The Wish Collector
Page 50

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Clara pulled her light jacket around her, inhaling the fresh, pure scent of an evening washed clean by a day of rain.
The familiar sound of Mrs. Guillot's voice drifted to her on the breeze, and she smiled with pleasure as the sweet sound rolled through her.
Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quick’ning ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light.
Clara let herself in the gate, stepping past the tabby cat that sat cleaning himself on the stone path.
Mrs. Guillot stopped singing, her face bursting into a warm smile as she spotted Clara. "Well, Clara, darlin’ girl, how are you? It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you."
"I'm good. I’ve looked for you, but you haven’t been on your porch recently when I’ve walked by. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful. I’ve been keepin’ some company with Harry,” she said, and Clara swore the pink in her cheeks deepened just a smidge. “And of course, now that the weather’s cooled down a bit, I spend more time indoors in the evening.”
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “The cooler weather is such a relief.”
"Isn’t it? I was just going to make myself a cup of coffee. Will you join me? I picked up some of that fall creamer. I’ve got pumpkin spice, peppermint, and, let’s see"—she put her finger on her chin as she rose from her chair—“oh! crème brûlée.”
Clara grinned. “How did you know I was a sucker for fall coffee creamer?”
Mrs. Guillot laughed as she opened her front door, holding it for Clara to enter behind her. “Who isn’t, dear?”
“No one I want to know.”
Mrs. Guillot laughed as Clara closed the front door behind them and entered the cozy room. The furnishings were older, but obviously well kept, with warm afghans on the backs of the chairs and plush throw pillows at each end of the two facing sofas. In the corner, a television was on, the sound turned down so low it could barely be heard.
“You take a seat and I’ll put the coffee on. I see you’ve been to visit Mr. Baptiste.”
Clara nodded, placing the bag containing zucchini and yellow squash on Mrs. Guillot’s coffee table. “Yes. He’s closing up for the season in a couple of weeks. I’ve been visiting him as much as I can. He’s such a nice man, and I’ll miss him when he’s not there anymore.”
“That he is. I’ll miss seeing him too. Make yourself at home, and I’ll be back in a few minutes. What kind of creamer would you like?”
“Pumpkin spice, please,” Clara said as she sat on the sofa, looking around the room at the different knickknacks Mrs. Guillot had displayed.
She glanced at all the photographs atop the side tables, and on the console that held the television, all the people Mrs. Guillot had loved and lost.
She heard Mrs. Guillot humming the tune she’d been singing when Clara walked through her gate. “That’s a lovely song, Mrs. Guillot,” Clara called to her.
“Yes, it is, dear,” Mrs. Guillot said, her voice carrying clearly from the kitchen right next to the living room. “It’s called And Can It Be. My mama, rest her sweet soul, didn't know how to read, but oh, did she know how to sing. Just like an angel. She taught me every hymn she knew."
"You sing them beautifully.”
“Thank you, dear. Oh, I forgot to mention that I bought a ticket for your opening night. I’ve been checking and when they went on pre-order, I snatched mine right up.”
“You did?” Clara asked, the delight clear in her voice.
What a sweet, sweet woman Mrs. Guillot was. And how wonderful to know that even though her father wouldn’t be at her opening night—the very first one he wouldn’t be able to attend and oh, how that knowledge hurt—Clara would have at least one person in the audience just for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillot. That means so much to me.”
“I can’t wait.”
The whir of a coffee grinder met Clara’s ears and she settled back into the sofa as Mrs. Guillot resumed humming, watching disinterestedly as a news program started playing.
After a minute, Clara sat up, blinking at a clip on the television. She grabbed the remote on the coffee table and turned up the volume, her fingers fumbling slightly in her haste to hear what was being said.
“I just love this story, Genevieve,” the male newscaster said to the female newscaster. “It seems this masked man is going around New Orleans doing good deeds for people in need. There have been a handful of stories from folks saying he’s part of the Brass Angels, which as you know is a group of volunteer crime-fighters formed after Hurricane Katrina.”
“A masked man?” Clara whispered, shocked. That’s what she thought she’d seen in the clip that had been part of the news story’s opening. The mask was eerily similar if not exactly the same to the one she’d seen Jonah in on two occasions now. Her heart sped up.
“Yes, Brennan,” the newscaster named Genevieve answered. “It’s so interesting. But the most fascinating part is he’s apparently not only helping people as part of the Brass Angels, but he’s actually donating money in some cases. A lot of money.”
Clara watched as a teary-eyed young woman sat next to an obviously sick little boy in a hospital bed as she told about a man who had approached her in the hospital courtyard, somehow known about the treatment her son needed, and handed over a cashier’s check for fifty grand, a check that contained no personal information except the bank where it’d been issued.
“I just want to thank him,” the woman said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “My son is scheduled tomorrow for the surgery I hope will save his life, and”—she sniffled, reaching for her son’s hand and squeezing it as the little boy looked at his mother with love in his eyes, a small smile on his lips—“and I just really would like to thank the man who made it possible.”
“News Eight has obtained the camera footage from the parking garage of the hospital, and if you look closely, you can see this masked man walking around a corner. Unfortunately, the camera on the other side was out of order at the time, but we’ve frozen the frame where this mystery man looks at the screen. If you are able to identify him, please let us know so this grateful mother and a host of others can thank him for his kindness and generosity.”
The screen moved to a grainy picture of a man looking up at a camera above him, his head tilted slightly as though he were peering out of one eye that was stronger than the other.
Clara’s heart gave a strong jolt and she put her hand over her mouth.
“A masked man who helps the hopeless,” Mrs. Guillot said from behind her before coming around and placing two coffee cups on the table, the delicious scent of coffee and pumpkin spice drifting to Clara and breaking her from her shocked trance. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all. Am I the only one in the room who finds that quite . . . alluring?”
Clara couldn’t help the startled laugh that bubbled up her throat as she turned to Mrs. Guillot. Alluring. No, no Mrs. Guillot was definitely not the only one. “Mrs. Guillot, I . . . I know him.”
Mrs. Guillot tilted her head, her eyes filling with surprise. “You do? Who is he?”
Clara shook her head. “I can’t tell. I mean, I didn’t know either, not until just now. He obviously doesn’t want anyone to know.”
Mrs. Guillot rested her hand on Clara’s. “Is he by any chance the man you weren’t sure if you were going to offer grace to from up close or from far away?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Guillot nodded. “And what did you choose, dear?”
“Up close. Very up close.”
Mrs. Guillot’s lips tipped, and she gave Clara a knowing look. “I see.” She glanced at the television that had moved on to a different public interest story. “It seems it was a good call. Any man who acts the way that man is acting is very, very serious about redemption.”
She patted Clara’s hand again. “Now drink your coffee, dear. And then you go to that young man and offer him a little more grace. And this time, consider getting even closer.”