Cassie watched him for a moment, then walked into the bedroom and closed the door. She pulled her shirt over her head and stepped out of her shorts, tossing them on the four-poster bed en route to the bathroom. Stripping off her underwear, she stood in front of the mirrors that lined an entire wall beside the sink. She cupped her hands over her breasts and frowned at the small swell of her stomach. She couldn’t imagine what had attracted Alex Rivers.
She picked up the bottles and jars that dotted the countertop—facial creams and exfoliating scrubs and clear astringents that seemed to belong in equal proportion to Alex and herself. She had already brushed her hair and washed her face when she realized there was no toothpaste.
There were two toothbrushes—one green, one blue—and she didn’t know which one was hers, either.
She checked in the cabinets that were recessed into the walls, but all she could find were pale peach towels and two thick terry cloth bathrobes. She wrapped one around herself, rubbing her hands down the heavy brushed cotton. Maybe Alex had toothpaste inhisbathroom, and surely he’d want his toothbrush.
She didn’t know which room he had gone into, and she was about to knock on random doors when she heard him speaking a little farther down the hall. “Life’s but a walking shadow.” The door was ajar, and in the reflection of the bathroom mirror she saw Alex standing over the sink, his eyes hollow. “A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,” he murmured, his voice no louder than a whisper. “And then is heard no more.”
Stunned, Cassie clutched the toothbrushes in her hand and leaned against the doorframe to see a little better. This was not Alex. He hadPicture Perfect
47transformed himself into a man beaten, a man who saw his life for what it would become—a flash in someone else’s memory, then something forgotten.
Cassie fought back the urge to push the door open and wrap her own hope tight around him. She did not know this new stranger, she knew him even less than she knew Alex, but she understood that she had come to help.
She thought about what Alex had said at the police station, the terror in his voice:You don’t know what it was like to lose you. And she began to see that the famous Alex Rivers came undone just as easily as the next person.
Cassie took one step forward and Alex opened his eyes, seeing her reflection. He was Alex again, and smiling, but in the darker gradients of his eyes she could see the terror and the numbness of Macbeth. She wondered if he had always been like that, if every character became a tiny part of him. She knew that actors, in some part, had to draw and embellish on their own experience, and the thought of so much despair buried somewhere in Alex wrenched her. “Where do you get it? All that pain?”
He stared at her, shaken by her second sight. “From myself.”
She moved first, or maybe he did, but then he was holding her and opening the tie of the robe, running his hands up and down her sides.
The toothbrushes fell to the floor and Cassie wound her fingers in his hair, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder. She inched her hands down his back as if she were feeding a seam, bunching the fabric of his shirt until her hands burned the skin at his waist.
He kissed hungrily, bumping them against walls and doorframes as he pushed his way back toward the master bedroom. Cassie fell against the bed, and he pulled apart the sides of her heavy robe, pinning her arms while the moon danced over her skin. His tongue traced the bend of her jaw, the curves below her breasts, the white lines of her thighs.
Cassie opened her eyes, dazed by the image of his body over hers.
Alex pressed his lips to her stomach. “Beautiful,” he said.
He’s acting.
As it had earlier that day, the thought came out of nowhere, and when it took root in her mind she began to struggle. But Alex’s weight was on her, pressing. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her so honestly she thought she would shatter. And then she remembered the spell he had woven between them that afternoon; the emptiness that had opened like a raw wound in her own stomach when she heard him speak as Macbeth.
The moment they came together, Cassie understood why they belonged to each other. He filled her, and she took away his scars. Cassie wrapped her arms around Alex’s neck, surprised by the tears that leaked from the edges of her eyes. She turned her face to the open window, breathing in the sweet mix of herself and Alex and endless ocean.
She was drifting off to sleep when Alex’s voice slipped over her. “You don’t have to get your memory back, Cass. I know who you are.”
“Oh?” she said, smiling. She drew Alex’s arm around her. “Who am I?”
She felt Alex’s peace curl against her like a benediction. He pulled her back against his front, into the place where she just fit. “You’re my other half,” he said.
CHAPTERFIVE
IN another time and place, Will Flying Horse would have been a Dreamer.
He was eleven when his eyes opened in the middle of the night, seeing and not seeing at the same time. It was summertime, and outside the cicadas sang in the quiet of the half moon. But Will’s head screamed with the thunder, and when his grandparents rushed to the side of his bed, they could see violent blue bolts of lightning reflected in his pupils.
Cyrus Flying Horse reached across the glowing blanket of his grandson’s bed to grasp his wife’s hand. “Wakan,” he murmured. “Sacred.”
Although many things had changed for the Sioux over the years, certain habits died hard. Cyrus was a man who had been born on a reservation, who had seen the development of television and automobiles, and who, a month later, would watch a man walk on the moon. But he also remembered the things his father had told him about the Sioux who had visions. To dream of the thunder was powerful. If the dream was ignored, one could be struck dead by lightning.
Which was why, one morning in 1969, Will Flying Horse’s grandfather took him to see the shaman, Joseph Stands in Sun, about becoming a Dreamer. Joseph Stands in Sun was older than the earth, or so it was rumored.
He sat outside with Cyrus and Will on a long, low bench that ran the entire length of his log cabin. As he spoke, he whittled, and Will watched the wood as it first took the shape of a dog, then an eagle, then a beautiful girl, changing with every brush of the shaman’s hands. “In the days of my grandfather,” Joseph said, “a boy like you would search for a vision when he was ready to be treated like a man. And if he dreamed of the thunder, he would become a _Heyoka. _” Joseph peered down at Will, and for the first time Will noticed that the man’s eyes were different from any other eyes he’d ever seen. There were no irises at all. Just black, fathomless pupils. “Do you know this, boy?”
Will nodded; it was all his grandfather had talked about on the walk over to the shaman’s cabin. A hundred years earlier, the Heyokas had been tribal clowns, men who were expected to behave strangely. Some moved only backward, some spoke in a different tongue. They dressed in rags and slept without blankets in the winter, wrapped themselves in thick buffalo skins in the summer. They would dip their hands in boiling water and pull them out unscarred, proving they were more powerful than other men. Sometimes they received a vision from the spirits, warning of danger or another’s death. As Heyokas, they had the power to prevent it; but because they were Heyokas, they’d receive nothing for themselves in return for their efforts. Will had listened patiently to his grandfather, and the whole time he kept thinking he was damned glad it was 1969.
