DÉJÀ VU

by Linda Joyce

Cover Reveal!

One night. One decision. One mysterious man. Ciji’s life spins out of control. Will love reveal what’s real and what’s only illusion?

 

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Chapter 1

“It’s been thirty-three days, ten hours, Wes,” Ciji whispered, her heart aching with pain so staggering, she fought to breathe. She pulled up the fur collar of her leather blazer. “I’m heartbroken. But it’s my own fault. I alone am responsible. Or…actually was so very irresponsible. I pray you can find a way to forgive me.”

She strode across the compound, past the deteriorating redbrick walls of old buildings at The Farm. A hundred years ago, in the early 1900s, the place had been a working cotton gin with warehouses. Now it served as a venue for underground parties. This month’s theme Spook-tacular! Spooky. Eerie. Hauntingly vivid carved jack-o-lanterns and witches’ brooms decorated the walkway.

Some said the resident ghost was making nightly appearances.

A damp end-of-October breeze blew. Her mood matched the gray sky and misty rain. The weather report predicted more of the same drizzle throughout the day. Not that it mattered. She had nowhere else to go.

She walked, counting the steps to stop the endless thoughts of how to outsmart her mother. They pressed on her mind like a plague. It also killed her creativity. Her painting mentor had once said if she lost track of her thoughts while working, that meant her brain had reached the creative zone. She needed to find that nirvana. But so far, a dessert of bland nothingness had been the landscape of her mind. No answers about what to do about her mother or her lost creativity.

The worst thoughts came with intruding images. The police taking her away in handcuffs roared in and then flipped to thoughts to her mother playing judge and jury, then sentencing her to thirty days at Serenity. Serenity, a real hideaway for the rich when the gossip mill dredged them through the muck. The cops, a setup paid for by her mother.

“Get sober, get straight in your life, and get married,” were her mother’s last orders before mother’s driver led her to the limo for her ride to a coastal island. There, she’d had a room with a view—the Atlantic Ocean. Sea breezes. Bright sunshine. Never once did she enter the water, though she’d drowned in her own thoughts daily.

She’d been accused of drinking and driving. She was guilty of drinking, but not of driving drunk. She was guilty of refusing to get married. She was guilty of stealing money.

But it wasn’t stolen. It was borrowed. A temporary loan to make an investment that could double Bree’s money. She’d been so sure she’d win that night. So sure she could never marry. So sure she’d been only slightly drunk. She couldn’t convince her mother that she’d walked to her ca, sat inside, falling asleep in the backseat.

Never had a month felt like year. Serenity was a hell she’d never imagined.

Reaching the door to The Farm’s community common room, she planted her feet, spiked heels digging into mostly clay earth and pulled hard on the driftwood door handle. The massive door resembled those from ancient European castles. It outweighed her by at least fifty  pounds.

Scre-e-ech.

That noise never failed to make her shudder. It was the perfect sound for a Haunted Halloween movie. But this was real life, not make believe.

She’d complained more than once to The Farm’s manager, Tyrone, about the ear-paining experience. It topped nails on a chalkboard in the category of hideous sounds.

“Guess it fits the season,” Ciji muttered. “Halloween scary.” She mentally added WD-40 to her supply list. Nothing in her art studio contract prohibited her from making repairs to the community room.

Inside, the chill of the room bore little difference to the chill outside. Ciji ignored stares from those already gathered in the large room. The stained concrete floor, aged and exposed brick walls, and expansive wooden rafters amplified all sound. She approached the antique wooden bar in the center of the space. The perfect cadence from the staccato beat of her heels echoed unwaveringly.

Pin pricks, like acupuncture needles, penetrated through her coat. Unwanted attention always irritated her psyche. People with their pitying eyes. Their judging eyes.

Why don’t they mind their own business?

The barista nodded at Ciji in affirmation and turned to begin her work. The familiar whir from the grinding coffee beans was comforting, though it interrupted the smooth jazz softly spilling out from hidden speakers. Ciji breathed in the aroma of brewing coffee.

A few moments of normalcy.

 Inside the warehouse-sized room, tall freestanding bookcases created private nooks and crannies. A couple of guys played pool on the far side of the bar. They looked as though they’d pulled an all-nighter again. Metal sculptors, not painters like her. She needed lots of natural daylight to create while they worked throughout the night with floodlights and blowtorches.

A potter, sitting at the end of the bar, waved. Ciji returned the greeting with a nod. She envied the woman. Recently, Ashley had landed her first, large commercial contract with a recognized interior decorating firm, one that Ciji’s developer uncle used on his last high-rent condo project. Ashley had definitively left the ranks of starving artists, the primary link residents of The Farm shared. Mostly broke could be a bullet point on every resident’s financial statement.

“Alexandar. Skinny mocha. No whip.” The barista slid a large mug, one that Ashley had made, across the counter. The barista only used last names, said first names made work too personal.

Ciji plunked down a ten-dollar bill and then leaned closer. “If you’ve some sort of libation back there…” She raised her eyebrows and smiled, hoping for the forbidden.

“It’s kind of early for that, don’t ya think? Even for you.”

Maintaining her smile, Ciji narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. Dangling gold strands studded with diamonds from her ear cuff scratched against her leather jacket. She wanted to grab the front of the barista’s shirt and contradict her. Yet cursing wouldn’t get her what she wanted.

Maybe a curse of the magical kind?

“Ms. Barista, with all due respect, you did not take me to raise, though I’m sure your momma would be proud of you doing your good daily deed. How about topping off my drink, please?” She added ‘please’ in an attempt of humbleness, but even to her ears the word sounded desperate.

The woman pursed his lips. “Drink yourself to death someplace else, please,” she snarled. “You’re barely a day out of rehab. But then, most painters are famous posthumously anyway. I shouldn’t care if you die or not.” Then she pulled out a canister of whipped cream and topped off the mug. “You need protein. You’re too skinny.”

“Thank you.” She hoped her reply carried the chill she intended.

After pulling a straw from the jar on the counter, Ciji dropped it into the hot liquid and sipped before picking up the over-full mug. She carried it to a corner farthest away from everyone else. After she sat the mug on the side table and her butt on the couch, a loud screech made her pause.

The heavy front door opened. A broad-shouldered man with his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, entered the community room with a newspaper tucked under his arm. The barista didn’t look his way. She usually greeted everyone. Nor did anyone else pay him any attention. He stood inside the threshold and scanned the room. When his piercing blue eyes connected with hers, all the hairs on the nap of her neck rose.

She ran her fingers through her chin-length cropped hair and quickly wet her lips. A spike of fear raced to her gut, plopping on top of the pile of anxiety she was working to forget.

Still, he stared.

Trying to shake off invading emotions, she turned her back to him to take a sip of her cooling mocha. Usually, only events brought strangers to The Farm.

His stonewashed jeans, long-sleeved white t-shirt, and black leather vest fit him like a second skin. He moved with confidence, like he owned the place. She hated his smug self-assuredness and yet imagined a glare from him would cause a grown man cry. She flinched at his aura of strength.

Yet, in an odd way, the man reminded her of Wes. Just as she could sense the strength and power of this man, she sensed Wes’ strength and power, his was honed by sharp intelligence and wit and impeccable manners. He had a lovely smile. Put her always at ease. Only believed the best of her.

She tried but could not deny the allure of his depth of his love for her. Love she could never openly accept.

If her mother ever discovered she had feelings for him, she’d work to exploit the both of them for her own personal gain. Ciji had vowed long ago to never let that happen with any man.

“Excuse me. May I join you?”

She froze at the intrusion of the mystery man’s deep voice. Had she been too lost in thought to hear his cowboy boots thud against the concrete floor when he crossed the room to where she sat?

She glanced to the side and upward.

“Ah, sure.” After all, it was a public space.

She anticipated he’d take a seat in the chair across from her. But no. He sat on the couch right next to her.

Her heart thumped-thumped-thumped. She reached for the liquor-less coffee. Her hand shook. She wasn’t an alcoholic, that was part of the rumor her mother started to defend the reason she’d sent Ciji away. Her mother was trying to position public opinion, making her the good mother and Ciji the bad daughter.

She wanted to hate her mother, but after years of mother-manipulation, the only emotion she could name related to her mother was numb.

“Here.” The man’s voice thundered.

She flinched.

He thumped the open newspaper on his lap.

After a quick glance around, she discovered no one had looked in her direction. No one approached, in case she might need help.

The man thumped the newspaper.

Ciji ignored him. Began to doubt he was real. A hallucination? A bad dream? She had to be awake, right? Or was she actually dreaming?

She might be living a waking dream, but that was no reason to let everyone else in the room witness her craziness. She’d never had a delusion before. Even after she discovered in college that tequila was a mind-altering drug.

“I said, ‘here’.” He was insistent. Again, he thumped the newspaper.

The ambiance in the room shifted. She blinked a fog away. Was he real? Was she dreaming or awake? She couldn’t tell.

Rather than speak to a possible apparition, she remained silent. She wouldn’t confirm to anyone in the room who might think her recent nickname, Craz-Ci, apropos. Instead of replying, she sat on the edge of the seat cushion, pulled a magazine onto her lap, attempting to appear as though that was her focus, then she cast her gaze to the newspaper.

“Weston Marshall takes London Job!” she cried. All eyes in the room turned to her. So much for inconspicuousness.

“Why would he do that? Oh, kick-me. I killed the Kid’s Center, crushed Bree, and now this,” she sputtered. Wes was leaving for London? For a job. When she said ‘no’ she meant only no to marriage. Not no to him. He was everything she respected in a person. His smile, his smiling eyes, his teasing lips, his caring, his wit all combined made him an impressive human being. His dark brown eyes and toned body were nothing compared what his gentle touch did to her soul.

He’d caught her off-guard with his too public proposal. Couldn’t he be happy with just being in love?

“What are you going to do about it?” The man handed over the newspaper. He stared at her. His face was one she wanted to paint. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, and dark hair with slight graying at the temples. She started to smile as her artist’s eye connected with her buried creativity, however, his frown stopped her cold.

Looking back at the notice in the business section, had she actually heard the man  correctly? He wanted her to do something? Do what? Stop Wes from leaving? How? She’d been heartlessly indifferent to him when he pushed for an engagement, saying he was willing to wait for the next step in their relationship. “Dating with marriage in mind” was how he described his intention. The ring was a symbol of commitment.

But his commitment came with money. His money. She had her own—almost. Marriage was the root of all evil. Especially because she was her mother’s daughter. Marriage would ruin their friendship, their love, their chance at true happiness.

Marriage would fix some of her problems, but jail held more appeal. And losing Wes would be an emotional jail.

Yet, with the missing money from the Center—she might be facing jail time.

Had Bree reported the money missing to the police? Did Bree suspect her as the reason for the missing money from the Center’s fundraiser?

Ciji sighed. How could I have lost ten thousand dollars?

“Because you played with scared money. Because you were arrogant. Because you don’t have your priorities aligned with what you want.” The mystery man’s voice was low, calm, but void of any condemnation. It was as though he was reciting a grocery list.

Ciji folded the newspaper with the article about Wes prominently displayed.

When she’d refused his proposal, he clutched his chest and said, “You wound me deeply.

Nothing stands still, including our relationship. I agreed to keep it a secret, but after nearly a year, now it’s time to step into the light. Let’s take the next step. Together. But if you aren’t willing, if you’re going to allow your anger and fear dictate your path in life, then I will let you go. You’re breaking my heart, Ciji, I can’t be friends with you.”

With her left thumb, she rubbed her right hand in the ‘v’ between her thumb and index finger, stroking the brand new quarter-sized tattoo–the logo for Kids Cultural Club.

She’d tried calling Bree many times in the last twenty-four hours, since her release from Serenity, but Bree hadn’t answered the phone. Could Bree ever forgive her for stealing and destroying Bree’s hard work and dream for kids in Atlanta?

The tattoo provided comfort, a connection. She hoped one day Bree would forgive the betrayal of trust. Even now, she was working on ways to pay the money back—trying to book an art sale at a local gallery, because grand larceny wasn’t the kind of booking she wanted.

“Here.” The mystery man rose from the couch and within the hand of his out-stretched arm, he held something that appeared to be a ticket. She stared at it, then up at him.

“I said, ‘here.’ Please don’t make me regret my decision.”

As ordered, she took the ticket with a picture of a carousel on it. “Déjà vu. Care-o-soul. A journey for those in need. Ride at sunset tonight.”

“Wait.” Confused, she had questions. Besides, she didn’t need his help unless he was a top-notch criminal attorney.

But the man was gone.

End of Chapter One.

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