Vista

By Lenora Buffi

Ariana Santino is a young violin prodigy when she is first haunted by frightening dreams of a woman living in the nineteenth century. When she turns eighteen, the dreams stop, leading her to believe they are finally over.

Seven years later, after she lands a full-time job with the Reno Philharmonic, Arianas life is blissfully normaluntil she experiences a vision in the middle of a concert. Alarmed, she begins a search to discover the story behind the woman in her dreams. But as her sanity slowly starts to unravel, a desperate Ariana turns to her former violin teacher, Hector Arguello, for answers. When she learns there is another life, another violinist, tied to her own, Ariana is led on a gripping journey from the casinos of Reno to the jungles of the Yucatan where she learns the past has a direct link to the presentand a mystery deeper than anything she could have ever imagined.

In this gripping tale, a violin prodigy embarks on a dangerous quest to find the enigmatic woman who haunts her dreamsa quest that leads her to a startling truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532032882

Lenora Buffi

Lenora Buffi is a librarian who has worked in the public school system for the past fifteen years. She is an avid traveler who has journeyed to Germany, Hawaii, the United States, various Canadian provinces, the Dominican Republic, and Nicaragua. Lenora is a music lover, cyclist, mother, and grandmother who jealously guards a stash of dark chocolate. She lives with her husband in Manitoba, Canada.

Book preview

Prologue

Spanish Colonies, 1810

Ariadne stared outside and chewed her bottom lip, absently smoothing the lace of her bodice.

Through the hacienda’s sitting room window, the garden’s shrubs and flowers looked dead in the moonlight, their foliage a ghostly gray white instead of vibrant green. At the garden wall, a row of palm trees cast smudge-like shadows, and beyond that, the dense jungle sprawled. For an instant, she thought she saw the orange-red flicker of a flame amid the jungle’s gnarled darkness, but then there was nothing.

She turned despondently to face the well-furnished room. Coming to the colonies had solved nothing. Napoleon’s war raged on. Conflict and danger still threatened. Her musical gift still haunted her days.

She walked past the four wingback chairs near the window and headed for the arched doorway. Her beloved Antonio was at sea northeast of Mérida sailing from Progreso to the Bahamas, which placed him squarely in the middle of competing military and trade routes. She knew he must fulfill his obligations to the Cortez family shipping business, but the worry preyed on her, especially late at night. She sighed and extinguished the single lamp before proceeding to the señorío’s large entrance hall.

The aroma of oatcakes wafted by as she padded quietly across the green-tiled floor, so she decided to visit the kitchen pantry on the way to her room. An apple tart or slice of brandied apricot pie might help her sleep. However, when she entered the kitchen, she came face-to-face with a white-haired serving woman whose wrinkled visage registered first alarm and then anger.

"Lo siento, said Ariadne. I only wished to find a morsel to eat before—"

"Puta! Come no nearer. I know what you are. The old woman pointed a crooked finger. Then she spat at Ariadne’s feet. Death is near … and wealth and position will not save you."

Before Ariadne could muster a response, the woman bolted from the room. The curse felt like a slap in the face, and though she had endured worse, it quelled her appetite. She left the kitchen and hurried to her suite in the señorío’s east wing, where she climbed into bed with Robinson Crusoe, a novel she had borrowed from Tío Juan. She read until her eyes drooped and the candle sputtered. However, despite the soft luxury of the bed, she tossed and turned in her sleep until, in the hours before dawn, the dreams returned.

Tonight, they were worse than usual. She fought to wake herself, flinging an arm across the twisted sheets and tossing her head. Her long black hair tangled around her face like seaweed, and goose bumps pebbled her shoulders where the nightgown had slipped down. She gasped for air, hands twitching, but the thick walls of the old building seemed to swallow her shallow breaths. Desperate to escape the dream, she succeeded only in forming a deep furrow in her brow, while her heart raced and her eyelids flickered rapidly. An unwilling participant, she could only watch helplessly.

Shivering in a gossamer ivory gown, she stood in the center of a misty garden. Ancient statues of men and mythical beasts seemed to drift in and out of the blue-gray fog around her. She reached out to touch a marble sculpture, and the cool, moist air swirled, leaving a fine dew on her skin. At the sound of footsteps crunching on the path, she lifted her eyes searchingly. At last, he was here! She took a tentative step forward, smiling, but the face that suddenly appeared stopped her cold. She screamed as a sword flashed toward her.

Ariadne’s body jerked, her conscious mind fighting to take control. Then, at last, she began to swim to the surface, the scene fading. Her breathing slowed as, half-awake, she took a deep, cleansing breath to rid herself of the tension in her limbs.

Outside, in the stillness of early morning, a yellow-tailed oriole began its lilting too-eee-who. Almost immediately, the voices of dozens of other birds joined in, filling the jungle with urgent sound. Ariadne slowly opened sleep-heavy eyes just as the first rays of the morning sun glinted on the window and the darkness of the room began to lift. Then she became aware of a heated debate outside. The muffled voices gradually drew close enough that she could make out the words.

"… very badly. Ya basta! It is enough! What right have they? Now is the time to rise up and fight!" It was Tío Juan, Antonio’s uncle, his voice irate and sharpened by determination.

Sí. I know they wish to break the bonds of the Spanish. Nevertheless, we must tread carefully, Señor Cortez. There are many others who feel as you do, who would persuade those in power to stop the exploitation of our land. The second male voice was slow and evenly measured.

Now fully alert, Ariadne listened carefully.

"Bueno! I have seen the wealth of this land lost to the Spaniards and their greedy marqués for far too long, Padre Miguel. Though I am Spanish by birth, I am loyal to them no longer. They took our gold and precious gems, yet it was never enough. Not only is the alcabala raised to six percent; the Bourbon monarchy is greedily demanding levies in customs houses at every port. Qué barbaridad! Tell me—what does your God say of this?"

There was a short silence, and Ariadne lifted her head slightly, straining to hear the words of the padre, wondering how he would answer. Antonio’s uncle said the Church of Spain had pushed mightily to catechize the peoples in the Spanish colonies and that it was always the same—soft words hiding a blunt ax.

"My family has come to ruin because of the Spanish, and I see the injustices they do to our poor every day, señor. Without patria or liberty, we are slaves, but our Lord will help us gain the freedom …" Padre Miguel’s words faded as the men moved out of earshot.

Ariadne curled her lips in disgust at the padre’s sanctimonious reply. She and Antonio had journeyed to the Spanish colonies to escape the war in Spain, only to have it follow them across thousands of miles of ocean. How did the padre think the people here could fare any better? She heard only a faint response but could easily imagine the expression on Tío Juan’s face.

Upon arriving at the colonies and facing Señor Cortez’s shrewd gaze and imposing frame for the first time, she had been afraid of him. His stern manner had been very intimidating. He was also their host, allowing them to live at his hacienda, and Ariadne had worried that she might somehow displease him. Soon after her arrival, however, he had asked her to play the violin for him, requesting the music of Geminiani. Surprised, she had given him her best performance of the first movement of La Foresta Incantata and he had been captivated, calling her mi ángel musical. After that, he had fondly indulged her, bringing sweets and going out of his way to show her kindness. This morning, however, she was sure his features showed no such softness.

She shivered as she suddenly remembered her dreams. They whispered like a specter’s breath across her skin—poignant, terrifying, as real as the serving woman’s curse from last night.

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head to dispel her gloomy mood. After all, she could smell the freshly made tortillas frying in the kitchen and knew that Mia, the cook, had made her favorite, huevos tortillas. She sat up in bed and stroked Antonio’s vacant spot. He would be home from the shipyards tomorrow, gracias a Dios. Considering the exchange between Tío Juan and the padre, she longed for his touch to ward off this vague sense of doom. She gathered the soft ivory folds of her nightgown and slid her feet onto the cool tiles of the floor. As she stood, she stretched her arms above her head and then lowered them again, letting her hands cup her breasts through the fine cotton. Though she had always been full busted, she knew they were fuller, rounder now. Moving her hands down, she lightly stroked the gentle slope of her belly. Nearly five months along now, and their bebé had been making its presence known more each day with tiny movements, light as angels’ wings.

"Mi precioso, wait until Papá is home. He will tell you of his days at sea." She told herself the words were for the child, but she also needed to hear them. Unsettled, she pressed her lips together in a thin line. She must not let the night fill her day with fear. Gathering her corset and pale pink silk gown from the rosewood wardrobe, she lifted her chin purposefully and headed to the dressing room. Her mamá would recognize the tilt of her chin. She used to call it la señal, a sign that Ariadne had set her mind to something, the way billowing clouds foretold a coming storm.

After breakfast, Ariadne took her violin to the back garden. Already the day was getting hot, but here the rubber trees provided shade, plumeria blossoms scented the air, and the beauty calmed her soul. She sat on a stone bench and opened the studded leather case of her violin. Beautifully crafted by the great Antonio Stradivari himself, it was her most prized possession. Fate had brought her a husband with the same first name, but still she kept the violin’s secret closely guarded. The past held too much sorrow, and she feared that sharing the true story would only add to the burden.

Lifting it out by its delicately curved neck, she checked the strings, rubbed rosin on her bow, and efficiently adjusted the tuning pegs. Positioning the violin at her collarbone, she let her gaze drift across the lovely garden and then to the blue sky above the stone garden walls. Exhaling, she dropped the bow and began her exercises.

A short time later, she moved on to the arrangement she would be performing in a week’s time with the orchestra. Composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Sinfonía no. 40 in G minor called to something deep within her. It was so full of passion, like a glimpse into another world. The frantic, grief-stricken first movement gripped her heart each time she played its rapid notes, and she easily became fully absorbed in the music.

By the time she had finished practicing, the limited shade was a sultry splotch on the ground. She carefully stowed her violin in her room and went to find Tío Juan. She meant to talk with him about their living arrangements. Recently, many of his staff had been avoiding her. Like the old servant last night, they viewed her as cursed by the devil—all because of her gift.

The calm she had gained from the music dwindled, and her steps became swifter, her skirt swishing angrily. She had never sought glory for her musical ability and had only grudgingly accepted the visions that filled her waking mind and dreams. Indeed, deep down, she acknowledged that part of her willingness to journey so far from Spain and everything she knew had been in the hopes that the burden of her gift would lessen.

It had not. Her benefactor had told her, all those years ago, that hers was a wondrous calling, that she belonged to the chosen few. Madre de Dios! What good could come from a gift that made people afraid of her? She had no wish to face further insults. She came to an abrupt halt outside Tío Juan’s study. She rarely interrupted him here, but this time she rapped knuckles loudly on the polished wooden surface.

"Hola, Ariadne!" his gruff voice beckoned.

Ariadne entered with decisive strides. One of the largest rooms in the house, the study had two walls filled with books from exotic places, a seldom-used stone fireplace, and three olive-green padded chairs. Tío Juan sat at the massive teak desk, positioned so he could see out the huge window overlooking the front driveway.

How did you know it was I? Her puzzled gray eyes met his tired brown ones. Observing the weary lines of his face, she opted to stay standing, ignoring the chair beside her.

"Your footsteps gave you away, mi ángel. It is like the pizzicato in the music, sí? Quick and abrupt, but setting a fast pace." He smiled wearily and then heaved a sigh, shifting his weight in the chair.

She noticed that the collar of his white linen shirt gaped, button undone, and his jacket hung open. More telling still, papers lay strewn across his normally tidy desk, and a glass of dark liquid sat half-empty in front of him. Rum? This early in the day? Another tremor of foreboding settled in her bones.

Oh, she said, hesitating. By the look of things, this was not a good time. "Lo siento, Tío Juan. I can see that you are very busy." When would she find a good time to broach the topic?

Sí, that is true. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, clearly distracted. He stood, picked up his glass of rum, and walked to the fireplace.

Ariadne turned toward him, not certain whether she should stay or go. Above the fireplace hung an unusual painting of the market in Mérida. She guessed he must have purchased it recently. The artist had accurately depicted the crowds of people, stalls, and carts, but individual features were indistinct. Its mood, however, was vivid; the brushstrokes slashed one atop another so that the colors seemed to vie for dominance on the canvas.

Señor Cortez set his glass on the mantel and regarded the painting pensively. His expression was grim. After a moment, without looking at her, he inquired, What do you see here?

The market, but … She groped for the right words. But it is aggressive, not cheerful as one would expect, and so unlike the usual artwork.

"Bueno. This painting is like the criollo peoples: bold and fierce—but faceless because of the Spanish. He hesitated. There is danger, Ariadne, especially for those of us who still have ties to Spain. When Antonio arrives, we must discuss your future here. I want you—and el niño—to be safe. He smiled reassuringly. You are pleased to make the Spanish colonies your home, sí?"

Sí, Tío Juan. Maybe now she could explain why she had come here. But—

Antonio will continue in the shipping business, I am sure. His father would not wish otherwise. And you intend to serve in the orchestra yet for a while?

Sí, sí, I will play the violin as long as I am able. Ariadne waved a hand impatiently, anxious to get to the point. She sank into one of the chairs, gripping the arms in frustration. Hoping a show of respect would help, she tried once more. I cannot thank you enough, señor, for accommodating us these past six months. We are eternally grateful, but –

"De nada, mi ángel. What matters is familia. He strode back to his desk and nodded as though concluding an argument. That settles it, then. I will attend to matters as soon as Antonio is back. As my nephew, he has an important decision to make, and the situation is most urgent. He frowned and scanned the chaos on his desk. Tell the cook that I will be late to our noon meal, por favor."

Thus dismissed, Ariadne murmured assent and left the room in a turmoil of exasperation and apprehension. What situation? she wondered.

Later that afternoon, after eating a light meal of panuchos and fruit, alone—Tío Juan did not join her after all—Ariadne paced her dressing room. Servants fling curses at me, Tío Juan speaks in riddles, and my dreams torment me.

She stopped pacing to study herself in the mirror: sparkling gray eyes, cheekbones flushed slightly with emotion, black hair spilling across her shoulders, and the bodice of her pink silk gown hugging the swell of her breasts. Then, suddenly, the reflection changed. Another face stared back at her, the cheekbones higher, the skin lighter, the eyes blue instead of gray. However, when she blinked, it was gone. The light was only playing tricks on her.

"I think I will go loco!" she whispered, rubbing a hand over her eyes. Truly, reflections are like lies, she thought. They present one image on the surface, but one cannot see the real person beneath. In her case, she hid the truth very well.

She walked back to the bedroom, and her eyes fell on the violin in the corner. She felt the familiar tug of the music, always present at the back of her mind. When she let them, full compositions filled her head, and part of her longed to play them, like an itch she must scratch. She turned slowly toward the shelves beside her wardrobe, drawn to pick up the book given her more than six years ago. Taking it to her bed, she sat down to look at it for the first time since she had come to the colonies.

It was an unprepossessing book, really, and she had never considered it overly important: only a hand’s breadth across and twice the thickness of her shoe’s soles, the black leather surface worn smooth. The title in gold Latin script read Spiritus Sancti—Spirit of the Saints. She had failed to master Latin despite the efforts of the sisters, and the words inside remained a mystery, but she did know that the book was very old and supposedly carried a deep secret, one that her benefactor had warned could get her killed. She had scoffed at the time, but now she had to wonder.

She set the book down on her bed and stared blankly. Her life had always seemed out of her control. The only peace she had known was with Antonio. Passionate and protective, he made her feel safe and free to be herself. He always said, El amor todo lo puede, and so far, their love had been enough to sail them through rough seas. Yet she had never told him the truth about her childhood. The omission now filled her with disquiet, like a bad note in the orchestra that put the whole performance off. Dios! If only it were that simple.

Then inspiration lifted her shoulders. There was a priest at the catedral who often spoke kindly to her when she performed there. She felt that the book would bring an understanding that time had not. Perhaps he would be willing to translate it for her—under the seal of confession, of course. She could not risk anyone revealing its contents.

Taking comfort from the prospect of action, Ariadne made the arrangements to have Juan’s driver take her into the city center to visit the cathedral and do some shopping. She quickly gathered her coin purse, a bit of fruit and cheese—el bebé made her hungry at the most inconvenient times—the book, and after some indecision, her violin, in case she felt compelled to play. She took out quill and paper to write a note to Juan. What could she safely say?

"I have gone to pick up a few things in the market and to say prayers at the catedral. I will be back to eat with you at cena. —Ariadne." There, that sounded plausible. She thought about giving the note to a young servant to deliver to Tío Juan before the evening meal, but as she made her way to the servants’ quarters, she thought better of it—she might have the misfortune of running into the superstitious old crone again. Instead, she slipped the note quietly under the study door, certain he would find it when he returned from his afternoon business.

When she stepped outside, the sun was a ripe peach above the cloudy horizon, baking down on the señorío’s clay rooftops. The covered carriage waited in the driveway, and as usual, young Marlo was the driver. She climbed in and tucked her pink gown around her legs, and immediately the horse leaned into the harness. As she listened to the crunch of wooden wheels over fine sand, she impulsively looked back toward the house. It seemed small and insignificant among the high trees, and she had an uneasy feeling that what she would learn today would change everything. "Adiós," she whispered to the receding stone structure.

A few hours later, as Ariadne exited the cathedral, the imposing building cast a long, gray blanket over the streets. Crowds of people walked in and out of its shadow, the colors of their garments winking on and off like sparks in a fire. The clouds had rolled in, and it would be fully dark in just over an hour, but Ariadne registered this only dimly as she stood on the cathedral’s stone steps, the book clasped tightly to her chest. The truth of its contents had left her reeling.

While translating, the priest had been curious at first, then rather confused, and finally shocked. He had urged her to tell no one, but her first thought was of Antonio. If she did not disclose its message to him, the secret could worm its way to the core of their love, spoiling the whole fruit. She made the sign of the cross and walked in a daze to where her carriage was waiting.

Marlo sat up straight as she approached, his eyes darting this way and that, his hands fidgeting with the reins. She guessed he must be hungry since she had been with the priest for quite a while. Hola, Marlo. Here is a reward for your patience. She passed him a mango.

Gracias, señora. He put the fruit in his pocket and then jumped down to help her in. "The streets are very crowded tonight. We must leave now, por favor."

She had barely settled into her seat when he snapped the reins and they set off, struggling past the knots of people. She clutched her bag as they wove left and right, the wheels of the carriage creaking loudly in protest and the horse snorting its disapproval. They closely passed a group of noisy men, where the strong odor of too much rum made her pinch her nose.

Despite the jostling, her thoughts raced, speculating on the book’s revelations. She tried to connect it all. Her dreams, the music that filled her heart and mind … but it was so much more than that. The nervous bubble of excitement in her stomach changed to a distinct grumble, and she smiled. Mysteries might beckon, but she still had to eat. She tried to take out her remaining piece of fruit, but her shoulder kept bumping the wooden door, and she needed one hand to brace herself. The carriage continued its erratic path for a few minutes longer, but at last the crowds thinned, and she was able to relax. She gratefully sank her teeth into an aromatic segment of tangerine, the sweet juices quenching her thirst. She had just raised the last piece to her lips when she felt the carriage slowing down again. She leaned out the window as they came to a halt. What is wrong, Marlo?

I am not sure, señora, he said, speaking slowly. The way ahead is blocked, and I do not know why.

Blocked? She peered into the darkening street and could make out a jumble of carts, heavily loaded with clay tiles and wood. Can we not just take another street?

Sí, I will try. He clicked his tongue at the horse.

She sank back into her seat, a growing sense of unease replacing her earlier excitement. The dark streets and clay brick buildings here were unfamiliar. Gradually, she became aware of a strange sound. As it got louder, she realized that what she was hearing was the rush of many voices, intermingled with the clang of metal and some other sound she could not place. Then, suddenly, the carriage rounded a corner into chaos.

It was a riot. Men, women, and even a few children were carrying tools and weapons and marching through the city. The other sound she had heard was the crackling rumble of a fire. A building was ablaze, smoke billowing from the upper window, and the people were yelling something. She could not make it out.

Marlo tried to leave the way they had come, but the horse stamped and reared back, spooked by the fire. People surged around the carriage, and at the sight of the angry faces eerily lit by torches, Ariadne cowered down in her seat. Like demons from hell, their eyes reflected the flames. The chanting was clear now: "Muerte al gachupines! Death to the Spaniards!" they were shouting. The roar of the voices died down a moment later, and abruptly the people turned toward the opposite street. Spanish soldiers!

Finally, a light dawned. This was what Tío Juan had meant. Again, the crowd surged, and it was clear to Ariadne that they intended to fight. Her blood turned to ice. She must get away! The crowd had effectively trapped the carriage, and Marlo was nowhere to be seen. Her only hope was to escape on foot. With scant hope that it would hide her privileged position, she tore a piece of cloth off her shift to tie back her hair. Then she snatched up her violin and bag, unable to bear the thought of leaving them behind after what she had learned.

She opened the door of the carriage just enough to squeeze through. Immediately, bodies pressed against her on all sides, threatening to loosen her grip on the precious violin. One shabbily dressed woman, her dirty black hair tied back with a rag, locked eyes with Ariadne, sizing her up. Ariadne was keenly aware that she stood out like an orchid in a weed patch. She gasped as the woman called out to someone nearby, her grubby hands reaching out to claw at Ariadne’s arm.

Instinctively, she twisted and ducked down, trying to push through the crowd without drawing attention to herself. Clenching one arm tightly against her body to cradle her violin case and bag, she shuffled awkwardly forward, hunched down. A shifting forest of arms and legs blocked her path. Thankfully, most of the people were straining to see where the soldiers were, paying no attention to one small woman.

She neared the edge of the street where the crowd was thinner, her eyes burning from the smoke and her ears ringing from the shouting. Somehow, she had lost a shoe, and her ribs hurt where elbows and knees had bashed into her. Her heart was a wild animal trying to escape her chest as she finally pushed into a side street. She darted into the nearest doorway, pressing deep into its shadows. She stood, panting.

Where should she go now? She did not know which street she was on, she had no way of finding her way in the dark, and she was certain that if they spotted her, they would—

All at once, movement caught her eye: the woman who had chased her stood searching the street, body silhouetted against the flickering flames beyond. Ariadne held her breath for several long seconds, terrified that the mob might resort to robbery or assault. At last, the woman turned away again. Knowing she had no choice, Ariadne gathered her courage and crept from her hiding place, moving noiselessly in the other direction.

Every instinct urged her to run as fast as she could, but she forced herself to move carefully. As she picked her way along, she listened with each step for sounds of pursuit. A small part of her mind acknowledged that her whole day had warned of disaster. If only she had just listened, had recognized what her instincts were telling her. She stumbled painfully on the foot with no shoe and reached out to lean on the nearest building, fingers splayed on the gritty surface. Then her ears detected movement—the crunch of stealthy steps directly ahead of her.

Eyes wide, blinded by the dark, Ariadne burst into a panicked run in the opposite direction like a dove startled from its nest. She made it only a few steps from the wall before rough hands tried to drag her down. Lo siento, Antonio! she thought. Struggling frantically, she pitched forward and hit the ground, her head smashing violently on a sharp stone ledge.

Her world went black.

1

The Music

Reno, Nevada, 2012

I should have stopped at four margaritas.

Opening my eyes just a fraction, I winced as the percussion section of the orchestra did a performance in my head. Whose idea had it been to go out for drinks at Rum Bullions last night, anyway? Oh yeah, mine. Something about turning a quarter of a century old in a few days. Partying with a bottle of tequila hadn’t changed the facts. September 22 was only four days away.

I turned my head very gingerly on the pillow and focused. One o’clock. Good job, Miss Santino. I pushed back the rumpled sheets and slowly sat up to take stock: red cocktail dress lying like a squashed hibiscus on the floor, my best black heels tossed haphazardly in the direction of the closet, several miniature fuchsia umbrellas poking up merrily from the dirt in my neglected gardenia plant, and—I did a double take—a note written in bright red lipstick on my dresser mirror that said, Call Cynthia!

Memory returning, I managed a rueful smile. Right, I was supposed to make sure she was mobile for her shift at the juvie center. Cynthia Fuller and I had been friends since fifth grade back in Las Cruces, when she had used a headlock to stop the boy who was bullying me at recess. After that, we’d become inseparable. However, whereas Cynthia had grown up to be a tall, voluptuous redhead with the aggression of a linebacker, I was latte-skinned and slight with long, straight brown hair. The contrast didn’t stop there, either.

By the time I turned fifteen, Cynthia had pegged me as the obsessive control freak to her wild and crazy. I yawned hugely. Even though she was right, I mildly resented the label. I suppose that’s why the margarita-induced haze had been temporarily appealing. Oh, just chalk last night up to bad judgment and move on, girl.

I massaged my temples, yawned again, and picked up my cell phone. Cynthia had been working at the Jan Evans Juvenile Justice Center for the past three years and had built a good rapport with many of the girls. She loved those kids, but it was a tough job, so her day started with an hour-long gym session. I’d better call, or she’d be blaming me for messing up her schedule. I grinned as I pictured unkempt red curls and bloodshot green eyes.

Hola, Ari! The bright greeting came after only one ring. "¿Cómo está?"

Ugh! You can’t possibly be that chipper. I shuffled to the kitchen in my underwear to get a glass of orange juice and wash the horrible taste out of my mouth. And could you speak more quietly, please? You know how I am. It’s your fault I had one too many margaritas! Well, okay, several too many. I held the phone away from my ear as her loud burst of laughter made the drums start up again.

I told you to enjoy yourself and let go a little. I didn’t say to get plastered. You’re the one with issues about turning twenty-five on Saturday. She was clearly still amused.

I swallowed my gulp of juice and set the glass down on the counter, ignoring her jibe. Well, you’re up, so my job is done then. I have to get ready for tonight’s performance. I peered at the meager contents of the fridge and decided a grocery run would be in order too.

A slight pause. Did you get the flight booked to go visit your parents this weekend?

I hadn’t seen my parents since we went to the Las Cruces Vaqueros baseball game on the July long weekend, so I was due for a trip home. I shut the fridge and faced the living room, squinting painfully at the sunshine streaming onto the burgundy couch. Dust motes danced in a fuzzy glow above the case of my Vuillaume violin and brass music stand.

Yes. They insisted on paying for my flight this time. I’m catching the five-thirty American after work on Friday. Why?

I thought I might try to get on the standby list and make a trip home too. I could tell by the tinny quality that she had me on speakerphone. There was a loud crackling, crunching noise.

I walked back to my room. Sounds great. Just let me know if it works out. Are you eating crap again? I started to pick up my dress and shoes and then dropped them again and pulled the umbrellas out of the plant instead.

Noooo … okay, maybe. You know I need lots of energy for my workout. The burrito is the main course, and the chocolate bar is for dessert. The words were garbled by a mouthful of food. What about Greg? Aren’t you two doing anything special?

I tossed the dress into the laundry hamper and turned toward the mirror again, grabbing a tissue to wipe off the lipstick message. Um … I don’t know yet. I was going to call him later.

What are you waiting for? A let’s-get-naughty application form? More crunching.

I rolled my eyes. "I said I was going to call him. The mirror reflected my mixed emotions. In my mind, turning twenty-five was somehow connected to the whole marriage-kids-mortgage scene, and although my romantic side got all warm and fuzzy at baby commercials, my free-and-easy side just wasn’t ready for that kind of permanence. I’d been avoiding trying to pinpoint why. We’ve only been dating for a few weeks, so I just haven’t talked to him about it yet, okay?" I stuck my tongue out at myself, threw the tissue in the trash, and reached for my bathrobe.

Her laugh bubbled in my ear. "Sure. I just thought that gorgeous body of his would make a really nice birthday present." There was a click as she took me off speakerphone.

I walked to the bathroom to take a shower. I’d been too busy working and hadn’t had a serious relationship since my second year of college, so the thought had occurred to me too. That is none of your business, Cynfull. I pretended to be prim but then burst into laughter, which I instantly regretted as my head began pounding again.

Cynthia let out a whoop. "All right, I knew it! You can tell me about it later. Gotta go. Hasta luego, amiga."

Adiós! I shook my head and smiled indulgently. She was incorrigible.

Two hours, two Tylenol, a long shower, and a short trip to Safeway later, I figured I could handle solid food. I put away the groceries, grabbed an apple, and assembled a ham and lettuce sandwich on the kitchen island. I loved cooking, but sandwiches were my go-to these days. Between out-of-town fundraisers, preshow rehearsals, and my part-time, pay-off-student-loans job at Eldorado Casino, I rarely cooked a decent meal. I shoved the fridge door shut with my foot and, apple clenched in my mouth, carried my sandwich and a glass of water to the living room. While I ate, I sorted through a few bills. I had less than two hours before Tuesday evening’s Classix program at the PCPA, the Pioneer Center for the Performing Arts.

The Reno Philharmonic’s amazing dedication to early classical composers was one reason I had taken my music degree at the University of Nevada. The UNR had a diverse education program, including three youth orchestras, and recently they’d even hired a composer in residence. I leaned back on the couch and stared outside, not really seeing the neighboring buildings or the neatly tended walking paths.

I’d always felt a sense of wonder when I played music by the great composers. It was as though the notes reached inside and plucked a hidden string, resonating and making me complete. Tonight, we were performing a series of pieces from the eighteenth century: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Rossini, and my personal favorite, Geminiani. I knew I’d find that same sense of peace during tonight’s performance. Maybe it would get rid of my angst over turning twenty-five soon. I mean, people often didn’t tie the knot until well into their thirties. Yet no matter what I told myself, it still felt as though something important was missing in my life.

Feeling slightly more human with some food in my stomach, I hopped up and gathered everything off the coffee table. I was meeting Susan Choi, a fellow violinist, to go over some of the trickier sections before our performance, but before I left, I decided to give Greg a call and let him know what time I’d be back on Sunday. Why not just enjoy life? As Cynthia would say, que será, será.

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If Susan noticed any ill effects from the previous night, she didn’t mention it, and I congratulated myself on a speedy recovery. Apparently, I could drink myself silly and still perform flawlessly. But at the end of the program, that bit of mental preening went to hell.

"Our final selection, part one of La Foresta Incantata by Francesco Geminiani, is a lesser-known work, but we think you’ll find it has great depth and variety. Geminiani, an Italian violinist and composer who took lessons from Scarlatti, wrote the Art of Playing the Violin, published in London in 1751. It is the best-known summary of eighteenth-century Italian violin methods and a valuable source for the study of late Baroque performance practice. His pupils called him the Madman for his demanding rhythms—just ask our violinists—but he contributed a great deal to violin technique. Conductor Linda Brentworth’s voice was enthusiastic. We give you Francesco Geminiani."

I kept my eyes trained on her. With a willowy figure and short auburn hair curling against high cheekbones, Linda had been leading the Reno Phil for five years, and her thoughtful introductions gave that added touch of authority every time. She turned around and lifted her hands, holding them there until every member in the orchestra was poised to perfection.

The audience was utterly still, in anticipation of that incredible moment when all the instruments magically would come together. Then Linda’s hands came down, and the orchestra swelled around me, reverently, majestically. Focused intently on my own music stand, I had the momentary feeling that the notes themselves existed beyond time and space, like pure energy.

Then a cold sweat came over me, and I registered a strange, disconcerting shift in my vicinity. I lifted my eyes during a brief break in my music. No! This hadn’t happened in over seven years. Clamping down on my panic, I kept playing, but the alarming scene remained. Linda was gone, and the familiar stage, lighting, and audience were replaced by something totally different.

I was now in a massive stone cathedral. Graceful arches supported a soaring ceiling with colorful stained-glass windows high above. The conductor was an older man in odd clothing, leading as first violinist. There was no wiring or overhead lights, just wall sconces and an audience dressed in—my God!—long gowns, coattails, and powdered wigs? I could even smell the burning candles.

Then I blinked, and the image vanished. Dazed, I needed every ounce of concentration to get through the rest of the arrangement. When Linda finally signaled its end and turned to take a bow, a thin sheen of sweat covered my forehead. A glance around reassured me that no one had noticed anything unusual. I plastered a smile on my face and stood with the rest of the strings section as Linda thanked each group. Gradually, my heartbeat returned to normal, and the deafening applause of the audience covered the clatter of my bow as I clumsily bumped into my stand. I sat back down, eager to leave the stage and find some solitude. Then Linda’s voice penetrated. Of course, an encore.

"Thank you, thank you. All right, with such a devoted crowd, we’ll play a fun piece to end our evening. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you … The Barber of Seville."

The audience erupted in cheers. Meanwhile, I was picturing trips to a psychiatrist’s couch. Just maintain your professionalism, I told myself. In spite of my jangling nerves, I focused on the smiling faces nearest the stage. Their enthusiasm buoyed me up, and with less difficulty than I anticipated, I put all I had into the piece. By the time we played the final measures, I was calmer. There must be some reasonable explanation for what had happened.

Backstage, I collected my jacket and purse from the lockers by the dressing rooms. I still felt slightly dizzy, however, so I rested my head against the cold metal door for a moment.

Are you okay, Ariana? Susan’s soft voice made me jump. Standing a mere five feet four inches tall, Susan looked like a tiny china doll, especially dressed as she was in a black formal gown, her long black hair in a chignon. I considered brushing off her concern, but I’d known her since college, so she could probably tell something was wrong.

I said the only safe thing I could. No, not really. I haven’t been feeling well since our final piece. Was I off? I shrugged my jacket on, anxious to get back to my apartment.

No, your playing was perfect as usual. You seemed fine before. Oh no, I hope you’re not getting that awful flu bug. Her eyebrows curved upward in sympathy. Is it your stomach? I might have something to help. Always ready to offer a home remedy, Susan rummaged in her bag and came up with a small package of herbal tea.

I cringed. No, thanks, Susan. I’m just paying the price for one too many margaritas. You were smart not to come. I picked up my violin case and purse and began edging toward the exit.

Yes, sorry I couldn’t make it, but maybe if I’d been there, you wouldn’t feel like such a … a … an overcooked vegetable. She resorted to the ultimate insult.

Next time. You can nag to your heart’s content, I promise. I headed to the exit and tossed over my shoulder, half-joking and half-serious, Just don’t bring green tea.

I quickly left the building, headed across the raised courtyard past its commemorative family statue, and trotted down the steps, oblivious to the bright lights and city sounds. When I reached my Camry, I put my violin case in the back, climbed in, and slammed the door as though this would seal out the world. Instead, unwelcome thoughts crept in.

Don’t think; just drive. I had about fifteen minutes to keep my eyes on traffic and my mind distracted. It was easy while driving north on Virginia Street. There were eight casinos along this route or within a block or two, and that didn’t even take into account all the clubs and resorts in between. I honked at a dawdling pedestrian. As I turned left onto Route 80, traffic thinned out marginally, so I mentally slid into autopilot. Of course, then my precious self-control began to slip.

Why now? I had been barely eighteen the last time my world had gone crazy like this. The memory of our last carefree family trip to Mérida, the one that had ended abruptly, flitted through my mind: a public square, my sudden irrational panic and fear, thinking someone was chasing me, to the point my parents had to cart me off to the hotel. I had worked so hard to dismiss that day—had put it down to the heat or the fancies of a teenage girl. I crossed over South McCarran Boulevard, ready to turn at my corner. Yet here I was, nearly seven years later, and I had just experienced the same bizarre out-of-body … what could I even call it?

When I got to my apartment on Mae Anne Avenue, I parked my car and stared at the buildings. Milo at Tuscany was a brand-new complex, with pristine white fences, a pool, and all the showy grace of an Italian villa. I had chosen it despite the higher rates because I liked its European flair. Now I had to wonder, was I subconsciously looking for something?

Oh, get a grip! I slapped the steering wheel, grabbed my things off the back seat, and went inside. There was one easy way to prove that this evening had just been the result of too little sleep and too much liquor. I’d do what every crazy person did these days: Google it.

Once I’d changed into yoga pants and a sweatshirt, I marched into my office and sat at my laptop. I’d probably seen a picture of that cathedral in some brochure or magazine recently. However, while I typed in my search, another memory tugged at me, trying to slip in like an evening mist. I pecked stubbornly at the keys, determined to stay logical. I scrolled through the results, frustrated and disappointed that nothing matched what I had seen. Then I hit the next button, and there it was!

I enlarged the tiny image and gasped. It was identical! Yet I had never, ever seen it before. Goose bumps rippled across my arms as I read the title: Catedral de la Santa Cruce y Santa Eulalia, the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia in Barcelona, Spain. I sat stunned. There was no rationalizing this, and more shocking than the certainty that my vision was real—I had never been to Barcelona, had never seen this cathedral—was a sudden crystal-clear memory from when I had first started playing the violin.

Only five years old, I stood cradling my shiny little violin in the living room of my parents’ old home in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Facing my newly assigned sheet of music, I realized I knew the notes, the patterns so familiar that the melody already existed in my mind. It was a simplified version of Sheep May Safely Graze by Bach. In the background, I could hear my mother preparing dinner. My forehead wrinkled in concentration. Lifting my bow, I closed my eyes and accepted the instinct flowing through me.

A shiver of excitement lent an innocent, gentle touch as I played—not the infantile arrangement sitting ignored on my music stand, but the full composition, in all its poignant beauty. The music swelled, with the trills, the long notes, the vibrant lows and incredible highs seeming to emanate from the depths of my soul. When I opened my eyes again, it was to see my mother in the doorway, white as a ghost, staring at me, one hand clutching a damp towel.

Mamá, isn’t it beautiful? I asked quietly, my five-year-old voice full of awe.

"Sí, bonita. Her voice was shaky, and she smiled weakly as she walked around the couch to see the sheet music. You must be practicing very hard, querida, to play so well."

I frowned in confusion. But I didn’t practice, Mamá. I already knew it! What does that mean?

My mother hugged me and whispered very softly, "You have been blessed, mi preciosa. I don’t know how or what it means."

I returned to the present, rubbed clammy fingers at my temples and breathed in slowly. There had to be some rational explanation. Looking up again at the oh-so-real image of the cathedral in Barcelona, I felt a sense of urgency and danger, like the tide swirling around my legs when I walked on the beach as a child. I reached out and touched the picture of the cathedral. This memory had surfaced today for a reason.

2

Disturbing Memories

American Airlines came through with Cynthia’s ticket. Once we boarded, she and I charmed a businessman to allow us to switch seats. Or should I say, she flirted, and I watched—kind of like now. If you don’t quit checking out that flight attendant, Cynfull, he’s going to have you charged with harassment. I shook my head and went back to watching the movie I’d selected.

Yeah, but it’d be worth it. She giggled. "Did you see how tight his ass muscles are? Ay, Chihuahua!" She leaned back in her seat and shook one hand in the classic too-hot-to-handle gesture.

I rolled my eyes. She certainly lived up to her nickname. A few minutes later, I frowned at my video screen. The movie, Inception, was hitting a little too close to home, so I flipped to the news channel. It was filled with presidential election campaign coverage, and I spared a moment to think about who I’d vote for. However, with nothing useful to influence my decision, I dimmed the screen, put away the earphones, and stared at the night sky. I had more pressing things on my mind. Since Tuesday, most activities—except playing violin—hadn’t kept my full concentration.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Another hour and a half remained in the flight. I crossed my legs, wishing I had worn something more practical than a white sweater dress. Then I uncrossed them again. To kill some time, I spent a few minutes on my phone, checking out Facebook. Cynthia called me a Facebook creeper because I rarely posted anything myself, but my life really wasn’t all that interesting, and at least this way I could see what was going on in other people’s lives. I chuckled at a video Susan had posted of her little Shi Tzu, Niña.

When I looked up again, Cynthia was flipping idly through the magazine from the seat back in front of her. I sighed. I often envied her rosy, carefree attitude. I missed the good old days, when we thought life was a chocolate bar just waiting to be unwrapped. Well, Cynthia liked to say that chocolate was a food group, so she still thought that. I thought life was more of a Beethoven symphony.

If you keep sighing like that, you’re going to hyperventilate. Cynthia put the magazine back in place. And don’t tell me you’re fine. You’ve been preoccupied all evening. She pinned me with her green eyes. "¿Qué pasa?"

I took a quick sip of orange juice, stalling. Says the one with her mind in the gutter half the time. I might be just missing Greg. I didn’t really expect her to buy it.

Nice try. Really, what gives? You’re usually happy to head home and see your folks. She turned slightly in her seat so she could watch my face.

I squirmed mentally. I couldn’t outright tell her what was bothering me, so I opted for a partial truth. It’s just … I don’t know. I miss the good times, you know? Lately, I’ve been wondering what life would’ve been like if I hadn’t been so obsessed with the violin, if I’ve made the right choices. It was a lame excuse, and I fidgeted with my hair nervously. What I couldn’t say was, What’s happening to me? I’ve got this feeling that by age twenty-five there should be more to life. Oh, and by the way, apparently, I’m mentally unstable.

"That’s it? Seriously? You’d better come up with a better line than that, chiquita. She narrowed her eyes. Turning twenty-five is no big deal, you know. I survived it in June. I’m going to have to drag you to the clubs when we get back to Reno. You just need a night on the town to get this out of your system. Her tone was firm. I’ll even get Susan to make sure you don’t lose your shoes like at last New Year’s Eve party."

I laughed. That was not my fault! Someone spilled their drink on them, so I had to clean them off, and then Lisa dragged me out to see her new car, so I borrowed a pair of boots … but then everyone decided to switch to Lisa’s house because she has a hot tub and— I stopped when I saw Cynthia’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I swatted her arm, laughing even harder. Okay, fine. So I’m occasionally a bit forgetful.

Occasionally? What about the time you lost your car keys for two days and I had to drive you to work? Or the time you left your purse at the university library and didn’t notice until you were halfway back to your apartment? And—she held up the pointer finger of her right hand—"this is my personal favorite. The time you lost your cell phone in your boyfriend’s car, and when you finally realized and called him, he asked if you enjoyed losing