Tucked between landscaped, brick-lined courtyards and mosaic paths, I found the perfect boutique and the perfect dress: gold and romantically chic. Actually, there wasn’t much to it. It was more of a lined sheath; no belt; no waist; no fuss. A quick stop at a nearby shoe store for strappy heels and my outfit was complete.
Morgan’s face lit up when I opened the door. I was aware that my hair fell full and smooth about my face, that my shadow-enhanced eyes appeared bluer than blue, and that the dress fit to perfection. It felt good to look good.
Morgan’s skin was slightly weathered, his scent spicy like perfectly steeped tea.
I tore my gaze from his full lower lip and concentrated instead on his black turtleneck sweater and olive sports coat, casually unbuttoned. “Hello,” I said.
“Hello to you, too,” was his deep-toned reply. He reached around me to check if the door to my room was secure before guiding me to his Ford F250 diesel pickup truck—which translates to tall.
My silky sheath of a dress rose to mid-thigh as Morgan helped me into the passenger seat. I blushed, wondering if he had noticed. His broad smile confirmed that he had. I tugged, smoothed, and looked away.
“Nice dress,” he said before closing the door.
“Jeez,” I whispered, glad for the opportunity to take a deep breath before Morgan entered the truck on the other side. Even during the best of times, Cliff had never had such a powerful effect on me. In his own way, he’d tried, but in the end, he couldn’t induce the weightlessness I was experiencing now. It wasn’t just chemistry. I was defenseless against Morgan’s selflessness, his depth of heart, his easy energy. Like the diesel truck he drove, Morgan was the kind of man I could depend on long past warrantable miles.
On entering the restaurant, we registered with the host and stepped into the bar. I ordered Sauvignon Blanc like a pro, thanks to Cornelio, and Morgan ordered a Scotch and water.
The bar, only half-full, hummed with a steady flow of conversation. According to the bartender, most of the patrons were locals. “During the holiday weekend, we’ll attract more tourists,” he said, “and the regulars will know to stay away or be in for a long wait. You’ve picked a good time.”
We hadn’t been sitting long before the host arrived to escort us to our table. On the way, we brushed against another couple preparing to leave. I glanced over with the intention of voicing a polite, “Excuse me,” but the words never made it past my suddenly slack jaw.
The eyes I met were exactly like my own, except a colder blue than I’d ever seen in the mirror. The room melted away, leaving only me and someone who appeared to be my identical twin. Her hair was black instead of blonde, spritzed and volumized as if she had just stepped out of the glossy pages of Vogue, and she wore low-rise jeans with a short cashmere sweater, exposing a good three inches of tanned waist and belly.
I reeled and my soul took a breath, until Morgan, sweet Morgan, took the wine glass from my trembling hands and urged me forward while the world righted itself. The other couple moved on, but then, just for a heartbeat, the woman turned and aimed those cold blue eyes at Morgan.
“Dear God,” I said, unable to tear my gaze from the beautiful, terrible apparition walking out of the restaurant.
When I finally reverted my attention back to Morgan, I noticed his face had grown pensive, his skin flushed. “Would you like a refill?” he asked.
“Yes, please.” More like the whole bottle.
After guiding me to my seat, Morgan motioned for a waiter and said, “The resemblance is uncanny.”
The resemblance was uncanny all right, enough to give me nightmares.
“It must be upsetting for her to discover she’s not the only beautiful woman in town.”
I suppressed an unladylike snort. My so-called twin, with her smoldering stare and supermodel moves—let alone her wide silver armband and show-stopping, ostrich-feathered clutch—was proof that any woman could appear beautiful given the right clothes, makeup, and attitude. I felt like the innermost doll in a set of nesting matryoshkas, the doll that you can’t crack open, the one that carries nothing inside.
“For a few seconds, it seemed like we were linked in some way,” I said. “Do you know her?”
“Yes.”
A shiver shot through me like a spark plug firing. “What’s her name?”
“Veronica.”
Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. Oh God, what were the chances? I sat next to the Sixth-Station-of-the-Cross every chance I got while attending Mass as a child.
“When we first met, I thought she was you,” Morgan said with a half-smile of remembrance. “I meant to give you hell for dying your hair black. But when I looked into her eyes, I realized you could never have mastered that cold expression.”
“I used to think it would be fun to meet my body double,” I said, “but this wasn’t fun at all. In fact, it was freaky.”
“This is a small town. You’ll run into her again.”
My shiver was so intense Morgan noticed and frowned. “How about we change the subject?”
“Sure,” I said. For now.
Our drinks arrived and we placed our order, but my appetite for grilled salmon had disappeared. I’d heard that encountering your doppelganger is a sign of bad luck, as it may be your evil twin. Evil or not, if Veronica was my twin, then . . .
I couldn’t complete the thought. My bruised sense of identity wouldn’t allow it.
🗲🗲🗲
The incident with Veronica was an event over which neither of us had had control. Although such helplessness wasn’t new to me, familiarity did not guarantee mastery or acceptance.
My first reaction on meeting Veronica had been shock, which was now slowly turning into curiosity. Where had she come from? Why was she here? Something inside that bypassed logic signaled a warning: We would meet again, and this meeting would shake both of our worlds.
The phone rang.
It was Dr. Mendez.
“Sorry for the late call,” he said, “but something has come up.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I said, and then, due to being completely immersed in my own little world, I hijacked the conversation. “On my first day here, three people claimed they’d seen me before, which struck me as odd, at least until I ran into a woman named Veronica, someone who looks exactly like me. She scares me even more than the Voice does.”
“Exactly like you?” the doctor said, with a rare note of surprise.
Good. I wanted my experience to rock his world. I wanted him to feel my shock, my confusion. A few strikes against his id might help him better deal with mine.
“Yes, exactly,” I said and then sighed. Bet patients like me really made his day. Just thinking of the tediousness of listening to clients talk about their never-ending problems made me shudder. “How’s Joshua? Is he okay?”
“He is the reason I called. Mona said he had a disturbing dream last night and now will not respond to anyone.”
The thought of Joshua, all alone and afraid, effectively wiped out my absorption with the high-flying events of the evening and my feeling of inadequacy. “What can I do to help?”
“Transpersonal psychotherapy rests on the belief that there is something bigger and deeper in the space between that operates upon us, which appears to be especially true between you and Joshua. Your image emerged in his drawing as a super hero, so it is possible that somehow, through you, he will be able to discover his own inner power, which is currently lacking. You said you needed time, but—”
“Sounds like Joshua can’t wait until it’s convenient for me,” I said.
“He called out ‘Sunwalker’ during his dream.”
“Jeez.”
“It might be good for him to know that you are staying nearby. Would you mind if I picked you up for a visit?”
For the life of me, I was clueless as to how I could be of any help to the child, but Dr. Mendez wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t deem it necessary. “When?”
“Noon tomorrow?”
“It’ll make things harder,” I said. “I can’t risk caring too much about anyone at this stage.”
“Why not? What have you got to lose?”
My freedom, the freedom I crave more desperately than life.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”