Diamond Infatuated

By Remona G. Tanner

Malcolms life had become nothing more than mundane repetition, a series of routine tasks from sunrise to sunset. Existence no longer required thought or effort. Life and death were inevitable birthrights, but love was a matter of luck. Hope had suffered extinction in his heart
Somewhere in the desolate remains of a seemingly harmless man erupted a strong breezeperhaps blown in by fateand it smelled of her. It brought with it an obsession that would prove to be deadly. She was nothing more than an absent memory, an unattainable dream Malcolm had convinced himself he could never acquire, to protect himself from believing he deserved happiness. They had crossed paths before, back when Malcolm was far too young to comprehend what he believed to be love at first sight. He had loved her before beauty graced the eye, before he ever spoke a name so sweet.

On the night the Diamond perished, there were two others present. One of them was consumed with an infatuation that stole her life. She was deemed the Diamond, a title not self-proclaimed but very much deserved. Her name was LaSydia the Diamond LaVan, a woman whose worth had been measured by manythe equivalent of a rare, precious stone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491861684

Remona G. Tanner

Esteemed author Remona G. Tanner continues to blaze a cultural trail through Southwest Louisiana with the release of her fourth novel. The Vast Uncertainty of a Raindrop. In addition to her notable publications, Tanner continues to mentor troubled youth and advocate for arts of all form.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Blinding camera lights flashed repeatedly, champagne corks soared through the air, and glitter and confetti showered the entire ballroom floor. The masquerade ball was in full swing. Fair maidens mingled, some of them silenced by their moretta muta masks. Well-dressed gentlemen in white volto masks bowed politely, petitioning young women to cavort; the women obliged with mannered curtsies.

They danced the Viennese Waltz, adeptly rotating their partners; twirling tabarros sent the confetti flying. Malcolm forced his way through the mob of feathered debutants, adjusting his red cape and removing the bauta from his face—triggering a chain of enamored stares from the refined ladies heavily draped in their royalty. The eyes sheltered behind the festive costumes were sanctimonious, but he pushed forward, scanning the opera room for her: the belle of the ball. The damsel—she’d be there, her beautiful face hidden by a lace feline filigree mask.

Malcolm shuffled through the crowd, carefully stepping over the hems of all the glamorous floor-length gowns swaying every which way. He slowed his pace. There she was, in the center of the dance floor. The Swarovski crystals wrapped around her heels glistened almost as brightly as the jewels lining the lace concealing her face. Her scarlet dress slowly trailed behind her pirouette. She danced alone, swirling her hips with her arms stretched in the air, shifting her body to the sound of the accordion. Malcolm removed his cloak completely and loosened his butterfly bow tie. How would I even touch such a beauty with such an undeserving hand?

She noticed him standing near, eyes locked on her performance. Can you feel it? she asked, eyes shut as if subtracting her sense of sight would intensify her ability to feel the rhythm.

Feel what? asked Malcolm, intrigued.

The music.

I can hear it.

But can you feel it? Can you feel the music like a pulse in your waist, like a heartbeat in the soles of your feet? Her pelvis circled and her gown shifted, slightly revealing the sun-kissed skin right above her knee.

Malcolm smiled, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. I desire a dance with you, but my confidence—it flees with every swish of your hair. Would a kiss on your hand suffice as an invitation?

You wish to dance with me? Are there not dozens of dames here tonight? Surely there is one more desirable than me.

To dance with anyone else would do the waltz no justice. To see the most beautiful woman here dance all alone—it pains me.

She smiled back, extending her glove. It pains you? Then I suppose the humane thing to do would be to put you out of your misery.

She felt like satin clutched in his arms as they moved. The other guests ceased their promenade to watch the two of them. I could stay this way forever, said Malcolm, repositioning his feet to counter hers. Even if I never wake, everything I need to survive—I have it here. I could hold you like this for always.

Her lips grazed Malcolm’s ear as she whispered, I can’t stay. Her face was faintly disappointed.

Of course you can stay. Is this not my dream? Do I not control who stays and who goes? You can stay, just keep on dancing.

She loosened Malcolm’s grip and stepped back, allowing a small space to form between them. She began to weep beneath her mask. I wish I could. I’m so sorry, I can’t stay.

Tell me, what has motivated such fear?

She looked to the left and then to the right. The party guests surrounding them had begun to gray and harden, slowly turning to medieval stone statues with dry, cracked faces. Tiny, jagged shards of falling concrete caused tapping noises to echo through the hall. Yes, Malcolm, this dream belongs to you. You own it, but I am nothing more than a snag in your memory now, my departure being the only thing I’ve ever truly owned, my death being the only thing ever strong enough to bring me to life. She touched Malcolm’s face with both hands, exhaling her remaining breath instead of using it to speak out loud the true feelings inside. Each time we meet, each time we’re foolish enough to let the promise of a happy ending cease us, he comes for me. He comes, without fail, to retrieve me—his dearest possession.

No one’s going to hurt you, declared Malcolm, attempting to pull her close again.

She shoved him away violently. No, you need to go! Leave! Flee from the man whose shadow appears long before him like a plaguing cloud bearing down on us both. Hide from the one who turns this dream into a nightmare! Please wake up. She froze, her eyes directed toward the balcony. It’s too late. Her bottom lip quivered.

Malcolm turned to the balcony, positioning his stare on the wearer of the medico della peste. It was he, pointing his iron cane. Malcolm’s fist hardened. Leave this place! Malcolm yelled. Suddenly, he felt a gust of cold wind sweep the back of his neck. He turned back to find white rose petals slowly drifting to the marble floor, forming a floral pile; in the center of the pile sat her jeweled mask alongside a single uncut diamond. No! LaSydia!

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Perspiration beaded on Malcolm’s forehead and drenched his pillowcase. The hospital room was dim and dismal. A feeble nurse stood at the foot of the bed yielding a pan of supplies. Sorry to startle you, but it’s time to change your bandages. Since you’ve refused pain medication, it will be very painful; I apologize in advance for the pending discomfort. I hope you have a high tolerance for pain.

Malcolm said nothing as she began to remove the soiled gauze from the imbrued wound in his chest. Did she make it? he asked without looking directly at her. The nurse, clearly uncomfortable with answering, pretended not to hear the question. She continued to dress the injury. Malcolm grabbed her hand and made eye contact. Is she dead? Did he murder the Diamond LaVan?

Yes, if the obituary reads correctly, she said with penitent eyes. I’m afraid so.

CHAPTER ONE

LIGHTNING ILLUMINATED THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD, MOMENTARILY exposing the secrets kept by the shadows. The wind whistled as it aggressively, effortlessly whirled the rainwater. Tree branches swayed from side to side and leaves were quickly washed into the gutter lining the sidewalk. The weather was strangely fiercer than usual. A savage storm crowded the murky sky, casting a foggy mist. Thunder roared ferociously and rain poured, drowning the tight-knit community of West Haven.

Catherine Fitzgerald’s sleep had suddenly been interrupted by what sounded like yelling. She sat straight up, reaching for her eyeglasses on the nightstand near the bed. The elderly widow shuffled toward her kitchen and peered out the bay window, trying her best to see what was happening at the house next door. In an attempt to avoid being branded a nosy spinster, she usually kept the shades drawn as only a miserable recluse would—but something in the pit of her stomach had begun to tug and twist. Over the years she had learned to trust her instincts, so she stood on the tips of her toes like a ballerina, eyes carefully squinted with focus. The downpour was far too dense to see through.

It was one o’clock in the morning when the widow Fitzgerald entered her kitchen. She searched through the cabinet for her prescription arthritis medication and fixed herself a warm cup of cinnamon cider. Just as she lifted the cup to her lips to enjoy the first sip, she dropped it. The china shattered at her feet, spilling its contents all over her pink cotton slippers. A piercing chill crept in and it raised the hairs on the nape of the widow’s neck. Something had frightened her. It sounded like gunfire. Catherine Fitzgerald gripped her chest, fearing the unthinkable. She was certain, absolutely positive, that it had echoed from the home right next to her own.

It was 1:11 a.m. Most of the neighborhood slept soundly. At last, all was still in the LaVan residence. Nothing but dead silence remained from the chaos that had owned the last passing minutes. Malcolm could no longer feel his heart beating. The temperature all around him had gradually dropped. A peculiar numbness was rapidly taking over, climbing from his feet all the way up to his face. He tried, desperately, to lift himself from the floor, but he was unable. Strength abandoned his limbs; breath deserted his lungs. There was a significant amount of blood surrounding his body, but there was no longer any pain. The only thing Malcolm could feel was his life slowly slipping away—but death had never been a more distant thought. At last they lay quietly together, faces melted into a peaceful, painless stillness.

Malcolm’s eyes were finally closed. He need not open them. He didn’t have to see her face to know that she was near. He could still smell her sweet scent lingering. The end of his life was so close that he could exist only in his consciousness. Thank God emotions are better felt than spoken; even if I wished to speak, my voice fails me. If fate has found me fortunate enough to spend my final moments next to her, then I declare this the most beautiful defeat a man has ever had the pleasure of enduring. Death has finally arrived to free me; to death I am obliged.

An unfamiliar voice cried out, muffled but audible: My God, what happened here? Someone get the paramedics in here right now! We may be able to save this man’s life! If Malcolm could have yelled, he would have. No, do not touch me! I beg you, let me go. Let me die here beside this diamond, this precious gem of mine. Is that too much for a desperate man to ask? Why? Why show me this glimmer of hope only to have it shrivel and wilt before my eyes like a thirsty, neglected weeping willow? The fault is mine to claim, believing that one sub-rosa romance could end the suffering of two people. Forgive me, Diamond.

At last defeated—tears like battle wounds scarring my face. There were still a few tears left on the cheek of her cold, precious face, too. They hadn’t had a chance to completely escape the thickness of her lashes before she slipped away. She pondered: Perhaps this is what crossing over feels like. I feel such peace, but why has my mind not yet cleared? My heart is not yet frozen; there is a warmness still dwelling within me, the same warmness this man used to resurrect me when I was still alive. Yes, like being wrapped in the wing of a phoenix. Yes, there is a feeling inside still very much alive. My time, my precious time, finer than the sand sifting inside an hourglass—gone now. Oh, so many regrets; so much time wasted. How many moons have come and gone, wasted on inevitable battles, searching for some truth in a lie? How many nights have gone by restless, tossing and turning over things I knew I could never change? I will accept that this is the end; no sense in fighting. No, I refuse to fight—but I pray that death does not separate me from my memories. Please don’t let me forget him, his heartbeat like a lullaby in my ear. He is still near, I can feel it. We have never been freer, like two birds too weak for the sky and yet we fly. Yes, we were like two doves flying low to the earth, but then a storm came without warning. Please don’t look back, don’t look back and see that you may have to soar on alone. Keep flying, please keep flying. The weight of the rain trampled down on me and I was devoured by the thunder wailing against my feathers. I could have been yours forever, happy simply crying at the sight of the sunlight rising, shining against your face. Happy simply tracing your lips with my fingertips while watching you sleep. And if we were to ever go to bed angry, I’d still wake reaching out for you. If only I could take your hand in mine; I do not wish to walk alone. If only I could admire those eyes just one more time—those eyes, nearly penetrating my soul, setting free the things I kept inside: my fears, my hopes, my weaknesses. I also admire the stars, but I will never know what it feels like to touch a star’s glory. Roses are pretty, they entertain the eye, but for a lifetime with you these hands will never grip the stem of another flower. For a lifetime with you, I will never look to the stars again.

Their lives had been reduced to nothing more than a whisper spoken from death’s lips, gracing fate’s ear; and that fate had been sealed, not by a kiss placed ever so gently on love’s lips, but by tragedy consuming an undying, undeniable bond.

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The Fourth Grade

I’ve always loved you; can you imagine such slavery? Witnessing the likeness of an angel in a dream, but waking to the same nightmare: not having you beside me. Before beauty had a chance to grace the eye, before lips had the opportunity to speak a name so sweet, I have loved you. Can you imagine such insanity? Two strangers, lone wolves howling at the same moon—can you hear it as clearly as I can feel it? It was always you—the one. The loneliness was dark, but then there was you: light like that of a rare, precious stone.

With what can love be measured? With what can the depth of love be measured? It was