Red Heart Novels
True Love Never Dies
Chapter 1
Uranus squared the natal moon, and each day it came closer to partile. Had I been reading for a client, I would have predicted stressful changes to their domestic sphere, family roots, and emotional well-being—a seven-point-nine to shake their very foundations. But this was my own chart, and my life was firmly grounded.
Sunlight splashed onto my desk through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my home office. Behind them, the lifts stretched to the peaks high above skiers traversing downhill, creating colorful zigzags against blindingly brilliant clouds of fresh powder. It was a constantly novel view. I was fortunate to live there. Exceedingly lucky. Still, I longed for a home of my own.
I turned from the chart on the computer and picked up a list of things to be done. Crown rib roast ordered for the supper party on Saturday. Check. Charts ready for Jackson Browne's appointment Friday afternoon. Check. Shopping…that was a problem. There were only three weeks left until Christmas. I enjoyed the last-minute bustle: the lights, the carols, the good cheer, but this was pushing it. I scribbled an addition: those little paper booties for the ribs, whatever they were called.
I went into the dining room to consider flowers for the table. It needed something seasonal and elegant, something that wouldn't compete with the crown roast for attention. Poinsettias were cliché. Could I get my hands on some lily-of-the-valley? Too fragrant for a meal, anyway. Hydrangeas? Too big. Amaryllis? Too tall. Magnolias would be perfect. And if frogs had wings…I heard mother’s voice in my head. I shook it out, and decided on groupings of clear vials holding rosebuds and freesia spread all around the table. I was in the kitchen, on my knees with a flashlight, head buried in the dark of a corner cabinet looking for the phials I knew were in there somewhere, when the office phone rang. I banged my head and went to answer it.
“Claudia Hastings?” a woman asked.
Who in the world still knew me by Hastings? I detected a bit of a southern accent. “Yes?”
“Are you related to Sara Hastings?”
I was three when my mother left my father. We moved from Hicksville, where everyone knew Mother, to Memphis, where no one knew her. I think that was the point. Our first apartment was a partially finished attic in a big house, downtown on Jefferson Street. That’s when she got her first shoebox. When the bills came in, she put them in the box. When the box became full, we moved. I tried to recall the last time I had seen her, but I couldn’t remember it specifically. She had been as hard to love as a crow—pecking, pecking, and relentless in her cawing.
“Miss Hastings?” the voice prodded.
I slumped into the chair, covering my eyes with my hand. “Tornincasa. My name is Tornincasa, now,” I corrected.
The southern voice fumbled with it, then went on. “She had your number in her hand when she was found. Where have I called? Can you come?”
I went over to the shelves and pulled the Tibetan Book of the Dead from it. I blew, and a tumbleweed of dust rolled across the top. A silk ribbon marked the location. It made me sad to see the photo again. I looked at it a long time, then held it to my heart for a moment. Maybe I could finally close that book while I was there. I tucked it safely into the shoulder bag that would never leave my side.
A few minutes later, I folded a black cable-knit dress into the suitcase with a pair of jeans and a sweater. Better make it two sweaters, I reconsidered: one a favorite green that went with my eyes, the other a dark salmon to compliment my hair. Black boots. No one in the mountains owned heels. Whatever for? It snowed nine months of the year.
Cooper arrived home, stomping snow onto the deck outside our door. I loved his mountain-man style from the top of his sun-bleached ponytail right down to the elk-hide boots that laced up to his knees. Most of all, I loved his perpetual three-day growth of beard. I met him at the door and kissed him hello. A request for his famous hot wings for supper had him chopping away with only the slightest grumble, and while he cooked, I told him I had to go.
He paused from shaking a can of seasoning to look up. “You have a mother?”
“Of course, I have a mother. I didn’t crawl out from under a rock, Coop. ” I went back and forth between the bedroom and kitchen while I explained. “The stroke caused her to fall and hit her head on the edge of a dresser, which they think knocked her out cold,” I called from the bedroom. “Then she went into a diabetic coma because she didn’t get her insulin.” By then I was standing beside him at the stove, inhaling the aroma of the hot sauce. “The woman who called said she had probably been lying on the bedroom floor for three days, because that’s the last time anyone had seen or heard from her.” I shivered as I returned to the bedroom, then came back to pause between the kitchen and the dining table. “She said Mother had her phone and my number in her hand when they found her. I wonder if that’s why I’ve been getting those staticky calls lately.”
He flipped a dishtowel onto his shoulder. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
I handed him a clean towel from the drawer and took the one from his shoulder and dropped it into the basket in the laundry room. I stayed in there a moment, thinking. “A long time,” I said.
Cooper came to stand in the doorway with the fresh towel on his shoulder. “How long?”
“Twenty-six years,” I mumbled.
“Twenty-six years,” he repeated. He looked bewildered. “Claudia. Are you sure you didn’t crawl out from under a rock? She’s your mother.”
I gathered my patience. “You don’t understand, Cooper. And I have talked to her on the phone.”
“Since we’ve been married?”
“I’ll be back in time to fix supper on Saturday.” I gathered some delicates from the basket—if flannel boxers and thermal long johns could be considered delicate—and dropped them into the washer. “In fact, I’ll be back by Friday morning, because Jackson Browne will be here for a reading on Friday afternoon.” I was never supposed to reveal a client’s name, but I couldn’t contain myself any longer. And I wanted to change the subject.
“Jackson Browne. The Jackson Browne? Can I meet him?”
“I don’t know, yet. Maybe I’ll ask him to stay for supper.” I had clients from all walks of life, and a few were famous, but I was elated about Mr. Browne. There was something I wanted to tell him. “First, I’ve got to get down to DIA before the storm comes.”
He looked out to where the snow had darkened to mauve and gray under the dying winter sun. The lifts had stopped, and the ski patrol was finishing their last sweep. “There’s a storm coming?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “A big one.”
In bed that night, I made Cooper come for his kisses.
“Tell me about when we met,” he said with a yawn.
I faced him, touching his fingertips with mine. “Well,” I began, “I was sitting at the bar in the Jackalope drinking Margaritas with Janice and checking out the guys, when you walked in. She pointed you out, and said she wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers. I said I would, then I’d do you on the floor.”
“I love you,” he whispered, and sleep took him under.
At five in the morning, I lay awake watching the snow fall. It was thick and heavy, and came down like a bag of flour. It blanketed the world with silence so deep I could hear soot rising in the chimney. I got up and went to sit on a chair by the window. It was fogged over, and I drew a heart in the film. The dew collected in the wake, overflowed its banks, and ran down the glass in two parallel lines.
Uranus squared the natal moon, and each day it came closer to partile. Had I been reading for a client, I would have predicted stressful changes to their domestic sphere, family roots, and emotional well-being—a seven-point-nine to shake their very foundations. But this was my own chart, and my life was firmly grounded.
Sunlight splashed onto my desk through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my home office. Behind them, the lifts stretched to the peaks high above skiers traversing downhill, creating colorful zigzags against blindingly brilliant clouds of fresh powder. It was a constantly novel view. I was fortunate to live there. Exceedingly lucky. Still, I longed for a home of my own.
I turned from the chart on the computer and picked up a list of things to be done. Crown rib roast ordered for the supper party on Saturday. Check. Charts ready for Jackson Browne's appointment Friday afternoon. Check. Shopping…that was a problem. There were only three weeks left until Christmas. I enjoyed the last-minute bustle: the lights, the carols, the good cheer, but this was pushing it. I scribbled an addition: those little paper booties for the ribs, whatever they were called.
I went into the dining room to consider flowers for the table. It needed something seasonal and elegant, something that wouldn't compete with the crown roast for attention. Poinsettias were cliché. Could I get my hands on some lily-of-the-valley? Too fragrant for a meal, anyway. Hydrangeas? Too big. Amaryllis? Too tall. Magnolias would be perfect. And if frogs had wings…I heard mother’s voice in my head. I shook it out, and decided on groupings of clear vials holding rosebuds and freesia spread all around the table. I was in the kitchen, on my knees with a flashlight, head buried in the dark of a corner cabinet looking for the phials I knew were in there somewhere, when the office phone rang. I banged my head and went to answer it.
“Claudia Hastings?” a woman asked.
Who in the world still knew me by Hastings? I detected a bit of a southern accent. “Yes?”
“Are you related to Sara Hastings?”
I was three when my mother left my father. We moved from Hicksville, where everyone knew Mother, to Memphis, where no one knew her. I think that was the point. Our first apartment was a partially finished attic in a big house, downtown on Jefferson Street. That’s when she got her first shoebox. When the bills came in, she put them in the box. When the box became full, we moved. I tried to recall the last time I had seen her, but I couldn’t remember it specifically. She had been as hard to love as a crow—pecking, pecking, and relentless in her cawing.
“Miss Hastings?” the voice prodded.
I slumped into the chair, covering my eyes with my hand. “Tornincasa. My name is Tornincasa, now,” I corrected.
The southern voice fumbled with it, then went on. “She had your number in her hand when she was found. Where have I called? Can you come?”
I went over to the shelves and pulled the Tibetan Book of the Dead from it. I blew, and a tumbleweed of dust rolled across the top. A silk ribbon marked the location. It made me sad to see the photo again. I looked at it a long time, then held it to my heart for a moment. Maybe I could finally close that book while I was there. I tucked it safely into the shoulder bag that would never leave my side.
A few minutes later, I folded a black cable-knit dress into the suitcase with a pair of jeans and a sweater. Better make it two sweaters, I reconsidered: one a favorite green that went with my eyes, the other a dark salmon to compliment my hair. Black boots. No one in the mountains owned heels. Whatever for? It snowed nine months of the year.
Cooper arrived home, stomping snow onto the deck outside our door. I loved his mountain-man style from the top of his sun-bleached ponytail right down to the elk-hide boots that laced up to his knees. Most of all, I loved his perpetual three-day growth of beard. I met him at the door and kissed him hello. A request for his famous hot wings for supper had him chopping away with only the slightest grumble, and while he cooked, I told him I had to go.
He paused from shaking a can of seasoning to look up. “You have a mother?”
“Of course, I have a mother. I didn’t crawl out from under a rock, Coop. ” I went back and forth between the bedroom and kitchen while I explained. “The stroke caused her to fall and hit her head on the edge of a dresser, which they think knocked her out cold,” I called from the bedroom. “Then she went into a diabetic coma because she didn’t get her insulin.” By then I was standing beside him at the stove, inhaling the aroma of the hot sauce. “The woman who called said she had probably been lying on the bedroom floor for three days, because that’s the last time anyone had seen or heard from her.” I shivered as I returned to the bedroom, then came back to pause between the kitchen and the dining table. “She said Mother had her phone and my number in her hand when they found her. I wonder if that’s why I’ve been getting those staticky calls lately.”
He flipped a dishtowel onto his shoulder. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
I handed him a clean towel from the drawer and took the one from his shoulder and dropped it into the basket in the laundry room. I stayed in there a moment, thinking. “A long time,” I said.
Cooper came to stand in the doorway with the fresh towel on his shoulder. “How long?”
“Twenty-six years,” I mumbled.
“Twenty-six years,” he repeated. He looked bewildered. “Claudia. Are you sure you didn’t crawl out from under a rock? She’s your mother.”
I gathered my patience. “You don’t understand, Cooper. And I have talked to her on the phone.”
“Since we’ve been married?”
“I’ll be back in time to fix supper on Saturday.” I gathered some delicates from the basket—if flannel boxers and thermal long johns could be considered delicate—and dropped them into the washer. “In fact, I’ll be back by Friday morning, because Jackson Browne will be here for a reading on Friday afternoon.” I was never supposed to reveal a client’s name, but I couldn’t contain myself any longer. And I wanted to change the subject.
“Jackson Browne. The Jackson Browne? Can I meet him?”
“I don’t know, yet. Maybe I’ll ask him to stay for supper.” I had clients from all walks of life, and a few were famous, but I was elated about Mr. Browne. There was something I wanted to tell him. “First, I’ve got to get down to DIA before the storm comes.”
He looked out to where the snow had darkened to mauve and gray under the dying winter sun. The lifts had stopped, and the ski patrol was finishing their last sweep. “There’s a storm coming?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “A big one.”
***
In bed that night, I made Cooper come for his kisses.
“Tell me about when we met,” he said with a yawn.
I faced him, touching his fingertips with mine. “Well,” I began, “I was sitting at the bar in the Jackalope drinking Margaritas with Janice and checking out the guys, when you walked in. She pointed you out, and said she wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers. I said I would, then I’d do you on the floor.”
“I love you,” he whispered, and sleep took him under.
***
At five in the morning, I lay awake watching the snow fall. It was thick and heavy, and came down like a bag of flour. It blanketed the world with silence so deep I could hear soot rising in the chimney. I got up and went to sit on a chair by the window. It was fogged over, and I drew a heart in the film. The dew collected in the wake, overflowed its banks, and ran down the glass in two parallel lines.