Page 19 of The Witches Catalogue of Wanderlust Essentials (Natural Magic #2)

Chapter 10

Utterly Unforgettable

G oldie wasn’t sure where the gentleman had come from. She’d been certain she was the only one in the wood-paneled lobby. He hadn’t emerged from the theater or from the booth. Yet there he was, standing beside her, holding out a gloved hand to help her up.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

He was a handsome man. In his forties, if she had to guess. His black hair was untouched by silver. He might pass for a far younger man physically, but there was a certain steely glint quality to the gray flecks in his golden eyes she recognized. He had an older soul. Like her.

Of course, she thought, doing the quick mental math that she always did with strangers, there was old, and there was old old. She would have been in her seventies when he was born.

“I think I’m fine,” she said, “Just a bruised ego.” And a bruised bottom. But she didn’t think she needed to mention that part. It was nothing serious. She was lucky. She’d heal quickly. Goldie reached out and took the proffered hand. The man’s grip was strong, but gentle, as he pulled her to her feet.

Once again, she noticed how handsome he was. There was something so familiar, almost compelling, about his face. High, sharp cheekbones and a regal, aquiline nose. His eyes were an unusually pale gray. Almost without color, they were clouded with tiny flecks of gold and silver that reminded her of the cosmos. His lips were full and impeccably sculpted. Almost cruel in their precision. She could nearly taste what it might be like to be kissed by those lips. How surprising the softness would be.

She realized she was still holding his hand and staring when he cleared his throat.

“Pardon me.” She released his hand. “You just look so familiar. Where did you come from, anyway?”

“I live in London most of the time,” he said. His accent was strange, his words clipped and proper, but not quite British. She recognized it, but couldn’t quite place it. “But I came in last night from Los Angeles. By helicopter. Bit too choppy out there for my liking.” He gestured toward the ocean.

“I meant, how did you get into the building? I didn’t see anyone else here when I came in.”

Goldie studied him more warily, noting the gloves, long overcoat, and wide-brimmed hat. A pair of sunglasses was tucked into the collar of his fawn-colored sweater. Beneath this, he wore a black turtleneck. It was quite a lot of clothing for the spring weather outside. It was still chilly, but not that cold. People who wore too much clothing usually had something to hide. She took a step back.

“I was just over in the ticket booth.” The man pointed toward the door on the opposite side of the lobby. “I was trying to see if there was a number to call. I didn’t think the front door was meant to be left open like that.”

“Didn’t you hear me calling out?”

“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head. “The windows were open and the sound of the surf tends to drown everything else out.”

“Did you knock over the rack of brochures?”

“No, that was my first clue that something was amiss,” he said.

Amiss. Such an old-fashioned word choice. When was the last time she’d heard someone use a word like that in casual conversation?

“Indeed.” She nodded. “So, what drew you out of the booth?” She still stared at the gloves. She intended to ask about them next. Goldie wondered if she ought to be afraid of this strange man. She suspected she ought to be. But she wasn’t. He looked too familiar to be threatening.

“I saw a sudden flash,” he said, “and I thought I’d better come out and investigate.”

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

“You certainly ask a lot of questions!” He smiled now, tilting his head to study her. His next line had a note of teasing challenge to it. “Perhaps I’ve just flown in from a much warmer climate and was chilled?”

“You said you came in from London.”

“Well, be that as it may, it’s actually quite cool out. Why don’t you wear gloves?”

“I’m not concerned about keeping my hands warm,” Goldie said. She eyed him suspiciously. “Or leaving fingerprints.”

“Nor am I.” The man sighed. He tugged at the fingers of his left glove with his right hand. He placed a finger on the railing, deliberately leaving a print. “There. If anyone wants me, they’ve got me now.”

He turned his bare hand over. Goldie observed the delicate pattern of blisters and scars across the palm. It was so oddly symmetrical, it almost looked like lace or the crystal fractals within a snowflake.

It reminded her of the rashes she got when she came into contact with sea water.

“I have a skin condition, if you must know.,” he said. “I’m allergic to the sun. My skin reacts poorly if I’m exposed for any length of time.”

This was not what Goldie was expecting to hear.

Despite the scarring, his fingers were long and elegant. He wore a fascinating gold signet ring. The old-fashioned kind that were used for wax seals. It had an emblem upon it, half sun and half moon. Goldie leaned in closer to get a better look, but the man pulled his hand away and tugged the glove back on.

“ It’s an autoimmune thing,” he said, entirely unselfconsciously. “Not lethal, but I still prefer to take precautions. Especially when I’m traveling.” He nudged a flyer with his toe. “I saw a phone in the ticket office. Should we call someone about the break-in?”

“Of course.” Goldie nodded. She was already thinking who to call.

“I take it you’re a local?” the man asked as they walked back toward the ticket office. He paused and held the door for her, a gentleman’s gesture that was becoming less common. At one time, men were simply expected to hold the door for women. It was an unwritten rule. But over her time on the planet, this rule had changed. For a while, it was common for a man to hold the door for pretty women. Still later, the barest expectation that was left was that they would hold the door for old and frail women. And then, at some point, people had simply stopped holding doors. Society had become less rigid, but also less polite. She’d learned to adjust her expectations.

“Yes, I’m local. I’ve lived here for several years,” Goldie answered, adding, “I like it here. It suits my creative vision.”

“So you’re an artist, then?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

Goldie smiled. “You might say. What gave it away?”

“Creative vision and tax attorney don’t seem to go as well together.”

“You never know,” Goldie kibbitzed. “I’ve known some rather creative CPAs.”

The man folded his arms across his chest and studied her. “This might seem forward, but I think you should have breakfast with me after we get this break-in sorted. “

If Goldie didn’t know better, she’d think he was flirting with her. And, as if that wasn’t strange enough, she was enjoying it. There was a flutter in her stomach and a tingly electricity in her limbs that she hadn’t felt in decades. Perhaps longer. It was preposterous, embarrassing even, that she should have such a powerful reaction to a stranger. Worse yet—one who was so much younger than her. She was going to make a fool of herself.

“I’m afraid I’m busy,” she mumbled. “But if you’re looking for advice on what to do on the island, you might try grabbing some of the flyers in the lobby. The tourism office should be open in an hour or so.”

“What makes you think I’m a tourist?” The man smiled politely. His demeanor was cool but his eyes were warm as he watched her lift the receiver from the phone. Goldie stared back at him, trying to craft a coherent response. He was just too dazzling. She couldn’t think clearly.

He didn’t actually strike her as a tourist. It had just been something to say. An easy assumption. But he was nothing like the typical tourists who visited. There was something different about him. Something unusual and unfathomable.

This must be why she was so attracted to him. She’d always adored puzzles and he was a fresh one—a mystery that seemed to have washed ashore just when her existential ennui was growing unbearable again.

After a moment, the steady tone coming out from the corded handset changed to a staccato warning. She set the handset back down to silence the noise.

“Well, you’ve come to the island at an awkward time of the year,” she noted. “And I don’t see any luggage. But I also don’t see a briefcase or any other sign that you’re here on business. You’re not dressed in workers’ clothing, and you seem to be traveling alone.” She paused here, aware that she sounded like a plucky detective from one of those British cozy mystery shows she loved to watch. “You are alone, no? Is someone waiting for you outside?”

Goldie felt an odd rush of misplaced jealousy as she imagined his wife, or girlfriend, pacing outside and wondering what was taking him so long. She hated that woman. She didn’t want to share him with her. Perhaps the woman was annoyed at him for rushing into the building. She was probably eager to resume their walk. Maybe she never even wanted to come to the island. She would have preferred going somewhere warmer. Goldie began to cobble an entire backstory together for this strange man, and her imagination would have continued on with this invented narrative had he not interrupted it.

“I’m not traveling with anyone else,” he said. A shadow of something crossed his face as he replied. “It’s only me.”

“I see,” Goldie said, though she didn’t. In fact, she was at a bit of a loss. She was usually better at reading people. She’d been around long enough. Once more, she lifted the receiver, placing it to her ear as she dialed the local police from memory. Had there been a buffalo in the lobby, she’d have dialed another number. And if an oarfish washed ashore? She’d know who to call about that as well. Years of memorizing scripts still served her well. She’d memorized all the numbers she might need to call. Not that it was a difficult task. It was a small island and there were only so many year-round inhabitants.

“They’ll be round in a few minutes.” Goldie set the phone down. “They asked us to wait, just so we can answer a few questions. And after that you can continue your business, or sightseeing, or whatever it is you’ve come for.” It was none of her business, anyway. Best to put it out of her head. “You can wait down here in the lobby. I’m going to go check on my projectors.”

“ Your projectors?” the man asked.

“It’s a long story.” Goldie dragged a toe across the line on the patterned carpet. “Some people collect old cars. I collect historical projectors.”

“I love long stories. You can tell me more over breakfast.”

“I don’t know.” Goldie hesitated. She smoothed the pile on the rug back down with another pass of her foot. “I really have a lot on my plate right now.”

“Surely there’s a little room for some eggs. A muffin, at least? Don’t make me dine alone.” He smiled hopefully and there was something so devastatingly lonely about his smile that it took her breath away. It made her wonder if her smile looked as desolate as his.

“Fine,” she relented. “I’ll have breakfast with you. But I’m more interested in hearing your story than telling mine. And one other condition,” she added. “It’s my treat. I’m Goldie, by the way.”

She extended a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Goldie.” He took her hand between his two gloved ones and squeezed it gently.

She was glad she’d used her actual first name here on the island. She liked hearing it again. It had been at least seventy years since anyone had called her by the name her adoptive parents had chosen for her. High time to put it back in the rotation. It was a sweet way to remember the good times she’d had with them. She felt more like herself when people called her Goldie. Even if the beach here was so far from where she’d started.

“Thanks for agreeing to have breakfast with me.” The man released her hand and reached into his pocket for a small, neat business card. He tipped his hat after he handed it to her. Something in her stomach fluttered again.

Goldie turned the card over in her hands. It was made of thick cream cardstock with his name engraved at the center in an elegant burgundy font. It reminded her of the calling cards of long ago.

Cosimo R. Gieri

“Are you sure we haven’t already met, Cosimo?” There was something. She could have sworn. Not recently. Something long, long ago. But of course she must be imagining it. If you lived long enough, you got used to seeing doppelgangers. People look alike more often than you’d think.

Goldie shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m an old woman. Of course you don’t know me. My memory must be going.”

His eyes flickered again as he blinked. Loneliness, sadness, and a flash of hunger. Each blink framed a different emotion for a microsecond. Like the stills from one of her old silent film reels. But when he turned his face back toward hers, all was calm and his emotions seemed more shuttered.

“I’m flattered,” he said placidly. “But I’m frequently mistaken for other people.”

A thrilling chill danced down her spine at his word choice. This was a line she’d used at least a hundred times herself.

“You don’t say?” she asked amusedly. “Who do people think you are, then?”

“It’s hard to say.” Cosimo waved his hand dismissively. “A long-lost relative, a film star, or a teacher they once had. That’s the funny part. They’re never quite sure. Which makes me the same nonentity every time. People look at me and see a figment of their imagination.”

Goldie caught her breath. It wasn’t something she’d ever said out loud, but it summed up her feelings about her former fame and her unusually long life precisely.

“It’s a terrible thing to be both seen and forgotten.” She swallowed. “The absolute opposite of being known.”

She pulled open the door to the projection room.

“Exactly,” Cosimo agreed. “You understand this.”

“I do,” she said, turning to go up the steep narrow staircase to the booth. Two steps up the staircase, she paused and turned back. “For what it’s worth, Cosimo, I suspect if I had actually ever met you in the past, I wouldn’t have forgotten you.”

“Likewise, Goldie.” Cosimo performed a tiny half bow. “You strike me as the sort of woman who is utterly unforgettable.”