Mystical Love by Rachel James Page A

it all meant.
    â€œAdrian?”
    Ginger’s voice pricked his thoughts and he lifted a hand. Slowly, he began to trace a figure eight on the moist windowpane in front of them and drew Ginger’s attention to it.
    â€œCan you imagine your life following the pattern of this figure eight?” He saw her quick nod and continued on. “You flow round and round, ever-circling, never-ending. Behind you, another life traces the pattern, ever-circling, never-ending, different speed. And behind that life, another life doing the same. And another. And when there are hundreds of lives circling the pattern?” Adrian left the question hanging in mid-sentence.
    â€œEventually some of them will collide … here.” Ginger placed her finger eagerly over the point where the two circles conjoined.
    â€œExactly. They’ll be strangers meeting for the first time.”
    â€œBut they aren’t really strangers, are they?” Ginger piped up, satisfaction showing in her eyes. “They’ve passed each other numerous times before while circling the pattern. They’ve just never collided before.”
    Adrian nodded, pleased by her astuteness, and then he saw one of her smiles emerge.
    â€œWhy do they collide, Adrian? What is the purpose behind it? I don’t think I’m spiritual enough to grasp it.”
    â€œOf course you are. You sing about it every night in the third act of our show.”
    She wrinkled her nose and Adrian soon saw her flash of understanding.
    â€œKismet, do you mean? Destinies tied to each other?”
    Adrian nodded, wiping the figure eight from the glass pane and then drying his fingers along his pants leg. Ginger still wore a troubled frown. Lifting her chin, he mocked her fear with a grin.
    â€œWhat now, O’Toole? There’s nothing to be scared of. You are perfectly safe. I’m here to chase away any pesky ghosts hiding in your bedroom closet.”
    He heard her shaky laugh.
    â€œWho’s gonna chase away the ones hiding in your closet?”
    Adrian started to laugh then felt his heartbeat lurch as once again outside the window, lightning ripped across the blackness. Ginger’s fingers sought his for comfort and he clutched them firmly.
    At the touch, a brief image of a lace-frosted white silk peignoir, shimmering with tiny pearls, floated across his mind. The image faded quickly, leaving Adrian no time to ponder its meaning. Instead, he attempted to make his body shut down the strange excitement mounting within him by gathering Ginger closer to him, clinging to her familiar curves the way a drowning man clings to a solitary lifeline. Above their heads, the ceiling lights dipped and quickly resurged. Ginger attempted to hide a feeble shiver.
    â€œThere’ll be no dress rehearsal if this keeps up,” she remarked.
    â€œNonsense, O’Toole. Where’s your sense of tradition? Don’t you know the show must go on? We’ll perform by candlelight if we have to.”
    â€œNot me.”
    Adrian smiled at the denial, knowing she had no intention of reneging on the performance. She was a trooper, a showbiz junkie. No one had ever been able to keep her from
not
performing.
    Settling her more comfortably in the crook of his arm, they both were content to watch the snow flurries assaulting the windowpane for a few moments. However, Ginger soon began fidgeting.
    â€œSettle down, O’Toole,” he scoffed, “Have I ever locked you in a box and left your there?”
    â€œNo, but there’s always a first time. You’re not yourself tonight. You’re distracted.” She lifted his fingers and caressed his injured thumb pad thoughtfully. “Your hands tell all your secrets, Adrian. I bet you didn’t know I knew that. Your face never gives anything away, but your hands? They tell volumes. Tonight, I watched them shake, and I don’t believe it was from the glass embedded in your thumb. You were afraid.”