Mediterranean-style building, with its red tile roof and seemingly flimsy hold on the edge of the bluff. What a setting! A car honked as it passed her on the too-narrow curve, and she put her foot on the gas pedal, drove forward a short distance and turned into the gated driveway of the Kling Mansion.
The stone post to which the gate was attached bore a touchpad of numbers with a buzzer beneath it. She pressed the buzzer as she’d been directed to do, and the gate slid open with a barely audible grinding of metal on metal. She drove into the estate, its thick, emerald-green landscaping enveloping her, and parked her car close to the mansion. There was a stone path leading from the driveway to the house, and she walked up to the huge double doors. Although a mother-of-pearl doorbell graced the wall next to the door, she opted to use the heavy dolphin-shaped knocker for the sheer pleasure of lifting it and letting it fall.
After a moment, a woman drew open the massive door. She wore a lavender dress, her gray hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she smiled at Joelle, her eyes crinkling behind narrow, stylish wire-rimmed glasses.
Joelle held out her hand. “Dr Shire?” she asked.
“No, dear,” the woman said, but she squeezed her hand with a smile. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. McGowan. And you must be Shanti.” There was a touch of Irish in her voice.
“Oh,” Joelle said. “Yes. I have an appointment with Dr. Shire.”
“Come in, love.” The woman stepped back to let her in, then guided her through a beautiful foyer with a terra- cotta-tiled floor into a living room dominated by a fireplace so enormous, Joelle felt as though she’d stepped into the mansion in
“This is breathtaking,” Joelle said, her feet sinking into a rich, red oriental carpet.
“I’ll tell Dr. Shire you’re here,” the housekeeper said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
The woman disappeared from the room, and Joelle thought she should probably take a seat on one of the love seats or the sofa, but she was drawn to the rear of the room and the view. Looking through one of the arched windows, she could see that the edge of the stone terrace was irregular, cut at rough angles to match the rugged coastline. There should be different words to describe the smidgen of ocean she could see from the balcony of her condominium and the expanse of water and greenery that could be seen from this mansion, she thought. The word
Toward the side of the terrace, she spotted a man whose back was to her. He was a gardener most likely, a black man with graying hair and pruning shears in his hands, and he was working on a shrub of some sort. A younger man was grooming something below the level of the terrace. She could just see the top of his head. What a fabulous place to work! But the evidence of servants and caretakers distressed her somehow. Carlynn Shire obviously had plenty of money, and that made Joelle think of her as a con artist, making millions off the desperation of the sick.
“Hello!” The voice came from behind her, and she turned around to see a small woman walk into the room, one hand on a cane.
Joelle smiled at her uncertainly. “Hi,” she said. “Dr. Shire?”
“Yes.” The woman held out her hand. “Please call me Carlynn.”
Joelle shook her hand. “How do you do?” She was surprised to see the cane and the frailty of the woman. This was a healer?
“Have a seat,” Carlynn said, pointing to the sofa adjacent to the windows.
Joelle sat on the sofa, and Carlynn took a seat in the leather armchair, lifting her feet onto its matching ottoman with surprising energy and resting her cane against the chair’s arm. There was a spryness just beneath the surface of her fragility, as though the woman’s body was not quite ready to give in to whatever nature and age had in store for it. Her voice had a lyrical quality, and her gray hair was cut in a short, youthful bob with deep bangs. Her blue eyes were lively, and she wore a short-sleeved navy-blue blouse with a pink-and-blue scarf tied around her neck. There was a bit of dirt on the knees of her pale blue slacks, and Joelle wondered if she might have been helping the gardeners in the yard. She looked the type who would not mind getting her fingernails dirty, but would her body allow her to crawl around in a garden? All in all, Carlynn Shire was nothing like Joelle had expected. Somehow, the mystical, gifted woman described by her parents had sounded tall and sinewy and mysterious. There was nothing mysterious about the seventyish woman sitting in front of her.
“So.” Carlynn leaned forward in her chair. “You are little Shanti Joy.”
“Yes.” Joelle smiled. “But I go by Joelle D’Angelo now.”
Joelle thought she saw understanding in the older woman’s smile. “When did you change your name?” she asked.
“When I was ten. My parents and I left the Cabrial Commune then, and even though we were living in Berkeley, the name Shanti was just a bit much for me.” She grinned. “So I took a combination of my parents’ names. John and Ellen.”
“Ah.” Carlynn nodded. “That’s how I came by my name, too. Only Carlynn is a combination of my grandparents’ names—Carl and Lena.”
Joelle cocked her head to one side. “Do you remember when I was born?” she asked.
“Yes, certainly.”
“Do you think you really healed me, or do you think I simply started breathing, finally? Forgive my skepticism.”
“It’s difficult to know, Joelle,” she said, using her chosen name easily. “I put my hands on you. You began to breathe, whether it was a coincidence or not. Neither you nor I will ever know. But here you are, alive, looking lovely, and that’s what matters.”
“I guess so,” Joelle said. “But just in case it was a true…healing, I’m glad you were there.”
“I am, too.” Carlynn narrowed her gaze at her. “But what brings you here now?” she asked.
