I pulled on a pair of well-worn jeans and a loose pullover, then clipped on my belted pouch and put my wallet and mouse totem inside.
Croissants, sliced bagels, donuts, and an assortment of fruit, fruit juices, specialty teas, and gourmet coffee lay elegantly displayed on the sideboard in the dining room. I chose a blueberry bagel, poured a mug of coffee, and sat at the same table I’d occupied the night before. Within minutes, Heather breezed in with the morning paper and an energetic greeting. “Hope you slept well because I’m about to intrigue you with the highlights of our charming town.”
I raised my mug in a give-it-to-me toast.
“For starters, the Carmel Valley Village center is within walking distance, that is, if you’re in the mood for some exercise.”
“Good,” I said. “You just answered my first question.”
“And what’s the second?”
“Is there a fitness center in town?”
“Yep, and for, like, ten bucks, you can work out all day, but first you’ve got to check out the Village shops. One specializes in 17th and 18th century architectural antiques. Actually, it’s more than a store. It’s an experience. You’ll thank me later, I promise. Another collects and sells authentic quality glassware, lamps, furniture, and . . .”
Encouraged by my rapt silence, Heather shared enough what-to-dos, what-to-eats, and what-to-buys to extend my stay by three weeks. “But to shop for clothes,” she said, “your best bet is the Barnyard Shopping Village off Highway 1. You won’t find anything around here except for no-change-your-mind boutiques, if you know what I mean.”
“Got it,” I said. “No returns or exchanges.”
“And if you’re into books, our library is a three-minute walk from here, a great way to stretch your legs, if you don’t mind a few missing sidewalks and pedestrian paths.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” I said, getting up to leave.
“Hey, what about the paper?”
“No thanks,” I said. “It’s time I start generating some of my own news.”
Before heading out, I returned to my room to check on Gabriel.
Still gone.
Deep breath. Hold. Blow out the crud.
Not about to spend the morning worrying about my errant stray (I knew from experience that he had an itinerary of his own), I headed for the Village down Carmel Valley Road. The traffic was heavy for a Tuesday morning but concentrated and directed, as if composed primarily of locals running errands. I checked the menu posted inside the window of Bill’s Dining House. The grilled salmon with shallots, mushrooms, and garlic prompted my decision to return later for dinner rather than spend another guilt-ridden evening alone in my room.
Across the street, I spotted the architectural antique store Heather had raved about. After a break in traffic, I sprinted across the road to its huge outdoor lot. One-of-a-kind doors, fireplace mantels, fountains, vases, pillars, and Roman arches crowded the space, leaving only small paths in between on which to maneuver. I wondered where all the ancient artifacts had come from. What sort of building, for instance, had once housed the glass door etched with the image of Saint Theresa? A church? A chapel? A convent? Sadness gripped me as I remembered that Theresa had been the name of Joshua’s mother. Theresa, who along with Joshua’s father, Paul, had died a fiery death and left her son an orphan.
I saw a statue that appeared to be hundreds of years old. It reminded me of the apostle Peter, hiding within the folds of his cloak after denying Jesus three times. The atmosphere turned liquid, and I leaned against the statue for support. The sound of a thousand cricket wings rubbing together announced that the Voice was about to speak.
You are not who you pretend to be.
I strained to hear more but experienced instead an eerie silence. The Voice hadn’t spoken to me in two days, and I had hoped it was gone for good. I blinked and waited for my head to clear, automatically reaching for the mouse totem in my belted pouch. I could think of no reasonable explanation for the comfort I received from contact with the small smooth stone.
When my world steadied again, I left the lot. Later I would record the Voice’s strange message in my journal, and hopefully someday I would understand.
On the other side of the street stood another antique shop. Something—call it intuition—urged me to hurry to its door.
The traffic running through the Village was alive and pulsing. The vibrating purr of a diesel truck barely registered in my mind as it slowed, allowed me to cross, and then sped up again.
A bell jingled when I opened the shop door. Furniture, paintings, linens, jewelry, glassware, and tools cramped the store in orderly disorder, and on the wall directly in front of me hung a mirror. My mirror. I knew this with a certainty not open to question.
It was oval, beveled, and adorned with a pink ribbon of carved satinwood that looped over the top and was gathered on each side by a sprig of roses also made of satinwood and painted a soft pink. A bit foofoo for the space above my stone fireplace, but I didn’t care. With the right positioning, accessorizing, and lighting, I could make it work.
The mirror’s surface appeared a bit wavy and tarnished near the edges, giving it a spooky feel, but its center, except for a sprinkling of small black spots, was clear as newly re-silvered glass. Catching my reflection gave me a start. My eyes sparkled with a child-like joy that I hadn’t noticed in them for some time. “The mirror reflects what’s going on inside,” my father had said. “If you don’t like what you see, it’s time to make some changes. And I’m not talking about your makeup routine.”
Slightly over my left shoulder, I caught sight of another set of eyes—deep green and familiar.
No. It can’t be.
What was Morgan van Dyke doing in my mirror?
I stared at his reflection, reluctant to turn around. Maybe it was an illusion or the result of a mirror tilt; or maybe my subconscious had conjured him up due to my recent conversation with John Phillip, which had awakened memories of my first serious crush.
“Marjorie?”
The image had a voice.
“Marjorie . . . is that you?”
I hadn’t felt such an elastic, weightless sense of reality in years—ten to be exact—when I had last seen Morgan and last dreamed about those dancing green eyes. His hair was still thick, blond, and neatly trimmed and appeared to have been styled by the wind. I turned, unable to get words past the constriction in my throat.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” he said, taking a step closer. “What brings you to Carmel Valley?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. Then, just like that, it occurred to me why Father John Phillip had reacted so strangely when I told him where I was headed. “Ah, now I understand your brother’s odd reaction.”
“Brother?”
“Father John Phillip,” I said. “The only person I know with two first names. We met after church last Sunday and spent some time catching up. Actually, it was more like a confession on my part, minus the ‘Bless-me-Father-for-I-have-sinned’ and ‘mea culpas.’ I can’t believe he became a priest.”
Morgan chuckled. “Mom called him by his first and middle name every time she chewed him out for something, and the name eventually stuck due to frequent use.”
“He knew you’d be here and didn’t tell me.”
“Little brother must have had a good laugh on that one,” Morgan said, “figuring we’d meet up sooner or later.” He tilted his head and focused on me with what appeared to be genuine interest. “I’m glad we did, by the way.”
“Glad to meet up with the ‘little nun’ again?” I said, the teasing note in my voice a cover up for the disappointment I felt at the chaste and virtuous portrayal of my teen-aged self he’d shared with John Phillip. My thoughts had never been chaste and virtuous where Morgan was concerned. Quite the opposite.
“Guess I can thank my brother for spilling that particular can of beans,” Morgan said. “What else did he say?”
“That David’s married with two sons and that you’re still single.”
“Hope he’s more discreet about sharing what he hears in the confessional.”
“He also said that Teri was missing and that you’re searching for her. I’m so sorry.”
Morgan looked over my shoulder and shifted his feet. “Me too.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked, “Will you have lunch with me?”
“I’d be happy to, but first I have a mirror to buy. Do you have a lot of shopping to do?”
“Actually, I was just driving by when you crossed the street in front of me. I nearly wiped out a priceless statue or two while trying to find a place to park. But I had to know if it was you.”
“When I saw your reflection in the mirror, I thought my imagination was playing tricks on me,” I said.
“Likewise,” he said.
The store clerk walked over obviously pleased. “This beauty just came in. Would you care to take a closer look?”
“Consider the mirror your spiritual doorway,” my father once said.
Well, I’d seen Morgan in this mirror and a new, happier me. Did that count as a spiritual doorway?
“No thanks, I’ll take it.”
After closing the deal with a slide of my credit card, I asked, “Can I come back for it later?”
“Sure thing. I’ll wrap it up and keep it in back. Would you be interested in some of the mirror’s history?”
“Oh yes, please.”
“Consider it done,” he said.
🗲🗲🗲
“Why are you posing as someone you’re not?” I asked. “Do you suspect foul play?”
“Yes,” was his disheartening reply.
“What makes you think she disappeared in Carmel Valley?”
“Her last letter was postmarked here. It’s our only lead.”
“Are the police involved?”
Morgan dropped his gaze to his half-eaten sandwich. “Yes and no.”
I didn’t ask him to clarify, wondering instead how he managed to cope during such a difficult task and what he drew on for strength.
When the conversation came to a natural stall, I asked, “Can I help in any way?”
“Right now, I’m just snooping around.” Morgan’s voice sounded calm and composed, but the deep grooves between his eyebrows and the way he clenched and unclenched his jaw gave away unspoken and deeply felt stress. “I’d like to see more of you though,” he said.
All logic warned me to make an excuse as to why seeing him was currently out of the question. I was here to get my life back in order, not to reopen my heart. After my experience with Cliff, I was more susceptible than ever to Morgan’s down-to-earth honesty and charm. No man had ever been able to sway me toward happiness this way. Like an antidote to burnout, he replenished me.
“I’d like to see more of you, too,” I said.
Morgan escorted me to the antique shop to pick up my mirror and then drove me back to the Inn. Once there, he asked if I had plans for dinner.
I mentioned Bill’s Dining House.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” he said.
And as simple as that, we had a date.