Heartsongs

by Paula Freda

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This story appeared in the anthology novel Heart Bouquets that comprised 3 novellas and 3 short stories written and copyrighted by the same author, Paula Freda.

Heartsongs

by Paula Freda

In the darkness lit softly by a nightlight, Laura Sharon Dellisogni said her prayers and slid under her thick comforter. Her heart beat faster as she prepared to dream. She watched from behind closed eyelids, concentrating on the ultraviolet colors and shapes the nightlight and her own imagination created. What adventure would she live tonight? What song would her subconscious mind compose and her heart sing? What form would her soul mate take?

The moon had reached its apex, bleaching the sand below it the palest shade of silver. White-capped waves rushed to shore, curling over it, tempting the waterlogged grains of sand to follow them back into the sea. Jace stood a few inches shy of the waves, his gaze trained on the horizon where the water joined with the sky and the stars. He waited. He knew she would appear soon, on the edge of the sea, her form opalescent, cloaked in mist, surreal, an illusion or a vision, whichever he chose to believe. Even as he thought about her, a hazy distortion formed, the size of a thumbprint, growing larger and clearer. She floated toward the shore, toward him.

The alarm clock buzzed. Laura opened her eyes. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, gliding across the room, warming it. Laura stretched under the comforter and yawned sleepily. Another day, another eight hours at the office, typing on the computer along with four other women on the staff of her town’s local paper. The smell of coffee perking, Mom’s personal alarm, found Laura’s door slightly ajar and whiffed into her room. Laura inhaled its tempting aroma. Must have a cup, she thought. She rose and went into the bathroom. She showered, dried her brown hair to curl softly about the sides of her round face, and dressed. The pale blue short-sleeved shift somewhat camouflaged the extra twenty-five pounds she needed to lose to be labeled slim. She left her bedroom and followed the short corridor into the kitchen. Mom had toast and juice on the table, a box of dry cereal, and bowls and spoons set up for any takers.

Dad had already left for his job as a cook at the restaurant. Her older brother Jim, an English professor, lived on campus at a neighboring college with his wife who taught Ancient History. Laura’s younger brother Mark was expected momentarily. He worked the night shift in the art department of the same newspaper office that employed Laura. The Dellisognis, in contrast to their stereotyped Italian heritage, were a quiet, conservative family who felt secure in their everyday routine. Except for a trifling family argument or two during the month, they were content to go about their business with the least said the better. Laura’s father was the strong silent type. Her mother was the ruler of the nest, though she never admitted it. But Dad didn’t mind. Mom was kind and caring. She was possibly smarter than Dad when it came to judgments and solutions. The household ran smoothly and Dad was content.

Laura never complained. She had been an exceptionally compliant child, sensitive and eager to please. Jim had been blessed with all the talent in the family, winning a scholarship to the college of his choice. Laura, two years younger, had graduated high school with good grades, attended the local college for two years, and majored in Liberal Arts. Then she had enrolled in Business School, and perfected the typing skills she’d originally learned in high school. After working in several offices, she’d finally settled in her present job for the past six years.

Life in her home ran by the clock. Mom continued to work part time at the local grammar school cafeteria, belonged to several charitable organizations, and helped out at the local hospital. She was satisfied with her life. Like her children, she was free to extend herself beyond the duties expected of her as a homemaker.

Mom and Dad had never seemed anxious for Laura to marry. They loved her too much and were too kind. Laura was too quiet and shy to encourage the few young men who occasionally asked her out for a date. She dressed well, but the intriguing contours and depths and planes that work together to form an attractive, seductive face and body were missing. She was pleasant to look at, to greet or smile at, and to pass by comfortably. But in her dreams Laura was beautiful.

She’d never told anyone about her special ability to create her own images during slumber. That was her secret, her special talent, and her escape. Last night she had become an ethereal vision for her imagined soul mate. She had traveled across the boundaries of time to find the lover she had lost in a former lifetime. She could still feel the warmth of his smile as he’d recognized her, and clasped her in his arms. He was tall, slim and handsome, with dark hair swept neatly behind his ears and cut just past the nape of his neck.

Entering the kitchen Laura smiled, kissed her mother “good morning,” and took her place at the table, second on the right side, as she had done for as long as she could remember.

Stephen De Bourne clicked off the electric shaver, and ran a hand smoothly over the chiseled contours of his cheeks and jaw. The role he was playing called for cleanshaven, unlike the last movie, an action thriller, where his character had required beard stubble. Much easier, he thought, for the part of him that disliked the monotony of shaving. But clean-shaven, at times a mustache with or without a goatee, were what he was used to. This morning he was late. The director, who had wanted Stephen to play the part of the tough, sensitive hero, had come close to bribing the studio to hire him for the part. Stephen commanded blockbuster salary.

On his way out of the trailer, Stephen remembered to reset his alarm clock an hour earlier. He loved his sleep, always had. Even as a boy, his mother had tried in vain to teach him to rise when the alarm clock rang. But it was so pleasant in that other world, where they were no worries about his grades, or girls, no fears concerning his image, self-esteem and conformity, the three devils that plague teen-age years. In that other world he was anyone he wanted to be. In that other world, she was there, his soul mate, the loveliest, most understanding, most desirable girl he knew by a thousand names. Yet they were all her, just as he, under a thousand guises, was always himself. Perhaps that was why drama and the silver screen had come so easy and natural to him. Many who reached for that same goal waited years, often growing old in the interim. The film industry had noticed Stephen immediately, during his short tenure in soaps. Now ten years later, at thirty, he was known as the “hunk with a heart,” or the “hunk with the smile,” that sold movie tickets.

He had never married, though he could have had almost any woman. The tabloids loved to invent rumors about his love affairs. The studios used these rumors to advantage to garner interest and publicity for his movies. In truth, Stephen De Bourne had slept with only two women during his life, who he remembered now simply as good friends. The woman he’d always desired, who fulfilled all his needs, was the girl he’d created in his dreams. No one knew his secret. If they did, they might recommend a psychiatrist.

He left the trailer and strode to the on-site set in the driest part of the Mojave Desert. Bernie greeted him with a wave. He was a broad-shouldered, sturdy man of medium height, clean-shaven. He wore a visor cap with the name of the movie he was shooting, Sword of Damocles. “Okay, let’s get the cameras rolling,” he called out. “Where’s the leading lady?” he shouted. “SheilaSamLeo!” The crew hustled about the set.

The shoot went well, and late into the evening. Tomorrow they would film the last scene. Stephen could then return to his apartment in New York and begin scanning the new scripts his agent had waiting for him. He ate supper with Bernie and the crew, but retired early. He knew once he was out of earshot they’d comment on his aloofness, or why he preferred to be alone rather than socializing. They didn’t know.

In a black and white tuxedo he stood on the top of a precipice that dropped sharply to the rocks below. Riled foamy ocean waves rolled over the rocks and crashed against the base of the cliff. Stephen’s arms closed about his lover. Her simple pale blue dress was cool to his touch. Above him the sky was overcast. A storm was brewing. In the distance an eighteenth century ship with tall masts and billowing sails waited for his return to hoist anchor.

Pandora raised her dark eyes and gazed hopelessly into his own. “I will die for you!” she cried. “I will end your torment. The Flying Dutchman will cease his wanderings. Heaven will grant us entry. I give my life for yours.”

“No!” Stephen cried as he tried to hold her, but she moved quickly over the edge. “No!” he screamed, reaching to catch her. “Pandora!” She hurtled to the rocks below, silently. He gazed up at the dark clouds, past them to heaven. “No, not this way. Give her back her life. Wipe away my existence from her memory. I will not free myself of the curse by her death.” He closed his eyes and stepped over the edge. He was not afraid, for he had died centuries ago. He remembered for the millionth time his death, one justly deserved, at the hands of his own men, the sailors he drove mercilessly in fair weather and ill, to outsail other traders. His ship was known as the fastest on the trade route, his wares the most exotic. He was said to be the richest merchant of his eraand the cruelest. And so he was cursed to wander the seas until he had learned to love. The curse would last until he could be loved in such measure that his beloved would be willing to give her life for him. Cursed until he could experience the pain of loss, the same pain he had caused many a wife awaiting her sailor who would never return because of him. He opened his eyes. He was back on the ship. Already the anchor was rising, the rusting chains grating and scratching against the wooden hull. He nodded to the invisible crew, the souls of men condemned for similar transgressions, condemned to wander the seas for all eternity.

And then he saw her. She waited on the deck above his quarters, her hair dark and long, wind tossed behind her. He ran up the steps. “No, Pandora. They can’t condemn you as well. Yours was a selfless act.”

She did not answer immediately, but turned and pointed. In the distance a light shown, so bright that it obliterated the sea and the clouds. The light radiated and then prism and enveloped the ship, dissipating the chill, warm and welcoming. Music, soft yet triumphant and pleasing, accompanied by an angelic voice, filled the light. Pandora slid her arm about Stephen’s waist and smiled at him. “You are free, my love!”

The alarm clock buzzed and Stephen stirred, waking reluctantly, the feel of Pandora in his arms lingering so that he had to look to remind himself he had been dreaming again.

Laura sat in the living room with her brother listening to the six o’clock news. The world seemed to be going mad. So few were willing to compromise and discard their primitive past. Intellectually and technologically man had come so far, and yet emotionally he remained in the toddler stage. If humankind had utilized its energy in pursuits of the mind, accepting humanity’s sameness—all part of the cosmos—instead of bias, foolish pride, territorial gains and war, today humanity would be out among the stars and the galaxies, exploring; would have by now conquered disease and death.

The newscaster announced Stephen De Bourne’s newest movie presently shooting in the Mojave Desert. Laura listened attentively. Stephen De Bourne was her favorite actor. Among the myriad of handsome “hunks,” he was the one she respected. For to her he was handsome both on the outside and on the inside. She had followed his career for years, since his short stint on the soaps. Her scrapbook of his accomplishments, which she kept hidden in her closet, was filled with related magazine and newspaper articles and agent’s photos. Stephen De Bourne was handsome, but he was not in love with himself. He’d never even planned on becoming an actor, certainly not a heartthrob. His reputation was untainted. He respected his co-workers and treated them as equals. He was oddly surprised at his success, a private man who enjoyed his work. He dated occasionally, but was quoted as saying, “I’ve only loved one woman, and I will love her forever.” He remained unmarried. He was the man with whom she wove her dreams, the soul mate she yearned for.

The telephone on the end table rang. As she was nearest to it, she picked up the receiver. Jackie, her co-worker and the closest to a friend that Laura allowed herself, spoke excitedly from the other end. “Guess what? Do you know who’s staying the night at our Only Hotel in Town?”

Laura shook her head and shrugged. “Who?”

“The man whose image is staring at you from the television set, on the news story you’re probably annoyed at me for interrupting with this telephone call.” Laura laughed. Jackie was right about her feeling annoyed, but the rest of her info was probably a tease. “Of course,” she replied, playing along. “And I’m going over later to meet him, on a personal invitation.”

Jackie insisted, “I’m not kidding. Nick just called me. He heard Frank accepting the reservation on the phone.”

Nick was Jackie’s youngest brother who worked part time after school as a bellboy in the hotel run by Frank Matthews. Laura held her breath, and then on an explosion of breath, “You’re kidding?”

“No, I told you I’m serious. The company plane carrying De Bourne and the director developed some minor problem. They had to make an emergency landing just outside of town, near Lenny’s gas station. That’s where the call came from. I guess Lenny told them about the nearest hotel. I’m giving Nick a lift home around nine. Wanna come? Nobody probably knows about De Bourne staying at the hotel. Nick said he heard Frank promise to keep their arrival quiet. Common sense there’d be twenty reporters showing up by tomorrow morning.”

Laura thought about the invitation for a moment, but only a moment. “Yes, I would like to come.”

“Great. I’ll be over later.

The Only Hotel in Town was three stories high and a quarter of a block in length. Its main lobby accessed a small restaurant that operated along with the hotel and independently. Twelve simple but comfortably furnished bedrooms comprised the second and third floor.

Nick was waiting outside the main entrance.

“Has he come?” Jackie asked.

“No, not yet.”

Jackie quickly hustled her brother into the back seat and parked across the street, where all three intended to wait for a glimpse of the actor when he arrived. About an hour later a yellow and brown taxi stopped in front of the hotel and Stephen and the director stepped out. Both men hesitated, and turned for instant, experts by now at sensing someone watching them. The streetlights and the moonlight spotlighted Stephen. Jackie and Nick dropped low into their seats, but Laura gazed, riveted, mesmerized anew by the face she had spent countless nights with, in one guise or other. He was as handsome off screen as he was on it and in her dreams. Stephen shook his head. “We’re news,” he told Bernie. “Plan on locking doors and windows, and eating inside our room.” Bernie nodded, disgruntled, as they headed for the lobby. Not that Bernie didn’t welcome the publicity, but neither of them was ready for the press as yet.

In the car Jackie sat up. “All clear,” she said, and noticed Laura staring out the open window. “You had the right idea,” she said, chiding herself for ducking and missing seeing De Bourne. “So, what did he look like in person?”

“Call my mother; tell her I’ll be late.” Laura opened the car door and headed for the hotel.

“Sign here,” Frank said proudly. What an honor, he thought, to have two celebrities staying at his hotel. Tomorrow, after they’d left, his town and its Only Hotel would be headline news in the entertainment section of newspapers across the country. He could expect business to improve considerably as tourists made a point of stopping at the hotel where Stephen De Bourne had stayed. He’d sanctify the room, and make sure the two posed with him for a photo that would hang in a prominent spot in the small lobby. He wasn’t too pleased when Laura entered the lobby and walked quietly to a leather couch on the side. Her presence meant that the town already knew about his guests. He’d given his word, which would now be doubted, and his request for a photo probably be denied. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice her. He could always say she was the maid reporting for duty.

Laura sat down, never taking her gaze from Stephen. He was as handsome as his image on the screen: even more so, dressed casually in a black denim jacket and jeans, and black hiking boots. Even the sadness and the mysterious longing in his eyes were real, as she had always suspected. Very few noticed that. You had to look beyond the copied image.

Stephen bent to sign the register. From the corner of his right eye he saw her. He turned to look at Laura. Bernie followed his example, and then glared at Frank. “She’s just the maid,” Frank quickly explained. “I’ve sworn her to secrecy, along with the other employees, if they want to hold on to their jobs!” He spoke loud to be sure that Laura heard him and cast a meaningful look at her. He knew Nick’s sister worked with Laura at the newspaper office. Frank was a friend of Nick and Jackie's father, a classmate and fellow graduate. He was also on the bowling team with Laura’s father. Bernie scowled, complaining, “Love struck fans and paparazzi make me sick!” Stephen smiled patiently and finished signing the register. He looked at Laura again. “It’ll pass,” he said for Bernie’s and her benefit.

Frank took their bags and began escorting the two men upstairs to his largest, slightly better furnished room. Walking up the stairs, Stephen could feel the girl’s gaze following him. Again he turned. She was plain, slightly overweight, hair mid-length, a mousy, tousled brown. But she was crying, quietly. Tears were slipping down her cheeks and glistening in the lamplight.

“Bernie, hold on a minute,” he said, retracing his steps, and approaching the girl. “Hey, would you like my autograph?” He’d noticed a pencil and pad on the desk and retrieved it. “What’s your name?” he asked, preparing to write the standard line. Laura’s heart was beating faster than it ever had. She barely managed a soft, “Yes, thank you.”

“Your name?” he asked again.

“Laura Sharon Dellisogni,” she whispered. Her face felt as though it were on fire.

“To Laura Sharonof the dreams,” Stephen translated verbally as he wrote.

He’d taken Italian in high school and college.

He found himself gazing at her again, at her eyes, and their expression, warm and gentle, not at all grasping and fanatical or cloying, or love struck and dazed. “To Laura Sharonof the dreams,” he repeated as he wrote, “with fond gratitude, Stephen De Bourne.”

Bernie had come to stand beside him. He didn’t like what Stephen was writing. You never knew what these love-starved females would do with someone’s signature or that kind of salutation. He elbowed Stephen and cautioned him with a wary look.

“Don’t worry, she doesn't seem that kind,” Stephen said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to Laura.

“Thank you.” Laura said, accepting the autograph. “I’ll treasure this forever.” She smiled and watched him climb the steps until he was lost to her view in the corridor leading to the hotel rooms.

It was past midnight before Bernie fell asleep and began snoring. Stephen made a face, burrowing deeper under the covers. He was bone-tired from early wake-ups, long shoots and physically demanding acting scenes. He was long overdue for a vacation, someplace where his stardom didn’t precede him. With people like the girl he’d met earlier, gentle people, with beautiful eyes. Yes, that was it. She had beautiful, wide, expressive dark brown eyes. Help her to find a good man to love and admire her, dear Lord, he prayed silently. He was deeply religious, a fact his agent in New York did his best to hide for fear of damaging his client’s macho image. Stephen never could understand how the media worked. He closed his eyes and thought of Laura.

The spaceship, a triangular dart, streaked through a dark universe studded with pinpoints of starlight. Inside the cockpit Stephen worked the controls keeping the ship on course toward the Atano system. Sixty gold credits jingled in the right side pocket of his waist-length jacket, part of his long, sleek, hip-hugging attire that ended in black leather boots. He was a free-lance pilot who worked for no one but himself. Because of this, several planetary governments considered him an outlaw, as his ship and services were often hired by an opponent. But he screened his prospective customers. He didn’t mind transporting harmless goods, or someone fleeing from the slavers, such as his present passenger. The woman sat a few feet behind him, under a porthole, gazing out at the stars with eyes that were as dark as the universe outside with a childlike intensity sparkling behind them. Her skin was the color of warm taupe; her cheeks tinted a soft coral. She was draped in a garment that fell in silver folds about her slim figure. Because she was sitting, the garment’s hem showed only the tips of her black silk slippers. She was fleeing from slavers who, with the aid of their superior technology, had enslaved her world. Friends and allies waited on a distant planet to welcome her. He’d heard of a movement growing, small factions melding, an army forming, to free her world and others from the slavers’ yoke. He wished her well. He had no love for slavers.

He had to admit he felt attracted to her, had even made a pass at her, only to be flatly refused and told to mind his piloting. A reward waited at their destination if he held to his bargain and left her in peace. Easier said than done. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was a dolphinite, a species long ago evolved from the sea of her home world. Dolphinites were gentle, yet stubborn creatures.

Felena felt his gaze and turned. A brash young man, she thought, attractive to look at, yet dangerous to be near. The balance of the gold credits awaiting him might not be enough incentive for him to deliver her safely and unharmed to her friends. They had picked him to help her because, among the free-lancers who roamed the known galaxies, he was known to be trustworthy and fair in his dealings. Felena’s species were highly perceptive. She could discern as well as feel his attraction to her. It was discomfiting, yet oddly not repulsive. She turned. Before she could tell him to mind his ship, he drawled, “Tell me about yourself, your world, and your friends. If there’s more gold credits available, I might be tempted to lend a hand.”

Felena held back a disparaging retort and paused to reflect. Yes, the movement certainly could use his services and the knowledge he’d gained during his travels. Added gold credits might entice him temporarily. His reputation for fairness would do the rest. Felena stood up and went to sit in the co-pilot’s seat beside him. She tried to decipher the thoughts behind the mildly amused expression in his eyes, blue and placid, with a hint of laughter, like the seas on her home world, on a calm, sunny day.

The alarm clock buzzed and Laura woke with a start. “Stephen,” she called and realized with a foolish grin that she had been dreaming. “Oh, I’ve got to stop this,” she chided herself.

By noon the exterior of the Only Hotel in Town was swarming with reporters. Frank had locked all the doors and windows. He was even afraid to go the bathroom for fear that one of the reporters would find a way in to interview Stephen. It was relief when his two guests came down and told him they were leaving, preferably by the back door. A private car, chartered by the studio itself, was to pick them up. A Cessna awaited them a few miles from town. Frank hesitantly asked if they would pose for a photograph with him. Bernie didn’t think they had time, but Stephen said it would be fine, if Frank had a camera ready. Frank nodded. He’d gone out yesterday and purchased one with a timer and tripod.

Two pictures taken in case the first didn’t turn out, the two guests waited by the back door for their lift. “I didn’t see the maid about,” Stephen said to Bernie. “I hope she didn’t lose her job. She seemed a nice girl.”

Bernie shrugged. The girl was the last thing on his mind. He had a motion picture to edit and distribute.

“Call me when the car comes,” Stephen said, heading back towards the lobby.

“So, Frank, where’s the maid?”

“M-maid?”

“Last night, remember?”

“Oh, yea. Sheshe doesn’t work today. It’s her day off.”

Stephen felt disappointed. “Do you have her address? I’d like to send her a couple of tickets to my film’s opening.”

“Really,” Frank asked, eyebrows arching in surprise. The gears of his mind started turning. How would this bit of information further his hotel’s present notoriety? “Sure, I’ve got the address.” He looked up the address of Laura’s father in the phone book and wrote it on a piece of hotel stationery. “Here you go. You know you’re her favorite actor,” he blurted, guessing.

“Thanks.” Stephen took the offered sheet and tucked it into the inside pocket of his denim jacket. “When you see her, would you say goodbye for us?” Frank assured him he would.

All the way back to New York Stephen thought of the girl. She wasn’t much to look at, except for her eyes. He couldn’t get their expression out of his mind. What was it about that gaze, or the girl? Funny, he thought, he should have forgotten her face by now, one face among thousands of fans that for the time being considered him their favorite actor. He recognized that was part of it, the fact she hadn’t looked besotted or bemused. And the tears, shed without a sound. And the dream last night, Felena’s gaze. If her eyes were superimposed on the maid’s, there was a definite resemblance. Stephen groaned nervously. Of course there was a resemblance, he thought. It was just a dream. His subconscious had used the maid’s eyes in the same way a computer uses a memory loaded into its banks. Still, two months later when his movie was scheduled to open at a deluxe theater in New York, Stephen sent two tickets, along with plane fare, to a Ms. Laura Sharon Dellisogni, reserved under the name, Laura Sharon of the Dreams.

Stephen climbed out of the limousine. Camera lights flashed and the hushed crowd on either side of the cordoned walk began to chatter excitedly. Stephen turned to assist his co-star gracefully exit the limo. She was beautiful, slender, with long, curly black hair and large, expressive dark eyes. Her gold silk sheath glowed under the brightly-lit marquee. She bent lower than necessary as she climbed out of the limo and accepted his help. Her white fur shawl fell about her arms exposing the plunging V of her neckline. Stephen could almost hear the men’s heartbeats quickening. More camera lights flashed, and young girls squealed as Stephen and his co-star started toward the entrance to the theater. A thousand faces blurred under the intense lighting and flashing cameras. Stephen squinted trying to single out just one.

The theater was a landmark. Luckily, and since the owners were fond of the old ways, the movie house retained its original looks—ornate balconies, chandeliers, curtained screen, tagged red plush seats, and carpeted aisles. Stephen, his co-star Sandra, and Bernie and his wife, a middle-aged, small refined lady, unashamed of the grey at her temples, were led by a tongue-tied usher into the center balcony on the left side of the theater. Each time Stephen met Bernie’s wife, he grasped better the meaning of the term “opposites attract,” even if he didn’t agree with it.

The balcony sat eight in two rows of four. Bernie and his wife sat behind him. Stephen gazed at the two empty seats next to his co-star, reserved for Laura and the companion of her choice. He frowned, wondering if his letter containing the tickets and plane fare had never reached her. Of course, she might not have wished to come. But then wouldn’t she have returned the money and the tickets. Had he misjudged her? The door to the balcony opened and the same usher escorted in a young woman and a younger man. Stephen’s frown eased into a smile. “Laura.” He stood up. Bernie also. “Over here,” Stephen said, pointing to the two empty seats beside Sandra. Bernie extended his hand. “Glad you could make it. Is this your young man?” Laura accepted the handshake. “No, he’s my brother, Mark.” They exchanged handshakes.

Her gaze met Stephen’s. So beautiful, he thought, like morning dew. Her fingers were cool and she was trembling. She must be nervous, awed to be in the company of an acclaimed movie star. Stephen saw her wet her lips and take her seat quickly. He spoke casually to her brother. The young man was excited and gregarious. The lights dimmed as color streamed from the projection room. The curtains slid open and the screen came alive.

As the story unfolded, Laura often caught Stephen stealing a glance at her past Sandra, and he smiled at her. She drew her attention back to the screen. He couldn’t know how confused she felt, how she told herself over and over that he was just being kind to a fan. Soon he would thank her for attending his movie, leave in his limo for whatever planned festivity, and she would return to her hometown. In a few months he’d hardly remember ever meeting her. She would never fool herself into believing he found her interesting. As the tabloids were always quoting, “He had loved one mystery woman and he would love no other.” Little girl, be content. The memory of this day will stay with you for the rest of your life. You can build a thousand dreams around it. Expect nothing more. This day itself is a miracle. Laura turned to look to Stephen. Thank you, her soul whispered.

The movie was well received. The audience sat on the edge of their seats through most of it and cheered when the hero proved his worth, saved the girl, and defeated the villain. As the curtains closed, the chandeliers sparkled with light. Stephen looked past Sandra at Laura. She was already rising, prompting her brother to do the same. “Thank you for a wonderful experience,” she said. “Mr. De Bourne, I will never forget it.” She wore a saffron yellow dress with a short jacket of the same color. He’d only now become aware of it. It was as though her eyes and her face had eclipsed everything else about her.

“Join us for dinner,” Stephen blurted out like a schoolboy. “We’re staying at the Waldorf. Bernie’s arranged a party and several actors and directors will be joining us. I’m sure you’d enjoy meeting them.”

Astonished, Laura stammered, “W-well, it’s” She paused a moment, bewildered, lost for words. She glanced at her brother.

“Sure, why not,” he remarked excitedly.

But Laura was the elder. “No, really, we couldn’t. “We’re booked for an early flight back home, and” Oh, but she wanted to stay in Stephen’s company. Yet the end would be the same, only a memory. “We didn’t bring any party clothes, plus we’d be uncomfortable, kinda lost,” she said.

Mark stared at her, wondering what she was talking about.

Bernie waited to hear from Stephen.

“We really must leave,” Laura said. “I have to pack. We’ve been touring the city for three days, and Mark and I have to get back to work.” “I understand,” Stephen said. Her reasons were logical. He forced himself to sound matter-of-fact. “The offer was genuine, and I’m sorry. Please let me wish you a safe trip home.”

They shook hands. Laura warned her heart to no avail to beat normally when their fingers touched.

Later, riding in the taxi back to their hotel, Mark asked her, “You could at least have let me go with De Bourne.”

Mark was an adult and Laura had no special hold on him. He could have spoken up, but the Dellisognis had always been considerate of each other’s feelings. “Thanks for letting it go at that, she said. I really was uncomfortable. I just want to go home.”

“That’s the trouble with you. You’re comfortable with your fantasies, and you’re scared as hell of reality.”

Laura didn’t argue. What her brother said was true. She had her dreams, and she was content.

The party at the Waldorf continued on into the dawn. When Stephen left early, no one was surprised. He retired to his room and bed. The sheets, clean and crisp, felt cool against his skin. He was tired and unhappy. He wanted to see Laura again. But apparently she didn’t wish to see him.

It was 1945 and the war had finally ended. Manhattan Bay’s dark green waters shimmered with moonlight. Old people, couples, and the homeless lingered in Battery Park, some on benches, others strolling. Stephen headed toward the fenced-in shoreline. A sailor and his girl strolled hand-in-hand past him, unaware of anyone but themselves. An Army soldier himself, Stephen had just returned from the front. He was one of the fortunate ones who had made it back alive. He hadn’t changed to civilian clothes as yet. His mother and father were expecting him, but he wanted to see Sylvia first. To ask her to marry him and bring her home with him to meet his parents.

He’d met Sylvia at a USO dance three years before while on leave. A shy, gentle creature, even her clothes, a pink square-necked sundress and plain black platform pumps, bespoke her simple beauty. She had come to the USO with a girlfriend. Her eyes were dark brown like her hair, and large and soulful. He would never forget her and their first dance. Despite her daintiness, she was not a small girl, and not what one might call glamorous. Plain was a better description, but not to him. She was light on her feet and fit into his arms comfortably, like the teddy bear he’d owned when he was a child.

From that first meeting onward he saw her often, on each leave. They became good friends. He never tried anything disrespectful with her. But on their last meeting, he’d stolen a kiss, and a promise that she would be there upon his return. This morning as soon as he arrived back in the City, he called her at her parents’ home. Her mother told him she was at the USO. The USO center was located across from Battery Park. At the USO they told him she had gone out for a walk in the park. At the park Stephen spotted her. She was alone, wearing a light tan coat and a scarf around her hair, its tails billowing in the cool breeze. Her hands were resting on the fence. She was looking out at the sea.

“Laura. . . .”

The girl turned at the sound of his voice. She glanced askance at him. “My name is Sylvia,” she said. But he knew that, she thought. “Stephen?” “Laura?”

Stephen woke with a jolt and a headache.

The headache persisted despite the Tylenols and breakfast. A breath of fresh air might help. Stephen left the hotel, intent on a walk. The streets were jammed with people. He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Battery Park. Inside the crowded park he found himself unintentionally looking for a girl in a light tan coat and a scarf with tails blowing in the wind. There was someone standing by the rail that fit that description. Stephen hurried over. “Sylvia,” he called, about to touch her shoulder. The girl turned. “Sorry?” she asked, obviously wondering who he was and what he wanted.

“Excuse me,” Stephen said. “I thought you were someone else.” He walked away.

Back in his uptown apartment, Stephen threw himself into reading the scripts his agent had sent him. With his latest movie success, studios were eager to hire him. Most of the scripts were action movies and science fiction; some were romantic comedies. There was even an offer from an independent film studio for him to play the lead in a remake of Baroness Orczy’s The Scarlet Pimpernel. He spent the longest time perusing the latter script, and called his agent to tell him he was interested. The weeks dragged. When the time came to draw up the contract with the independent studio, Stephen startled both his agent and the company by demanding the film be shot near a small town in New Mexico, Laura’s town. Because of his present stardom, the studio accepted his demand.

Several months had passed since Laura’s visit to New York City and her attendance at De Bourne’s movie premier. She had catalogued and filed the event under “The Most Beautiful Memories of My Life.” Daily life at the Dellisognis had settled back to normal. And, as was their routine after supper, the family sat in front of the television and watched the six o’clock news.

The local anchorwoman reported on Stephen De Bourne’s latest movie, based on Baroness Orczy’s novel, The Scarlet Pimpernel. The film was being shot in New Mexico. The cameras showed a green meadow, and a set built to mimic a French town during the French Revolution’s reign of terror, complete with guillotine. “For those who are unfamiliar with the plot of De Bourne’s latest film,” the anchorwoman explained, “the scarlet pimpernel, a humble English wayside flower, is also the name chosen to hide the identity of a most unusual man, Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, played by De Bourne. Under the most unexpected disguises, he rescues several doomed nobility from the guillotine. Many innocent men, women, and children are among the culprits whom he feels do not deserve to die. He courts and marries a beautiful French actress, Marguerite St. Just, played by Penny Windstrom. All of England and France wonder what she sees in his foppish manners; perhaps his money—he is the richest man in England. To those who do not know his true character, he presents himself as a dandy, whose main concern next to breathing is the fashionable cut of his coat, cravat, and lacy cuffs. Marguerite, though innocent, is believed to have sent a family to the guillotine. And so she also is kept in the dark about her husband’s identity. She is confounded. Where is the man she married, who wooed her so ardently and claimed to love her more than life itself? Did his riches blind her? Can he be the same man she married, this bored, affected, extravagantly dressed foppish gentleman? It’s a love story set against an unforgettable and violent time in French history.”

“Isn’t that Bailey’s Meadows?” Mark asked, as the cameras showed a scene from the movie.

Laura nodded.

Mark glanced at his sister. “You could go visit him on the set.”

Laura shook her head.

Mark chuckled, not derisively, but honestly. “Laura, I really think he liked you.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Sure, he did. And the moon is made of cheese.” Still, her eyes had turned misty. With resolve she said, “He invited us to his premier on a whim. Possibly he felt sorry for me. Or maybe he was expressing his gratitude to our town for their help, and the reception he received while he was here. And of course, the publicity didn’t hurt. Besides, he’s probably forgotten all about us by now. I don’t want to spoil the memory.” And knowing how close by he was, was exciting enough. Besides, she would be with him tonight, in her dreams

They were discussing Robespierre’s power. Sir Percy Blakeney was the handsomest man she had ever consented to accompany for a stroll in the gardens of the Tuileries. And the most smartly dressed, if somewhat of a dandy. His high-collared top cloak, with ruffled shoulder cape, was the same burnished color as his felt hat, tall-crowned with a rolling brim. His hair was the color of blonde oak and tied behind his neck with a black satin ribbon. When he had joined her small soiree Sunday last, she had thought how fastidious and extravagant his garments were, yet how well they suited him. He was tall and broad-shouldered.

The gardens were bursting with newborn blossoms of assorted colors in the throes of spring as Marguerite and Sir Percy strolled. He bent his head close to hers, whispering sweet nothings into her scented ear. He waved his hands in elegant gestures. Doing so often disturbed his cloak, causing it to part and accent his brown high-necked, long-tailed coat cut to show amply the mound of frilly lace and the diamonded cravat at his throat. And he wore the yellow-striped, wide-lapelled waistcoat and tight-fitting breeches in vogue at the time. He was stunning even down to the high-top riding boots. She was glad she had chosen her most elegant gown of sprig muslin and her green velvet cloak. Her silk hat, round and wide, decorated with soft plumes and green velvet ribbons tied at the neck, kept her hair, a mass of black curls, neatly in place. Sir Percy Blakeney halted and his next words brought a crimson hue to her cheeks. “You mention Robespierre’s power, but the only power I can perceive at this moment is the power of your loveliness.”

“Is that what you see, sir?”

“Yes, and I am beguiled.”

“You flatter me for your own purpose.”

“No, Marguerite, I adore you.”

“Adore me? But we hardly know each other.”

“Something I intend to change.”

“And have you the right?”

“Yes,” he said, placing a finger under her chin. A gentle breeze played with the preponderance of billowy Mechlin lace at his cuffs. “Deny to me, if you can, that what I see in your eyes is not a similar yearning?”

Marguerite was silent. She let her heart answer as it beat wildly. She leaned into his kiss and the world about her faded.

Laura woke to the rapid beating of her heart.

Stephen woke feeling depressed. Last night he had dreamed of Laura, as Marguerite, but with Laura’s eyes, with her mouth, her gestures, everything, and awakened with the realization that every girl he had ever dreamed of was Laura in disguise. As though in the center of each fantasy his subconscious wove into dreams, her gentleness, her spirit, her very soul waited for him quietly and serenely. With all his heart he had hoped she would visit the set. He could then speak to her; perhaps strike up a friendship without frightening her. He believed he had frightened her on the evening of his movie premier. He had been unable to control his eagerness for her to accompany him to the reception afterwards. He should have pursued her friendship, written to her, called her. But at the time he was not sure of his feelings or his reasons for wanting to see her again. There was no longer a doubt in his mind. He must see Laura again.

When the day’s filming was done, Stephen donned a pair of jeans and a light blue windbreaker, put on his safety helmet, and wide goggles partly to hide his identity, climbed on his motorcycle and left the set without a word to anyone. Laura’s mother answered the door, warily; keeping the glass storm door locked while he removed his helmet and goggles and introduced himself. The instant she recognized him her jaw fell open, but she quickly gathered her composure. Laura wasn’t home. She had gone out.

“Where?” Stephen asked. “Please, I really want to see her.” Mrs. Dellisogni unlocked the storm door. “Come in,” she said. The look on her face promised a few questions.

Stephen followed her into the living room. He understood what that look implied:

You may be a famous movie star, but at this moment you’re just another young man interested in my daughter. And I have no intention of letting you play with her feelings because tonight you have nothing else better to do.

“Mrs. Dellisogni,” Stephen dove into the truth, the moment they sat down opposite each other. “I think I’m in love with Laura. I know what you’re thinking. You’ve seen her exactly twice. How could you feel that way about her? But you’re wrong. I have seen her, every night, for years. This may sound impossible and a lie, but I swear to you, I’ve dreamt about her for as far back as I can remember. I don’t understand what’s happening myself, but I’ve got to see her. She’ll probably think exactly what you’re thinking. If she tells me to leave, I’ll go No, no, it’s not true, not this time. I won’t just go away. I’ll do everything within reason to earn her trust, and yours.” He’d opened his heart to this woman, who sat listening, suspiciously, and was probably convinced he was on drugs. Or was incredibly spoiled and drunk on his own fame.

Mrs. Dellisogni took a deep breath. She seemed to have come to a decision.

“Stephen De Bourne, is that your real name?”

“Oddly, yes, it is.”

“My daughter has been infatuated with you since she first saw you on the soaps. And until that evening that you stayed in the Only Hotel in Town and she came out to see you, it was just an infatuation. My girl was always a quiet, kind person, organized, realistic, except for her fantasies. She doesn’t speak about them, probably doesn’t even know that I know. And this is the reason I’m telling you what no mother would reveal to someone who is practically a stranger. You mentioned your dreams. Laura dreams; she’s always dreamed. I doubt she remembers telling me about her unusual talent to create and control her dreams. She was hardly five.”

His attraction to Laura was becoming clearer to him. She was different from anyone he’d ever known. And so very much the only girl he’d ever loved. Something her mother had said a moment before made him dare to ask, “Mrs. Dellisogni, you said your daughter has been infatuated with me since she first saw me on the soaps—and then you added, ‘until that evening at the hotel, it was just an infatuation.’ What did you mean?” Mrs. Dellisogni smiled, and he saw from whence came Laura’s sensitive nature. “That was when she discovered you were real, that you lived up to what she found most attractive about you. I guess that’s when she fell in love with you.”

Stephen felt all the apprehension of the past day drain from him like water cascading down jagged rocks into a gently rippling stream. “I don’t think I love her anymore,” he said. “I know I love her. Please tell me where I can find her.”

Mrs. Dellisogni entreated, “You’re serious about her?”

“I’d like to ask her to marry me,” he said in earnest.

Laura’s mother nodded, her suspicions evaporating, and her breath rushing out in a sigh. If she was wrong, her daughter might be cruelly hurt, but if she was right “She’s at the park, near the lake with her friend Jackie. It’s an all-night affair, a company picnic. The newspaper sponsors it yearly.” She placed a motherly hand on his arm. “Go on, find her, make her happy.”

Stephen nodded confidently. “I will, I promise.”

The sky was dark and clear. Stars shimmered and the moon was a mottled sphere on its surface. Most of the picnic crowd sat around a fire roasting marshmallows and singing. Some couples strolled along the grounds. Laura sat against a tree not far from the group but closer to the lake, its surface a silvery undulating reflection of the sky. The anchorwoman on the six o’clock news had announced that tomorrow morning the film crew along with its star De Bourne would be leaving the area so close to her town and returning to New York. Her excuse to Mark, that by now De Bourne had forgotten all about them, was merely that—an impromptu excuse to hide her real reason. Seeing Stephen De Bourne again would be wonderful, so wonderful that having to say goodbye, casually, as to a passing acquaintance, would hurt too much. Better he remain a memory, already enlaced in her mind as a fantasy. There, in that special place, she visited with him each night, in endless, intriguing guises, with no good-byes, always, forever. Soft, warm breezes carried the semi-sweet scent of lake water across the park. Laura inhaled deeply and her body relaxed, succumbing slowly to a worry-free drowsiness.

Stephen parked his motorcycle by a patch of underbrush far enough away from the picnickers to avoid detection. The last thing he wanted now was a crowd of autograph seekers. He moved under the cover of trees, scanning the group seated around the fire. Laura was not among them. No, she wouldn’t be there. She was a loner, like him. The lake, which was where he would have gone. He spotted her, sitting, her back against a tall oak, not far from the water. He moved silently toward her. Her eyes were closed. Quietly, he removed his goggles and helmet and sat down beside her. She did not stir. She was asleep. Dreaming perhaps. Stephen watched her for a moment, then closed his eyes and let the warm moist air lull him into a peaceful alpha state. Without warning he lapsed into sleep.

The air was bitter cold, so cold that it seemed to him the moisture in his breath might crystallize before it could evaporate. The furs he had tied about his head, torso, legs and feet were frozen. A little while longer and he was certain his body and the blood in his veins would cool, then finally freeze. All well and good, he thought, frivolously dismissing his certain death if he did not find the passage that would lead him into the Blue Valley. In that warm green valley hidden between white frozen mountains, mountains so high that Mt. Everest was a mere peak in comparison, in that valley, men and women lived long and peaceful lives. Knowledge and understanding, sensitivity and deep love, were their anchors. During that first visit, he had not completely comprehended what the two-century-old Dalai Lama had taught him. Only when he left the valley to return to the world he was born in, did he realize what he had found and lost. And so he had set out again to find Shangri-la, knowing that he would probably die searching in the freeze of the vast range of the Tibetan Mountains. For months now he had searched for the path he’d once stumbled upon by accident. The ancient lama had bequeathed to him the destiny of continuing to guide the inhabitants of the secret valley, where peace reigned, where precious art and literature were stored. All the best things gleaned and sifted from a violent, confused world.

The cold seemed to bite less. His hands and feet wrapped in furs were growing numb. The air was sunless and white and frozen. One more crest, and then I will allow myself to die. One more and I will join with the ice and the snow. He reached the crest and looked out, blinking from behind snow-blinded goggles. He wiped them, expecting to see even higher crests. He was not disillusioned. He fell to his knees. I have lost my destiny. And the girl, he had lost her, too. She had been part of that world, with all its promises and gentle traits.

A sudden wind blew, scooping the snow at his feet and spiraling it upward. He raised his arms to fend off the blast’s icy teeth, and from the corner of his eye he saw it, to his left, an unexpected opening, cave-like, in the mountain. He climbed to his feet, fighting the wind, yet not daring to take his gaze from the opening, afraid if he looked away, it would be lost to him forever among the maze of ice and snow. He trudged relentlessly toward it and saw the wooden posts driven deep into the snow. He recognized the entrance that led into another world, a timeless world where wisdom and sensitivity reigned. He entered.

As he moved further into the cave, the air began to warm. He unlaced the furs. By the time he had reached the end of the cave, he was down to his shirt and trousers. Tears sprung to his eyes, for below him stretched the hidden valley and the small farms and houses and the temple. She would be there as well, the girl. He hastened down the long sloping path and then he was running. And soon he could see her small cottage with its garden. He could see her sitting quietly, watching the path. She was rising. She had seen him.

“Laura!” he cried.

Stephen woke with a start. He was sitting beside Laura who was asleep. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever known. He remembered a play he had once read about an enchanted cottage where only lovers had lived. And where an ugly couple had suddenly become beautiful. They had eventually learned that only to each other were they fair, and the secret of the enchanted cottage was that those who love are beautiful to each other. Stephen bent and kissed Laura. So gentle was his kiss it might have been the wind touching her lips. She stirred, breathing deeply, and opened her eyes. I’m still dreaming, Laura thought. She had been waiting in the garden for Stephen, as she did every night since he had left the hidden valley, hoping, praying, wanting to believe he would return. And now he was sitting beside her, the look on his face telling her that he would never leave again.

“I love you,” Stephen said. “Marry me, Laura.”

“I knew you’d come back.”

“Laura, we were meant to be together, as we’ve been in a thousand dreams and a thousand lives, and will be in all the others to come.”

“Hey, Laura,” it was Jackie’s voice. “What are you doing up there? Who’s that with you?”

Laura froze. She glanced about. She was awake, in the park. She stared at Stephen, expecting him to dematerialize, a momentary residue from her dream, but Stephen was smiling, laughing, and remaining solidly beside her. She reached up and touched his face. Gasped, as she realized Stephen was really there. And before she could utter a word, Stephen’s lips were tenderly exploring hers. Jackie had reached them and others had drawn near, whispering excitedly as they milled about the seated couple. “That’s Stephen De Bourne,” someone said. “Laura and Stephen?!” someone else remarked. “You’re kidding.” The answer came. “No. Go figure.”

Exactly what several of the tabloids wrote when they learned of the couple’s upcoming nuptials. The Dellisognis, however, were not surprised. Mrs. Dellisogni was glad she had trusted her instincts. All was well. Jim, earlier, and now Laura. Now that they were settled she felt confident that soon Mark would follow. With Mrs. Dellisogni happy, her husband was content.

Stephen, during an interview on television, when asked once why he and his wife were noted for leaving parties early, and hardly ever staying up late, gazed tenderly at Laura sitting in the audience. The pair, in unison, Laura’s lips moving silently, answered, “Heartsongs.” To the host’s dismay, no further explanation was offered or ever given.

The End

Novels, novellas, short stories and articles

by Paula Freda

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Is There More To Life Than

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A Valentine Bouquet

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Shannon and the Angel

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A Ghost of a Story

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Roses in the Dark

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In Another Life

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