The Longing Read online

  Sydney looked quickly up and down the sidewalk, but there was no sign of her dog. Later, she would wonder how the gate got open, how she didn’t notice, how Max was capable of sneaking out without her knowing, but—right now—she was wholly consumed with finding him. At least he wasn’t in the middle of traffic. At least he wasn’t dead on the street.

  “Max?” she tried again, and she could hear the panic in her voice. She repeated his name, jogging down the sidewalk, her breath catching every step, every step an agony as she swept the vicinity with her gaze.

  Max had never run off before. If she had been pressed, Sydney would have thought he was incapable of it. So she didn’t know where to look or what sort of route her dog might choose to take. Would he follow an interesting smell? Possibly. But she had no way of figuring out what that might be, or the direction it would have led him.

  She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, and her entire body vibrated with fear.

  “Max?” she cried out.

  Some people—a couple, walking down the sidewalk arm in arm; and a teenaged boy trundling along, his face turned down toward his phone—stopped for a heartbeat and looked at her in alarm. And then they kept walking.

  “Max?” Sydney called again. Her hands were clasped over her heart, if only to try to get it to stop pounding against her ribs so hard. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Panic consumed her with such totality that she wondered if this was what dying felt like.

  She closed her eyes, frozen to the spot. Her feet seemed to be nailed to the pavement beneath them. She was crumbling from the inside out. She couldn’t find him, would never find him again, and if Max had gone, then that meant she was alone, utterly alone, and there was nothing but darkness in this world, and she couldn't—

  “Hello?”

  A voice. A voice that sounded a little familiar. Kind. Warm. Calm.

  “Hello? Miss?”

  Sydney opened her eyes.

  And before her stood an angel.

  Sydney was using that word a lot these days, she realized, but angel was the only explanation for the vision before her. No human woman could look like this. It was impossible.

  The angel had long blonde hair. It fell in waves and shining, golden curls around her shoulders, lay against her collarbones like treasure. She wore a soft blue dress with a boat neckline that revealed those collarbones, framing them with soft cream lace that fluttered against her skin as she breathed in and out. The skirt of the dress billowed around her hips, the hem just kissing her calves, and her pretty feet were encased in shiny black pumps. She was a study in curves, her soft hips accentuated by the skirt of the dress, the hourglass shape of her body a perfect silhouette. Her breasts had the faultless curve of a classical statue, and her neck reminded Sydney of a particular painting she’d seen once, in an art history book in the library.

  Aphrodite, standing on a shell, rising from the ocean: a goddess.

  The woman’s soft, red-kissed lips were open, and her beautiful face, with its bright blue eyes framed in long, black lashes, her finely sculpted cheekbones, the sweet, soft curve of her jaw, wore an expression of concern. She gazed at Sydney, her head to the side, her eyes sad as she reached out with a hand, almost as if she were reaching toward a wounded animal she didn’t wish to startle.

  Her hand had long fingers. A pianist’s hands, Sydney thought dully, from somewhere far away. She has the perfect hands to play the piano, the perfect long fingers to reach every key effortlessly. To make lovely music.

  “Miss?” the woman said again, her voice a layer of velvet that seemed to wrap itself around Sydney’s stooped shoulders, light but warm. “Are you all right? Do you need help?”

  Her voice was familiar, and made Sydney’s heart skip a beat.

  Sydney nodded, swallowing—or she tried to swallow. Her mouth was as dry as sawdust left to collect on a carpenter’s bench.

  “Yes, my dog,” she said, and that’s when the tears pricked at her eyes, when the pain flowed through every vein of her body. “Max. He’s missing. We were in the courtyard, and then he just…disappeared.”

  The woman straightened, glancing up and down the street.

  “How long ago?”

  “Just…just a few minutes ago.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s a big black dog… He’s part Newfoundland,” said Sydney. “He looks a little like a bear.”

  “Max?” called the woman, stepping lightly down the sidewalk. She glanced across the street, and then trotted to the end of their block, gazing at the cross-section. “Max?”

  Sydney followed.

  They walked along the sidewalk together—quickly—the woman’s high heels clicking smartly on the concrete, Sydney’s shoes making a soft shush with each step. They looked in each driveway and parking lot. They went down each narrow alley.

  And then—they found him.

  Max was standing on the sidewalk, around the second corner of the block, and his tail was thumping furiously as he and another dog—this one on the end of a leash—sniffed each other like dogs do, an awkward way for humans to say hello but certainly enjoyed by canines.

  Max wagged his tail, and the other dog—a much smaller one, a terrier mix—sniffed him, and the owner of the terrier held Max by the collar, looking bewildered, as if she very much wished to find the big black dog’s owner.

  “Max!” Sydney cried out with a half-sob, and the space between them evaporated as she threw herself to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. She held him tightly, fiercely, and his fur absorbed her tears as she wept onto his shoulder.

  Max's new friend—delighted by this person kneeling next to him—began to wag his tail with ferocity, peppering Sydney's arm with kisses. The owner of the little dog let go of Max’s collar and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “He just came running up to us. But Prince doesn’t mind other dogs.” The woman gestured down to her sweet little mutt. “This big guy seemed like he’d run off, so I grabbed his collar.”

  “Thank you,” said Sydney, and she said it over and over again as she cried onto Max’s shoulder. “You don’t know how much this means to me—thank you.”

  The other woman nodded, flushed and smiling, and then turned and walked away.

  But the woman who had looked for Max with Sydney stayed.

  The angel.

  She crouched down, her blue skirt billowing around her as she leaned back on her high heels, gazing at Max with a soft smile on her red lips. “I take it this is your dog?” she joked, with a low chuckle, and Sydney—hardly capable of speaking anymore—could only nod.

  “I’m so glad,” murmured the woman, holding out her hand to Max. Max sniffed it and licked it, and the woman laughed as Max’s tail thumped.

  Suddenly, the woman stood and undid the slim, blue belt at her waist. Sydney hadn’t noticed it before. The woman offered the belt to Sydney and indicated Max’s collar.

  “You could use this as a makeshift leash. To make it easier to get him back home.” Her soft smile deepened. “You live in the Hamilton, too?”

  Sydney was suddenly aware of her tear-streaked face. She fished a used tissue out of the pocket of her slacks and dabbed at her eyes and nose with it, before stuffing it back into her pocket self-consciously.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She took the belt from the woman’s proffered hand. Her hand was like warm silk, and—this close—Sydney could smell the woman’s perfume. It was something sophisticated, grown-up, like the perfume she smelled when she walked by the makeup counters in the high-end department stores at the mall. There was a floral note to it, but a warm depth beneath, like the sensual, bewitching aroma of amber.

  “I live in 718B,” the woman said, as Sydney threaded the end of the belt underneath Max’s collar. “I don’t think we’ve run into each other before. I’m Caroline Porter.”

  Sydney stood and wiped her sweaty palm along the thigh of her slacks; then she took the woman’s hand.

  “Sydney C
adence,” murmured Sydney. The woman’s handshake was surprisingly strong. Her fingers, closing over Sydney’s hand, held a subtle power in them that made Sydney stare.

  “What a beautiful name,” said Caroline, her head tilted to one side as their handshake ended. “Have you lived in the Hamilton for long?” They both turned and began to walk back down the block, Max padding along contentedly at Sydney’s side.

  “No,” said Sydney, and then she licked her lips. Her adrenaline was slowly pooling down into her toes, but it could rise easily again at a moment’s notice. Discussing the past was a surefire way to fill her with that potent fear again, but skirting it was sometimes difficult in conversations with new people. So she opted for quiet.

  “No” was a perfectly acceptable answer; at least she had answered the question. But Caroline glanced sidelong at her in surprise. Her pretty golden curls were swept over one shoulder, and Sydney thought of words like “alabaster” and “angelic,” even though she knew that thinking Caroline was an angel had been a very silly thought.

  “I moved to the Hamilton about ten years ago,” said Caroline, easily filling the silence with a smile and warm words. “And I’ve stayed around, despite Debbie’s refusal to fix anything. She’s the landlord. Have you met her yet?”

  Sydney nodded, her mouth drawn into a tight line. “My air-conditioning unit’s been broken. She hasn’t come by to fix it, though she promised she would weeks ago.”

  “Which unit do you live in?” asked Caroline, genuinely curious.

  Sydney took a deep breath. No one, except for the utility companies and the mailman, knew her unit number, and that was because, if anyone else knew, Sydney would feel unsafe, exposed...

  But when she glanced at Caroline, no fear rose in Sydney’s throat. No fear raced just beneath her skin. Instead, she felt calm, gazing at Caroline’s lovely face, at her soft smile and the sweet lines at the corners of her dazzling blue eyes.

  She trusted Caroline, she realized.

  She trusted her. A perfect stranger.

  “110A,” said Sydney, surprising herself.

  The apartments were divided into three parts in the U-shaped Hamilton building. “A” apartments were on the left side of the “U,” “B” apartments were in the middle, and “C” apartments were on the right. There were seven stories to the building, which meant that Caroline lived on the top floor, and Sydney lived on the first floor.

  Caroline nodded, and they turned the block one more time. They were now on the same street as the Hamilton.

  “I think I remember the gentleman who lived there before you,” said Caroline, her smile deepening a little. “He always complained about the AC being out. He moved to a retirement home last month. I'm sure he has better maintenance service there.” Caroline winked at her, long, black lashes pressing down against a lovely cheek.

  This drew an unexpected smile from Sydney. She shook her head a little. “So, Debbie doesn’t fix…anything? Ever?”

  Caroline paused in front of the open gate to the courtyard and put her hand out to touch the rusted, wrought iron fence. “Well, not exactly. She fixes the big things. Like, if your door breaks or your sink overflows. But something like an AC unit?” Caroline shrugged elegantly. “I don’t think she considers it a necessity.”

  “Good to know,” said Sydney, and then she stepped forward, just past Caroline, and pulled the gate open for the other woman all the way.

  “Thank you.” Caroline flashed Sydney a surprised smile and walked up the one step and into the courtyard, her heels clicking on the slate stones that formed the overgrown path in the garden. The sweetness of her perfume seemed to flow through the air like a curving finger, beckoning Sydney forward.

  “You know, I don’t come out here too often.” Caroline glanced at a cherry tree in bad need of pruning, and the arborvitae that lined the fence alongside the sidewalk. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Like a secret garden.”

  Sydney said nothing as she closed the gate securely. She still gripped Max’s makeshift leash with firm fingers, but as she watched Caroline move over the path, she began to relax by degrees.

  Caroline’s gaze was pointed up—up at the cherry tree that arched in the very center of the garden, indolent branches dragging along the slate and lying in the garden beds. Caroline’s attention was on the flowers, riotous and chaotic and full of color. She wouldn’t notice if Sydney watched her, for just a moment.

  So, Sydney did.

  The curve of Caroline’s neck as she glanced upward, the sweet fullness of her cheeks and the slope of her jaw, the softness of her lips, her mouth falling open in wonder as she took in the bounty of cherries overhead, was something so beautiful that Sydney couldn’t help but stare. The woman’s skirt moved around her calves, and flowers stretched out to brush their petals along her pretty ankles. It seemed that the whole garden ached to reach out and touch Caroline.

  Just like Sydney wanted to.

  If you had asked Sydney five years ago if what she was feeling was wrong, she would have said, “Of course not.” She would have been adamant, shaking her head, the “no” forceful, certain.

  But then It had happened.

  Before.

  Now, as she watched Caroline, as her heartbeat thundered, as she held Max’s makeshift leash tighter and tighter, Sydney heard a roaring in her ears.

  She’d been told this was wrong.

  What she was feeling for Caroline was wrong.

  She’d been told over and over and over again, until…

  Sydney’s breath caught in her throat, and there were small pinpricks of darkness hovering at the corners of her vision, waiting to descend. She had to get away. She had to pull Max into the building, into her apartment, close the door and lock out the past.

  Sydney took one last lingering look at Caroline, her eyes dazzled by the beauty of her. And then she tugged Max down the pathway, up the steps, and into the Hamilton building.

  “Thank you for helping me find my dog,” she called over her shoulder as the door shut firmly behind her.

  She was surrounded by darkness in the hallway.

  She’d left all of the light outside.

  Chapter 2

  Sydney stared down at the pile of unfolded shirts in front of her with unseeing eyes. Her hands knew, by instinct, how to fold a shirt properly for display on the store shelf, and because her hands could move on their own, it left her head and her heart free to think.

  This, perhaps, was not a good thing.

  Because all last night, and all this morning, all Sydney could think about was her.

  Caroline.

  The angel.

  Sydney was highly aware of the fact that calling any earthly being an “angel” was an indulgence in fanciful hyperbole. But she couldn't stop thinking of Caroline this way, no matter how hard she tried.

  Last night, as she cooked dinner and ate it, as she refilled Max’s food bowl, as she brushed his coat and checked her email (some spam, a newsletter) and her new Facebook account (nothing that interesting, but some sweet dog pictures that she “liked”), she operated on autopilot, performing these tasks without really considering them.

  Her thoughts were preoccupied with Caroline.

  The way that she had smiled at Sydney… Oh, the memory made her blood rush a little faster, made warmth pool into her limbs, into the depths of her stomach. Sydney’s hands were tense as she folded and refolded a t-shirt, trying to make the seams line up perfectly, though her eyes were unfocused on the fabric, its hue as golden as Caroline’s hair…

  “Boo!”

  Sydney whirled around, her heart beating so hard against her ribs that she felt bruised. She held up her hands in defense, and the man who’d done the “booing” held up his hands in surrender, his eyes as wide as wheels.

  “Whoa, Syd. Seriously, chill.”

  Thomas cleared his throat and tugged on his button-down shirt as he looked at his friend. At the sight of him, Sydney relaxed a little, but there was no hiding the ten
sion in her shoulders, or the way that her hands curled—reflexively—into fists.

  “Remind me never to surprise you while you're holding a kitchen knife,” Thomas muttered, brows raised, his head tilted to one side. “I was gonna be all funny and tell you that you looked like were a million miles away, but—I guess you kind of were.”

  “Sorry, Thom,” said Sydney, her apology formal. “It’s just… I was…startled a lot, growing up. I don’t really like it.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have done that.” Thom shrugged good-naturedly and then bounced up to sit on one of the tiers of shelves. He was a thin man, and though the shelves were poorly constructed—they only had to look good, after all—they didn’t move a millimeter as he rested upon them. “Does this have to do with your mysterious past?” he asked Sydney, with a bright, playful smile.

  Sydney, however, was in no mood for Thom’s teasing today. She shook her head distractedly. “Come on, Thom,” she sighed, picking up the t-shirt again, and trying—for the third time—to fold it properly. “I promise, there’s not much to tell—”

  “Bullshit.” He crossed his legs as he leaned back on his hands. “You’re like Wolverine, but a chick. Your past is super secret. I mean, your ‘Origins’ comic would probably be spectacular—”

  “Wolverine?’” asked Sydney, making a face. “I don’t know what that is.”

  A moment later, she realized she’d said something Very Wrong.

  It happened occasionally when she and Thom were in a conversation. He’d start talking about something that, she assumed, was from pop culture, and she’d tried to play along at first…but she always got in over her head.

  Thom stared at her, and if his eyes had been wide before, now they were practically falling out. “You've never heard of Wolverine?” he asked, his voice deadpan. “Yesterday, you didn’t know what The Real Housewives was.”

  “It’s a television show,” Sydney replied automatically, but Thom’s eyes had narrowed, and his lips were pursed.