The Wish Collector
Page 39

“You can get back to ghost hunting tomorrow,” he said. “For now, you need to sleep. I’m going to wake you up a few times in case you do have a concussion. Myrtle will see you out in the morning.”
As if she’d heard her name, an old woman with deep brown skin and beaded cornrows that danced around her full face, came into the room. Clara knew immediately she was Myrtle and smiled at her, attempting to sit up.
“No, no,” Myrtle said, gesturing for her to lie down. She looked at Jonah, pushing her thick-lensed glasses up on her nose and scowling. “Good gracious, you could put someone in an early grave wearing that thing.”
She looked back at Clara, squinting slightly despite the glasses. “I heard he almost did. You’re lucky you just got a bump on your head.”
She moved closer, studying her with those dark, magnified eyes and laid her cool palm against Clara’s forehead and then put her knuckles on Clara’s cheek as if testing for fever. Seeming satisfied, her expression evened out, and she sat on the side of the bed.
Jonah stood, walking to Clara’s side of the bed where he picked up the empty glass. “I’m going to go fill this so you have water during the night if you get thirsty.”
Clara nodded and watched him as he walked to the door. Her eyes lingered on his tall physique, apparently not too concussed to appreciate his muscular backside and strong, broad shoulders.
When she looked back at Myrtle, Myrtle was watching her with a small smile on her lips, and Clara blushed, looking down.
“Jonah wanted me to come in and introduce myself and let you know I’m in the bedroom right next door if you need me.”
Clara frowned. “Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“I suppose he imagines you might be frightened if you think you’re alone here with him.”
Clara shook her head. “I’m not scared of him, Myrtle. Not even a little bit.”
Myrtle smiled, and it was warm and soft, her deep-set eyes shimmering under her lenses with what Clara thought were tears. “No, I can see you’re not.”
Myrtle reached out and took Clara’s hand, squeezing it softly. “I’ll let you rest now. You come on down to the kitchen in the morning, and I’ll make you something good and hearty to eat before you go.”
Clara nodded, biting at her lip. Jonah had said Myrtle would show her out in the morning, meaning he likely wouldn’t be around. Why? Because he’d only allow her to see him—even in a mask—in the dark of night?
Myrtle stood and began to turn. “Myrtle?”
She turned back toward Clara, tilting her head.
Clara sat up just a bit, leaning on her elbow. “Myrtle, what does he look like under that mask?” She asked it on a whisper, feeling as if she were betraying Jonah by even posing the question, but too curious to let the opportunity pass.
Sadness passed over Myrtle’s expression for a fleeting moment, her eyes filling with the unconditional love Clara could already see she had for him. “He looks like a man who’s been terribly hurt by the world and believes there is nothing left to love about him anymore.”
Clara’s heart constricted so tightly it was almost a physical pain.
Myrtle gave her one heart-rending smile and quietly left. Clara heard her say something right outside the door and a response in Jonah’s smooth, rich voice, then he was entering the room.
He put the full glass of water on the nightstand. “Here you go. If you need anything else tonight, Myrtle—"
“Please don’t go, Jonah. Lie with me.”
Jonah hesitated, bringing a hand to his mask as if unconsciously, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it.
“Keep that on if you want. I’d just like you to stay. Please.”
“Clara—”
“Please.”
He let out a gust of breath, hesitating again, then nodding slowly. He reached across her, shutting off the lamp that had emitted a very low light, darkness draping over them.
He lay next to her, and for a moment she held her breath, the nearness of him causing the blood flowing through her veins to hum.
She turned slowly toward him, resting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes. She felt his muscles tense for a brief moment, but then he relaxed, bringing his arm up and turning slightly so she was warm and protected in the cradle of his arms, her head resting under his chin.
Clara closed her eyes, loving the way he made her feel both safe and agitated in some twisty way that was pleasant and exciting. And she liked that she couldn’t see that mask that hid him from her.
The mask was unsettling because it stared at her, expressionless and unmoving. And that wasn’t the man whose arms held her. He wasn’t expressionless. Unmoving. He was sensitive and deeply caring whether he believed it of himself or not.
I do. I believe, she whispered inside of herself.
She reached her hand up and ran it down the portion of exposed jaw and he stilled under her touch.
“Jonah,” she whispered. “In the dark, I picture you the way I saw you in the pictures on the Internet because it’s the only thing I have to go by.”
He remained silent, though she sensed his sudden tension.
“But that feels wrong. Because I know you’re not that man anymore, and I want you to know that I don’t need you to be. I want to see you. I want to know you.”
She drew back and in the pewter light of the darkened room, lit only by the moonlight slipping through the edges of the gauzy curtains, she looked into his masked eyes.
Jonah made a small strangled sound in the back of his throat and broke eye contact, pulling her to him.
“You can picture me the way I was, Clara. I’m glad you know I’m not, but, trust me, it’s better this way.”
Clara was silent. She couldn’t believe that. She cared about him so much, cared about him as a person, as a man. She wasn’t so superficial that she couldn’t accept his scars. And wouldn’t it free him to show them to her? He couldn’t enjoy wearing a mask. But . . . she couldn’t force him to reveal himself. She kept doing that . . . pushing him when he wasn’t ready and then regretting it later. She burrowed into him. “I’m pushy, aren’t I?”
He chuckled softly. “Yeah, you are.” But he didn’t sound mad about it, and his hand was doing something wonderful and calming on her lower back, making her feel warm and sleepy.
And when his arms were around her like this and he was touching her, there was nothing more important in the world—not curses, or riddles, or stories about people long gone from this earth. Not scars or masks or walls or things that kept him from her. There was only his tenderness and his heart and his voice. Only him. And only her.
When she woke, the sunlight was streaming into the room.
Clara sat up, blinking as she looked around. There was still a dull ache in her head, but she felt better and remembered blearily Jonah waking her up several times during the night, speaking to her for a moment in that hypnotic voice of his and then letting her fall back into sleep. Clara sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the high bed and looking around the room.
There was a beautifully carved fireplace on the opposite wall and the mahogany furniture was obviously vintage. It was old and sparse except for the few pieces of furniture, but it still held charm and elegance due to the molding on the walls and the wide-planked wooden floor that squeaked as she put her weight on it.
Something on the bedside table caught her eye and she picked up a folder with her name written on the front in blocky print.
She opened it, her eyes widening with delight when she saw what it was. It was the folder Jonah’s brother, Justin, had put together of Chamberlain family information. Jonah had hunted it down and left it for her. She squeezed it to her chest. Please, she thought, hope and excitement swirling through her, please let there be something important inside. And let me recognize it when I see it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jonah stood off to the side of the house as Myrtle showed Clara out, his heart clenching as he watched her leave.
The women chatted animatedly, Myrtle’s arms moving as she punctuated her words the way she did. Clara laughed and the sound carried to Jonah, making his gut clench with want, where he stood watching them from the dimness of the surrounding trees.