Michael dropped his bags in the entryway of his loft, shut the door, and muted the squawking parrots outside in his carport atrium. If he could get rid of the scent of jasmine, he’d be golden. The tropical paradise he had designed with such care was a taunting reminder of things he’d rather forget.
The inside of his loft wasn’t any better. The Travertine stone, white leather, and dark wood reminded him too much of the Hotel Fasano in Rio. It even had a similar free-standing staircase with glass railings. The only things missing were the gossamer curtains and the hotel’s trademark wooden-framed, ear-shaped mirrors.
Michael charged up the stairs toward a place and person with no connection to Rio. Unfortunately, the only way to his loft-mate’s second-story suite was via an outdoor balcony that overlooked the atrium. He had no choice but to go back to the tropics to get to her, which pissed him off all over again.
He glared at the parrots squawking in the jacaranda. “Fly away if you want. No one’s stopping you.”
When he had first bought them three years ago, Jackson had admonished him for wasting money on exotic birds that would escape through the atrium’s open ceiling at the first opportunity, which they had, but they had also returned. At the time, Michael had felt vindicated that his parrots had chosen his trees over all others. Now he wondered if they were just too afraid to leave.
Like Adriana?
He shrugged away the thought. It didn’t matter why she stayed with her husband, only that she had one.
He glanced into Panchali’s art studio and caught a whiff of musty clay and acidic glaze through the open window. Ceramics in various stages of completion sat along the counters, but no potter. He followed the jingling of Tibetan chimes down the balcony corridor to Panchali’s living space. Although her second-story suite had the same footprint as his own, it couldn’t have looked more different. His was stark and angular. Hers was billowy and soft. His reflected a love of sports and an appreciation of Japanese simplicity. Hers indulged in supernatural excess.
Michael ran his fingers over the points of a giant crystal. Panchali claimed the rock gave off energy, and while he didn’t buy into that, he figured it couldn’t hurt to check. He closed his eyes and cupped the crystal, searching for signs of heat or tingling. Nothing.
He was about to give up when his shoulders relaxed and jaw unclenched. A sense of calm permeated through his body and mind. A low-pitched drone resonated pleasantly in his head. He didn’t question it. He accepted its presence and enjoyed the peace. It felt so good to just be. He yanked his hands from the crystal. He didn’t want to accept, and he damn sure did not want to surrender. Not after the voices. Not after Rio.
He moved away from the rock, but everywhere he turned he ran into some sort of New Age symbol or decoration promising peace of mind or a path to some higher power. The worst were the alien-like angels with their bald heads and astral halos. Pale eyes followed his movements, ghostly fingers reached out to touch him. When he backed away, billowing wings prevented his retreat. He swatted at the hanging fabric.
The low-pitched drone continued, coming from the back of the suite. He followed the sound to Panchali, who sat with crossed legs on a meditation cushion amid curls of incense smoke. He wasn’t losing his mind. The voices hadn’t returned. He had lost his cool over a red-headed potter.
He plopped down on a spare cushion and did his best to ignore the candles flickering on the altar beside him. Even twenty-three years later, Michael was uncomfortable near fire. He focused on his loft-mate’s freckled face and Irish features that belied her exotic name. She’d chosen “Panchali” as her yoga name and refused to be called anything else. He thought the reason was silly, but the name suited her. Sitting serenely on her cushion, she looked every bit the princess.
He watched her breathe and waited for her to surface from the meditation. No matter how “out there” she went, Panchali returned to Earth and grounded Michael with the facts. He trusted her, and she always told him the truth.