Heartsongs Read online

  Heartsongs

  by Paula Freda

  © 1999 and © 2005 by Paula Freda

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This story appeared in the anthology novel Heart Bouquets that comprised 3 novellas and 3 short stories written and copyrighted by the same author, Paula Freda.

  Heartsongs

  by Paula Freda

  In the darkness lit softly by a nightlight, Laura Sharon Dellisogni said her prayers and slid under her thick comforter. Her heart beat faster as she prepared to dream. She watched from behind closed eyelids, concentrating on the ultraviolet colors and shapes the nightlight and her own imagination created. What adventure would she live tonight? What song would her subconscious mind compose and her heart sing? What form would her soul mate take?

  The moon had reached its apex, bleaching the sand below it the palest shade of silver. White-capped waves rushed to shore, curling over it, tempting the waterlogged grains of sand to follow them back into the sea. Jace stood a few inches shy of the waves, his gaze trained on the horizon where the water joined with the sky and the stars. He waited. He knew she would appear soon, on the edge of the sea, her form opalescent, cloaked in mist, surreal, an illusion or a vision, whichever he chose to believe. Even as he thought about her, a hazy distortion formed, the size of a thumbprint, growing larger and clearer. She floated toward the shore, toward him.

  The alarm clock buzzed. Laura opened her eyes. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, gliding across the room, warming it. Laura stretched under the comforter and yawned sleepily. Another day, another eight hours at the office, typing on the computer along with four other women on the staff of her town’s local paper. The smell of coffee perking, Mom’s personal alarm, found Laura’s door slightly ajar and whiffed into her room. Laura inhaled its tempting aroma. Must have a cup, she thought. She rose and went into the bathroom. She showered, dried her brown hair to curl softly about the sides of her round face, and dressed. The pale blue short-sleeved shift somewhat camouflaged the extra twenty-five pounds she needed to lose to be labeled slim. She left her bedroom and followed the short corridor into the kitchen. Mom had toast and juice on the table, a box of dry cereal, and bowls and spoons set up for any takers.

  Dad had already left for his job as a cook at the restaurant. Her older brother Jim, an English professor, lived on campus at a neighboring college with his wife who taught Ancient History. Laura’s younger brother Mark was expected momentarily. He worked the night shift in the art department of the same newspaper office that employed Laura. The Dellisognis, in contrast to their stereotyped Italian heritage, were a quiet, conservative family who felt secure in their everyday routine. Except for a trifling family argument or two during the month, they were content to go about their business with the least said the better. Laura’s father was the strong silent type. Her mother was the ruler of the nest, though she never admitted it. But Dad didn’t mind. Mom was kind and caring. She was possibly smarter than Dad when it came to judgments and solutions. The household ran smoothly and Dad was content.

  Laura never complained. She had been an exceptionally compliant child, sensitive and eager to please. Jim had been blessed with all the talent in the family, winning a scholarship to the college of his choice. Laura, two years younger, had graduated high school with good grades, attended the local college for two years, and majored in Liberal Arts. Then she had enrolled in Business School, and perfected the typing skills she’d originally learned in high school. After working in several offices, she’d finally settled in her present job for the past six years.

  Life in her home ran by the clock. Mom continued to work part time at the local grammar school cafeteria, belonged to several charitable organizations, and helped out at the local hospital. She was satisfied with her life. Like her children, she was free to extend herself beyond the duties expected of her as a homemaker.

  Mom and Dad had never seemed anxious for Laura to marry. They loved her too much and were too kind. Laura was too quiet and shy to encourage the few young men who occasionally asked her out for a date. She dressed well, but the intriguing contours and depths and planes that work together to form an attractive, seductive face and body were missing. She was pleasant to look at, to greet or smile at, and to pass by comfortably. But in her dreams Laura was beautiful.

  She’d never told anyone about her special ability to create her own images during slumber. That was her secret, her special talent, and her escape. Last night she had become an ethereal vision for her imagined soul mate. She had traveled across the boundaries of time to find the lover she had lost in a former lifetime. She could still feel the warmth of his smile as he’d recognized her, and clasped her in his arms. He was tall, slim and handsome, with dark hair swept neatly behind his ears and cut just past the nape of his neck.

  Entering the kitchen Laura smiled, kissed her mother “good morning,” and took her place at the table, second on the right side, as she had done for as long as she could remember.

  Stephen De Bourne clicked off the electric shaver, and ran a hand smoothly over the chiseled contours of his cheeks and jaw. The role he was playing called for cleanshaven, unlike the last movie, an action thriller, where his character had required beard stubble. Much easier, he thought, for the part of him that disliked the monotony of shaving. But clean-shaven, at times a mustache with or without a goatee, were what he was used to. This morning he was late. The director, who had wanted Stephen to play the part of the tough, sensitive hero, had come close to bribing the studio to hire him for the part. Stephen commanded blockbuster salary.

  On his way out of the trailer, Stephen remembered to reset his alarm clock an hour earlier. He loved his sleep, always had. Even as a boy, his mother had tried in vain to teach him to rise when the alarm clock rang. But it was so pleasant in that other world, where they were no worries about his grades, or girls, no fears concerning his image, self-esteem and conformity, the three devils that plague teen-age years. In that other world he was anyone he wanted to be. In that other world, she was there, his soul mate, the loveliest, most understanding, most desirable girl he knew by a thousand names. Yet they were all her, just as he, under a thousand guises, was always himself. Perhaps that was why drama and the silver screen had come so easy and natural to him. Many who reached for that same goal waited years, often growing old in the interim. The film industry had noticed Stephen immediately, during his short tenure in soaps. Now ten years later, at thirty, he was known as the “hunk with a heart,” or the “hunk with the smile,” that sold movie tickets.

  He had never married, though he could have had almost any woman. The tabloids loved to invent rumors about his love affairs. The studios used these rumors to advantage to garner interest and publicity for his movies. In truth, Stephen De Bourne had slept with only two women during his life, who he remembered now simply as good friends. The woman he’d always desired, who fulfilled all his needs, was the girl he’d created in his dreams. No one knew his secret. If they did, they might recommend a psychiatrist.

  He left the trailer and strode to the on-site set in the driest part of the Mojave Desert. Bernie greeted him with a wave. He was a broad-shouldered, sturdy man of medium height, clean-shaven. He wore a visor cap with the name of the movie he was shooting, Sword of Damocles. “Okay, let’s get the cameras rolling,” he called out. “Where’s the leading lady?” he shouted. “SheilaSamLeo!” The crew hustled about the set.

  The shoot went well, and late into the evening. Tomorrow they would film the last scene. Stephen could then return to his apartment in New
York and begin scanning the new scripts his agent had waiting for him. He ate supper with Bernie and the crew, but retired early. He knew once he was out of earshot they’d comment on his aloofness, or why he preferred to be alone rather than socializing. They didn’t know.

  In a black and white tuxedo he stood on the top of a precipice that dropped sharply to the rocks below. Riled foamy ocean waves rolled over the rocks and crashed against the base of the cliff. Stephen’s arms closed about his lover. Her simple pale blue dress was cool to his touch. Above him the sky was overcast. A storm was brewing. In the distance an eighteenth century ship with tall masts and billowing sails waited for his return to hoist anchor.

  Pandora raised her dark eyes and gazed hopelessly into his own. “I will die for you!” she cried. “I will end your torment. The Flying Dutchman will cease his wanderings. Heaven will grant us entry. I give my life for yours.”

  “No!” Stephen cried as he tried to hold her, but she moved quickly over the edge. “No!” he screamed, reaching to catch her. “Pandora!” She hurtled to the rocks below, silently. He gazed up at the dark clouds, past them to heaven. “No, not this way. Give her back her life. Wipe away my existence from her memory. I will not free myself of the curse by her death.” He closed his eyes and stepped over the edge. He was not afraid, for he had died centuries ago. He remembered for the millionth time his death, one justly deserved, at the hands of his own men, the sailors he drove mercilessly in fair weather and ill, to outsail other traders. His ship was known as the fastest on the trade route, his wares the most exotic. He was said to be the richest merchant of his eraand the cruelest. And so he was cursed to wander the seas until he had learned to love. The curse would last until he could be loved in such measure that his beloved would be willing to give her life for him. Cursed until he could experience the pain of loss, the same pain he had caused many a wife awaiting her sailor who would never return because of him. He opened his eyes. He was back on the ship. Already the anchor was rising, the rusting chains grating and scratching against the wooden hull. He nodded to the invisible crew, the souls of men condemned for similar transgressions, condemned to wander the seas for all eternity.

  And then he saw her. She waited on the deck above his quarters, her hair dark and long, wind tossed behind her. He ran up the steps. “No, Pandora. They can’t condemn you as well. Yours was a selfless act.”

  She did not answer immediately, but turned and pointed. In the distance a light shown, so bright that it obliterated the sea and the clouds. The light radiated and then prism and enveloped the ship, dissipating the chill, warm and welcoming. Music, soft yet triumphant and pleasing, accompanied by an angelic voice, filled the light. Pandora slid her arm about Stephen’s waist and smiled at him. “You are free, my love!”

  The alarm clock buzzed and Stephen stirred, waking reluctantly, the feel of Pandora in his arms lingering so that he had to look to remind himself he had been dreaming again.

  Laura sat in the living room with her brother listening to the six o’clock news. The world seemed to be going mad. So few were willing to compromise and discard their primitive past. Intellectually and technologically man had come so far, and yet emotionally he remained in the toddler stage. If humankind had utilized its energy in pursuits of the mind, accepting humanity’s sameness—all part of the cosmos—instead of bias, foolish pride, territorial gains and war, today humanity would be out among the stars and the galaxies, exploring; would have by now conquered disease and death.

  The newscaster announced Stephen De Bourne’s newest movie presently shooting in the Mojave Desert. Laura listened attentively. Stephen De Bourne was her favorite actor. Among the myriad of handsome “hunks,” he was the one she respected. For to her he was handsome both on the outside and on the inside. She had followed his career for years, since his short stint on the soaps. Her scrapbook of his accomplishments, which she kept hidden in her closet, was filled with related magazine and newspaper articles and agent’s photos. Stephen De Bourne was handsome, but he was not in love with himself. He’d never even planned on becoming an actor, certainly not a heartthrob. His reputation was untainted. He respected his co-workers and treated them as equals. He was oddly surprised at his success, a private man who enjoyed his work. He dated occasionally, but was quoted as saying, “I’ve only loved one woman, and I will love her forever.” He remained unmarried. He was the man with whom she wove her dreams, the soul mate she yearned for.

  The telephone on the end table rang. As she was nearest to it, she picked up the receiver. Jackie, her co-worker and the closest to a friend that Laura allowed herself, spoke excitedly from the other end. “Guess what? Do you know who’s staying the night at our Only Hotel in Town?”

  Laura shook her head and shrugged. “Who?”

  “The man whose image is staring at you from the television set, on the news story you’re probably annoyed at me for interrupting with this telephone call.” Laura laughed. Jackie was right about her feeling annoyed, but the rest of her info was probably a tease. “Of course,” she replied, playing along. “And I’m going over later to meet him, on a personal invitation.”

  Jackie insisted, “I’m not kidding. Nick just called me. He heard Frank accepting the reservation on the phone.”

  Nick was Jackie’s youngest brother who worked part time after school as a bellboy in the hotel run by Frank Matthews. Laura held her breath, and then on an explosion of breath, “You’re kidding?”

  “No, I told you I’m serious. The company plane carrying De Bourne and the director developed some minor problem. They had to make an emergency landing just outside of town, near Lenny’s gas station. That’s where the call came from. I guess Lenny told them about the nearest hotel. I’m giving Nick a lift home around nine. Wanna come? Nobody probably knows about De Bourne staying at the hotel. Nick said he heard Frank promise to keep their arrival quiet. Common sense there’d be twenty reporters showing up by tomorrow morning.”

  Laura thought about the invitation for a moment, but only a moment. “Yes, I would like to come.”

  “Great. I’ll be over later.

  The Only Hotel in Town was three stories high and a quarter of a block in length. Its main lobby accessed a small restaurant that operated along with the hotel and independently. Twelve simple but comfortably furnished bedrooms comprised the second and third floor.

  Nick was waiting outside the main entrance.

  “Has he come?” Jackie asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  Jackie quickly hustled her brother into the back seat and parked across the street, where all three intended to wait for a glimpse of the actor when he arrived. About an hour later a yellow and brown taxi stopped in front of the hotel and Stephen and the director stepped out. Both men hesitated, and turned for instant, experts by now at sensing someone watching them. The streetlights and the moonlight spotlighted Stephen. Jackie and Nick dropped low into their seats, but Laura gazed, riveted, mesmerized anew by the face she had spent countless nights with, in one guise or other. He was as handsome off screen as he was on it and in her dreams. Stephen shook his head. “We’re news,” he told Bernie. “Plan on locking doors and windows, and eating inside our room.” Bernie nodded, disgruntled, as they headed for the lobby. Not that Bernie didn’t welcome the publicity, but neither of them was ready for the press as yet.

  In the car Jackie sat up. “All clear,” she said, and noticed Laura staring out the open window. “You had the right idea,” she said, chiding herself for ducking and missing seeing De Bourne. “So, what did he look like in person?”

  “Call my mother; tell her I’ll be late.” Laura opened the car door and headed for the hotel.

  “Sign here,” Frank said proudly. What an honor, he thought, to have two celebrities staying at his hotel. Tomorrow, after they’d left, his town and its Only Hotel would be headline news in the entertainment section of newspapers across the country. He could expect business to improve considerably as tourists made a po
int of stopping at the hotel where Stephen De Bourne had stayed. He’d sanctify the room, and make sure the two posed with him for a photo that would hang in a prominent spot in the small lobby. He wasn’t too pleased when Laura entered the lobby and walked quietly to a leather couch on the side. Her presence meant that the town already knew about his guests. He’d given his word, which would now be doubted, and his request for a photo probably be denied. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice her. He could always say she was the maid reporting for duty.

  Laura sat down, never taking her gaze from Stephen. He was as handsome as his image on the screen: even more so, dressed casually in a black denim jacket and jeans, and black hiking boots. Even the sadness and the mysterious longing in his eyes were real, as she had always suspected. Very few noticed that. You had to look beyond the copied image.

  Stephen bent to sign the register. From the corner of his right eye he saw her. He turned to look at Laura. Bernie followed his example, and then glared at Frank. “She’s just the maid,” Frank quickly explained. “I’ve sworn her to secrecy, along with the other employees, if they want to hold on to their jobs!” He spoke loud to be sure that Laura heard him and cast a meaningful look at her. He knew Nick’s sister worked with Laura at the newspaper office. Frank was a friend of Nick and Jackie's father, a classmate and fellow graduate. He was also on the bowling team with Laura’s father. Bernie scowled, complaining, “Love struck fans and paparazzi make me sick!” Stephen smiled patiently and finished signing the register. He looked at Laura again. “It’ll pass,” he said for Bernie’s and her benefit.

  Frank took their bags and began escorting the two men upstairs to his largest, slightly better furnished room. Walking up the stairs, Stephen could feel the girl’s gaze following him. Again he turned. She was plain, slightly overweight, hair mid-length, a mousy, tousled brown. But she was crying, quietly. Tears were slipping down her cheeks and glistening in the lamplight.