“Okay.” He shrugged and ambled around the limo.
A minute later, he was gone, leaving Amelia alone in a strange place. She missed him already and fought the urge to call the limo service and ask them to send him back. There were wheels on the luggage. She could and would handle this.
Beneath the arbor a cobblestone path stretched out in front of her, and when she stepped to the other side of the archway, each hand towing a suitcase behind her, her oversized handbag hiked up on her shoulder, the temperature seemed to plummet at least fifteen degrees.
From this vantage point, she couldn’t see the end of the path as it turned slightly some distance ahead and disappeared from view down a steep slope.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Here we go.”
The suitcase wheels made ragged clacking noises as they hung and tugged against the uneven pavers. Moss grew up through cracks in the bricks, and she had images of Goldilocks and three disagreeable bears. Of Red Riding Hood and a ravenous wolf. Of Hansel and Gretel and a cannibalistic witch waving a stick of butter.
“Your fierce imagination is your worst enemy,” Dr. Ellard told her often. “You build farfetched stories around your emotions. Try not to think too much.”
What lovely, useless advice, Doctor. Don’t think. What kind of thing was that to say to an introvert who lived inside her head?
The arbor seemed to lengthen endlessly as Amelia walked, giving her the sensation that she was moving in place. The longest journey begins with a single step.
Was that how it went?
She’d gotten that quote once in a fortune cookie. Robert had taken her to a celebratory dinner at their favorite Chinese restaurant after he’d crushed an opponent in court and won an award in the high seven figures.
Amelia ordered her old standby, egg foo yung. Robert had Peking duck. His fortune cookie said, Eat, drink and be merry at your peril. He’d laughed, and said she’d gotten his fortune, and he’d gotten hers. He’d switched their scraps of paper, grinned, and kissed her.
Robert.
The pain hit her then, a blow to the forehead. Sharp as ever. She had to stop walking, close her eyes, and hitch in a labored breath. The gutted sensation cleaved her body, from her head to her feet. She closed her hands into fists, huddled trembling beneath the sheltering canopy.
She’d had no answers. Nowhere to turn.
Her parents were dead, killed in a car accident two years ago, along with her fiancé.
Robert had been driving her folks in his Bugatti on their way to see Amelia at her first cello solo with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, where she’d performed Tchaikovsky’s Variations on a Rococo Theme.
Anxious to get to the concert, Robert had run a red light.
And her life, as she knew it, had changed forever. She fisted her hands, engulfed by the memory.
This is your one chance to save yourself.
Yes, but at what cost? Was saving her own life worth wrecking the lives of others? Amelia bit her bottom lip and thought of what she must do to survive.
Cowered.
“Fresh start. This is your fresh start. Keep moving.” Amelia raised her head, squared her shoulders, and sallied forth.
Abruptly, the path bifurcated.
Amelia paused at the fork, uncertain which way to go. To the left, the arbor continued. To the right lay a valley of sunshine and the cheery bird sounds. She recognized some of the calls—the harsh jeering of blue jays, a dove’s throaty coo, the thready lisp of a warbler, a covetous mockingbird appropriating everyone’s song and blending it smoothly into nature’s underlying soundtrack.
Left?
Or right?
Cool shadows or hot light?
Amelia hesitated, her knees unexpectedly knocking together. The shadows called her, darkness snaking out like the twining vines. Stay safe. Come. This way. Hide. I’ll keep your secrets.
The sun encroached upon the cobblestone, slanting rays over her shoes, giving her another message. Prove you’re brave enough to face the truth. Dare to step here.
She ran a hand through her chopped hair. In the sun she would sweat, her pale freckled skin would grow sticky and damp. Or she could stay privileged in the shade where she’d lurked her entire life.
Well, except for . . .
No! She shoved that thought aside. Not thinking that.
Which way to go?
Fast decisions at a crossroads had never been her strong suit. She left her luggage behind, took one cautious step to the right and then another.
Just for a peek. She could always retreat.
The light dazzled. Sparkling white. Starbursts exploded behind her eyelids. Her pulse thumped, and a strange prickling raised the hairs on her arms. The path broadened into a promenade with a stroll of flowers enlivening the borders. There was a Zen garden and cement benches for resting. Numerous waterfalls splashing over lavish stone.
And a mesmerizing circular labyrinth made of pink crushed gravel.
She knew the difference between a labyrinth and a maze. Many people thought they were the same. She had, too, once. Until Robert taught her the difference on their first trip to Paris where he’d pulled her into an alcove in Versailles and planted a kiss on her neck.
“Don’t, Robert.” She’d laughed and squirmed in his embrace. “The guide will leave us behind, and I want to see the garden maze.”
“Labyrinth,” he corrected. “A labyrinth has only one entrance and exit point. It’s a circular path to the middle. A maze, on the other hand, has multiple paths. In a maze you have choices to make. With a labyrinth you simply enjoy the walk. While a labyrinth sounds more mysterious, true mystery lies within the heart of the maze.”
Then he’d gently bitten down on the hot pulse point of her throat, shifting her attention to the heady mystery of his mouth.
She shook her head. Shook off the memory. Gone. All that was long gone.
Straight ahead, down the hill, beyond a wooden pergola shrouded by lavender wisteria, sat a small white two-story farmhouse, elegant in its simplicity.
The limestone walls and tin roof glimmering in sunbath. The jalousie windows as provocative as a 1920s flapper. In her imagination Amelia envisioned the house as it must have looked newly built a hundred years ago. The owners hosting parties rife with slick-haired young men in tuxedos and sophisticated suffragettes wearing scarlet lipstick, giddy with the novel right to vote. She could hear the rumble of Model-T engines and the jaunty tinkling of a ragtime piano. Smell the gin and cigarette smoke. Taste the Parker House rolls, Jell-O molds, and Waldorf salad.
She yearned to fold her arms around the beautiful visage, pull it into her or herself into it.
This storybook cottage was well cared for and magical. What sort of people lived here? Were they whimsical and fun? Did they cherish gardens and serenity? Did they respect history and a sense of order? Did they value home and family?
All signs pointed to yes.
Hope filled her. Too much hope, really. So much could go wrong and that significance wasn’t lost on her.
This house was where Anna lived. The identical twin she’d mourned every day of her life. The sister, her mother had told her often enough when she got angry at Amelia, that should have lived instead of her.
But Anna had lived. They’d just not known it.
Amelia’s chest tightened, and her hands trembled. She rushed the rest of the way, anxious to get past this ambush meeting. She was in such a mad dash that she almost didn’t see the dog.