at a time, fighting her natural compulsion all the way to avoid looking at Komal. The woman’s eyes were wet, cheeks stained with tears. She swallowed, handed Komal an extra napkin. “I’m sorry. I… You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“Tyler Winterman, I suspect.” The woman nodded at Marguerite’s surprised

expression. “He came to see me.”

Marguerite pushed back from the desk, stood up. “He what?”

“He’s a very determined man. And very protective when it comes to you. He came out of love, not to harm. And that’s why I’m here as well. I feel you have a right to know he talked to me, though I believe he would have told you eventually. For though he’s an arrogant, overprotective male—” her mouth was touched by a smile, “he’s also an honest one. He was already feeling a little boy’s guilt standing on my doorstep. He’s quite something. A good match, for so are you.”

“He’s a pain in the ass. Meddling…”

“Arrogant,” Komal supplied again, helpfully.

“It needs to be tattooed on his chest as a warning to all women.” Which gave her an interesting picture of him in a cape, particularly the tights. She was losing her mind.

“Oh, God, I’m losing my mind.”

“No.” Komal laughed. “You’re in love.”

“What I need to do is chain him to a wall and stripe his interfering ass raw. What did you tell him?” Marguerite paced, stopped to stare out her two-way mirror at her afternoon clients. A frown crossed her face, her eyes narrowing.

“Only what I thought he needed to know, to understand what an incredible woman you are to have achieved so much for yourself. He already knows that about you. But he was afraid of hurting you with a misstep. By pushing too hard. I’m afraid as well.

That you’ll—”

“Excuse me just a moment,” Marguerite said abruptly. She laid a hand on Komal’s shoulder before she stepped out of her office. Komal rose from her chair in time to see Marguerite through the large window, moving out into her dining area to a young boy at her front door. He sported a basketball shirt to the knees of his baggy jeans. Speaking very quickly, he made nervous gestures, his eyes wide, an anxious child. Marguerite spoke to him briefly, gave him a reassuring smile, then pivoted toward the kitchen. As she passed her last occupied table, her expression changed from professional

pleasantness to a malevolent intent that startled Komal. She was still on her feet when Marguerite stepped back into her office.

“What’s going on?”

“Just something I need to address. It will only take a moment, then we can continue our discussion.”

She reached around her office door, picked up the baseball bat behind it, hefted it and strode across the kitchen.

54

Mirror of My Soul

“Ah, hell. Marguerite.” Chloe dropped a tray to the counter and dashed after her boss, colliding with Komal. Both women recovered, hurrying after the fluttering blonde strands of Marguerite’s hair as she slapped her hand against the side screen door and strode down the path toward her community garden and playground.

The man in expensive gangster wear—gold chains, tennis shoes worth three figures and an oversized football jersey—had his back to her. Marguerite assumed he sensed danger in the way that the worst scum of the earth did, for he spun when she was still over two yards away. A tiny strip of children’s stickers were in his hand, still half extended to ten-year-old Aleksia, one of the neighbor children who watched her brother while their mother worked two jobs.

“This is private property,” Marguerite snapped. “You get your ass out of here.”

“You get out of my face, bitch, if you don’t want it messed up.” The sticker fluttered toward the ground as he reached under his shirt.

Marguerite heard Chloe’s scream, but as the gun flashed out, she was already

swinging the bat, connecting with his hand hard, sending the firearm clattering into the monkey bars.

“What the fuck—”

She moved in, slammed another stroke on his raised forearm. He howled, she

swung again, beating him