Mid-afternoon found her pushing her mother’s wheelchair across the nursing home’s lawn, finding a lovely shady spot under one of the many magnificent blossoming jacarandas that gave the nursing home its name. A man-made lake had been constructed some years back in a low-lying area of the garden, now its undulating edge was totally obscured by the lush planting of water iris, lilies, ferns and ornamental aquatic grasses. A small section of the large pool was taken up with beautiful cream waterlilies but the important thing for the patients was the sparkle and reflection of the water, the way the breeze rippled over its surface, marking the green with molten silver.
Chloe in jeans and a simple T-shirt sat on the grass beside her mother’s chair, holding lovingly to her mother’s quiet unresponsive hand. Strangely, despite all evidence to the contrary, Chloe never had the feeling her mother didn’t recognise her, though the blue eyes so like her own seemed to be looking into the next world already. Totally without fear, but inturned. Maybe she was seeing visions, Chloe thought. Maybe she was in spirit with her husband and son, or there could be dozens of responses trapped inside her head. Chloe never saw her intense dedication to her mother as a duty. Being there was simply a measure of her love. As always on her visits, Chloe told her mother what was happening in her life. She spoke as though her mother was fully present and as interested in what Chloe had to say as she had been in the old days when life was full of sparkle and neither had questioned the happiness and stability of their family life. She spoke about her ongoing dealings with McGuire, what she was doing around the house and garden, her various assignments and, of course, the extraordinary incident of the day before. The really odd thing was, Chloe’s own memory of it was beginning to blur. She had to really concentrate before it all faded.
“I don’t believe I was holding him at all,” she confided to her mother in remembered amazement. “I could feel the warmth of this solid little boy’s body. I could see the sheen of perspiration on his skin. The crowd was speechless. There I was waltzing around with Archie quite calmly. It just doesn’t make sense. It was like I was transformed. McGuire thought we were having him on. He told me to go home and get a good night’s sleep. But it did happen. That’s the mystery. What do you think?”
Then came the shock.
“What?” Chloe, who had been looking out toward the lake whilst she was speaking, shot a startled upward glance at her mother. Her warm voice had clearly sounded in Chloe’s mind.
But Delia Cavanagh’s expression was unchanged. A frisson of something that was almost awe rippled through Chloe’s body from brain to heart to the tip of her toes. Was she going mad? In some way she couldn’t possibly fathom, she was convinced her mother had spoken to her at some level. Some subtle communication.
“Mumma!” She clutched her mother’s hand more tightly, finding what was happening difficult to grasp, but there was no response on her mother’s tranquil face nor did a muscle move.
“Oh, God!” Chloe tried desperately to collect herself before she burst into tears. She wasn’t entirely right in the head. That was it. Psychological damage from severe trauma was a reality of life. Yet she had caught that whisper as it rippled past her ear. She had. She had. What else did she have to cling to but hope? Her faith in God had lessened over this terrible time.
Chloe struggled to her feet, upset and without direction, only, she realised with a rush of sensation, someone was giving her a helping hand. On her feet she stopped abruptly as though she could very easily bump into them. She even rubbed her hands together waiting for the electric little tingle to subside.
“This is insane,” she said out loud, causing a passing nurse to stare at her. Yet there was comfort, an easing of her grief.
Chloe dusted off her jeans and began to push her mother’s wheelchair in the direction of the pretty little summerhouse at the far end of the lake. A beautiful pink rose clambered over the white lattice walls, and the pair of stone deer donated by a patient’s grateful family, flanked the entrance. It was their usual route. What was unusual was her extraordinary notion this third person, this invisible person, accompanied them on their journey. The person who had taken her by the hand.
Spirit power, Chloe thought, giving her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. She was going to have to start saying her prayers again. Renew the communication she so abruptly had broken off with a great and loving God.
Chloe had never taken as much trouble over a party; never spent so much time trying on different dresses, or regarding herself so long and critically in the minor. She was down to two dresses now. The lime green silk, long with a halter neck, or the floral-print chiffon, sleeveless with a ruffle around the crossover V-neck and a sort of handkerchief skirt. Each conveyed a certain look. Cool and classic, or that delicate ethereal look she couldn’t seem to escape. Neither dress was new. She didn’t feel she had the right to spend the money anymore, but they were still in fashion. Maybe the flowered chiffon had the edge. The very feminine look was in and the fabric was beautiful, rose pink peonies with a tracery of jade leaves on a turquoise ground. The chiffon would have to do. She could be the Spring fairy.
A very strange feeling ran through her all the time she dressed. Pleasurable anticipation, normal enough in the circumstances, but she was haunted by the element of sexual awareness. Since when did she find McGuire sexy? Since when was she all atremble at the thought of being close to him? She disliked the man, was highly wary of him and had said so at length. Nevertheless she was excited and it sparkled in her looks.
Chloe opened the front door to McGuire as the grandfather clock in the living room was chiming eight She’d known it was to be a black tie occasion but she hadn’t expected to see him look so—gosh, she couldn’t avoid the word splendid, in evening dress. She almost had to look away.
“Hi,” he offered with dark, gleaming eyes. “You look enchanting.” A rare enough quality, but it was true. Tonight she wore her marvellous hair—red, amber, gold, a combination of all three—in an unfamiliar style. Pulled back off her face and arranged in a thick upturning roll but molten little tendrils sprang out around her face and nape. Her deep blue eyes, large and liquid, had picked up the colour of her dress, her skin was blushed porcelain, her mouth surprisingly full, tender, even a little pouty. He wondered as he always did what it would be like to kiss it, to open soft lips with the tip of his tongue.
She was always immaculately turned out in her little blouses and skirts, the snappy little suits, but he had never seen her in an evening dress before. The frothy shimmering ruffle of the bodice plunged low to reveal the shadowed cleft between her delicate breasts. He had to fight down the irresistible urge to reach for her. He knew she would only recoil in dismay.
“Why, thank you.” She dropped a graceful little bob, some note in his voice had got to her. This was McGuire, remember? Her old combatant and sparring partner. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” Keeping him on the doorstep was impossibly rude.
“Yes, I would.” He stepped across the threshold, looking like someone who could very easily mix it with the mega-rich. “This is a wonderful old house,” he said almost wistfully, glancing down the wide hallway with its glowing parqueted floor and rosy Chinese rug. A circular rosewood library table holding a jade horse on a carved stand and a large crystal bowl massed with white roses stood midway between the graceful arches that led to the formal rooms.
“I love it.” Chloe smiled, standing at his shoulder. “Let me show you through, that’s if we have time.”
“I’d like that.” Amazingly his whole expression had softened. “The house was built by your great-grandfather, I understand.” It had heritage listing he knew.
Chloe