BLACK SPOT AND HOLLYWOOD ROSE

This short story was written circa 2009 and was the genesis for The Garden of Emily Washburn.

Some men who appear on the red carpet look to be lost in the spotlight. These are not the actors, producers or directors but the other categories who are nominated for the technical gongs. Like other men, however, they crave to be seen in the presence of beauty.  These are the men who seek the services of Eve Desjardin.

Eve Desjardin is a gardener and every year she purveys her collection of flowers to a select band of clients. Not the glittering peacocks with reconstructed wives or jawlines of fate but those insipid souls who flounder for affability and want nothing more than to be envied by humanity through the beauty of their companion.  For those chosen, Eve’s flowers do not embody ordinary beauty but display ethereal splendour that transcends the imagination.

 If they could, men would queue for months for an invitation to purchase, but eligibility is limited to the conscripted few who have been nominated for glory at the annual three-ring extravaganza of photo calls, publicity stunts, and otherwise serious attention to film known as the Academy Awards.

For the two weeks leading up to the festival, Eve resides in an exclusive hotel off Hollywood Boulevard; a hotel chosen for the ambience of its pool. Not that she would ever use the pool, but she likes to engage in naval gazing with the pool as a backdrop. This is a necessity, driven by the fact that her applicants have faces that are, at best, forgettable and most have the personality of a dead mullet. If they lacked these fine attributes, they would not be desirous of her services.

Peter Mortimer was such a man. Below narrow beady eyes, shaded by overhanging eyebrows, was the porous snout of a seasoned drinker. One ear was an elongated shell. The other reminded Eve of a cauliflower gnawed by rats. His chin was dimpled, as was his left cheek.

‘Please sit,’ Eve said as she gestured to the small space still available at one end of the lounge. She summoned a passing waiter, ordered champagne and readjusted herself on the crimson fabric of the lounge. She cast her eyes over Mortimer’s tousled hair and crushed linen suit.  ‘Peter, I know you are not, as yet, a man of means so I am surprised at your choice. I thought you would settle for something from the second tier.’

‘Don’t let appearances fool you,’ Mortimer replied

‘You have the means to pay?’

‘I have been saving since my nomination. Everything is organised.’

‘Your type is never organised. If you were, I’d be poor and wouldn’t need to spend a fortune on invitations.’         

Mortimer’s mind struggled for a retort but failed. His shoulders dropped in a gesture of submission. ‘Do you still have my choice available?’ he asked, wanting to commence negotiations.

‘Of course, She will adorn your arm with such beauty the world will envy your good fortune.’

Mortimer thought for a moment. ‘Top shelf?’   

‘She is an orchid,’ Eve quipped.

‘The most beautiful of flowers…when can I meet her?’

Eve’s smile chilled the air. ‘In good time. First there is a small commercial transaction to be finalised, then you must agree to a strict adherence to the rule. Do you understand?’

Mortimer nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Rule?’

‘Yes, a simple rule. You are to be seen only in public with my flower and you do not attempt to spend time alone with her in intimate surroundings or kiss her. If you agree, you will have a beautiful woman on your arm. You will be the envy of your peers.’

Mortimer nodded like a backseat dog.

‘I take it you agree?’  Eve asked.

‘Yes…of course.’

Eve was distracted as the waiter arrived with the champagne. She returned to Mortimer after tasting it. ‘One other thing. I trust you will look much smarter when you meet the young lady. I am unimpressed by your lack of thought and consideration for appearance. After all, we don’t want people to see beauty and the beast…and this beauty is special. In view of your soon to be found status I have made available a most beautiful specimen. Her name is Emma Dendrobium.’

Eve handed Mortimer a photo. This was beyond his wildest dreams. ‘You’re kidding…Emma Dendrobium will be with me?’

‘Emma is a prize orchid. Is she not worthy to partner you?’

‘No…no…no. I’m not worthy.’

Eve smiled, condescendingly. ‘I make the decisions on worthiness. In an hour from now she will enter this lounge from the lift. I suggest you improve your appearance.’

An hour later, Mortimer brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the breast pocket of his jacket, as he reviewed his reflection in a lift mirror. He was now clean, tidy and resplendent in a navy blue woollen jacket, grey cotton slacks, a sky blue cotton shirt and black shoes.

The lift doors opened and his heart collapsed. He didn’t know what he expected, but what he saw was beauty that transcended thought. There was no makeup other than a touch of pale pink lipstick and a light dusting of blush on her cheeks. The dress was a simple white knee length sheath, set off by a simple mauve and pale green necklace. Blond hair reflected the light as it bounced gently on her shoulders as she walked toward him. Here was the essence of beauty.

Emma looked Mortimer in the eyes, twirled with the finesse of a ballerina. ‘I trust you are not disappointed,’ she said in a voice with the timbre of melted honey.

‘I’m in love,’ Mortimer uttered, grinning broadly.

Emma’s eyes lit the room with their brilliance. ‘And so quickly, shall we go?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought we might get to know one another. Maybe a stroll along Rodeo Drive.’

Mortimer decided to expound some newly acquired knowledge. ‘Dendrobium…unusual name for humans but a very established genus of orchids.’

‘My family can be traced to Olof Swartz in 1799.’

‘An old European name…I’m sorry.’

Emma linked arms with Mortimer as they left the hotel. He didn’t know where they were going so simply kept pace with the sensuous movement of her hips as she strolled. Immediately, he felt as if everyone they passed was looking at them.

As they strolled between the hawkers and vague tourists, who viewed the city through phone screens, they made small talk and drifted from topic to topic. Sometimes it concentrated on Mortimer’s reasons for being in town, the gold embossed invitation and its flight of fantasy. After a time, Emma walked two paces ahead and turned around, taking both of Mortimer’s hands in hers and walking backwards with consummate ease.

‘What have you planned for this evening?’ she asked.  ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘We’re invited to the Indie Producers party but I was hoping to crash Vanity Fair…or something like that.’

‘Call Eve and tell her what you want to do. She will arrange entry.’ The smile on Emma’s face possessed the wonderment of a child in a candy store. Mortimer’s brain was subjected to a minor loss of blood.

Two bottles of champagne were upended in a silver ice bucket.  A third stood on the table, a strawberry jammed into its neck. A fourth was being upended into Mortimer’s mouth. Emma noticed the glaze in his eyes. He was the epitome of dishevelled disregard with his shirtfront open halfway down his chest and jacket askew. He kept raking his hair to clear his mind. He was in both a drunken stupor and besotted with Emma’s company. The most beautiful girl he’d ever seen sat beside him and he was in the most exclusive nightclub in the city, at an invitation-only party for the glitterati. His name was on the guest list and he was being treated as if he belonged. Celebrities and back room movers acknowledged his presence. Some even wanted his movie to succeed. He was halfway to heaven.

‘We should get you home,’ Emma said. Her words stung his heart.

‘I need another drink.’ He waved his arm at a passing waiter.

‘No you don’t. You need to get back to your hotel, so you can sleep this one off and prepare for your big night tomorrow.’

He knew she was right. ‘Will you come back to the hotel with me?’

Emma rose from her seat, gestured to the waiter. ‘Of course,’

Outside the nightclub, Mortimer shook his head in horror as flashbulbs exploded in front of his eyes. Black stars filled the void and he squinted to regain composure. Emma placed her arm around him, her eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She allowed the photographers to get as many shots as they wanted, always posing so Mortimer could be acknowledged as a lucky man. Being drunk and dishevelled wasn’t a problem; it was who you were with that set tongues wagging.

They were climbing into the limo when Mortimer noticed a black rash on Emma’s right arm. ‘What’s that?’

She seemed alarmed when she looked at her arm. ‘A bit too much sun, this afternoon.’

‘Doesn’t look like sunburn.’

‘Skin pigment problem. Nothing to worry about.’

A few minutes later, after running the gauntlet of the early morning traffic, with partygoers too drunk to walk, they arrived at Mortimer’s hotel. Once inside, they found the foyer deserted.  Even the security guard was missing. Low level lights provided an eerie glow and gave a gargoyle appearance to the sculptured centrepiece of the foyer. Mortimer almost tripped over his feet as he fought the cobwebs of his mind. He could sense Emma helping him along but was too far gone to absorb anything except the perfume of her soul; a mild raspberry candy scent, which seemed to diminish the esters of man-made concoctions. He couldn’t quite identify it but he was in no condition to try.

‘Would you like some assistance, Madame?’ asked a bodiless voice from a dark recess.

‘Yes please. He’s been a little exuberant,’ Emma said.

Mortimer raked the sides of his head to dismiss the lethargy but he sensed failure as his mind refused to clear. He let Emma and the guard assist him to the lift. ‘I’m so sorry, I think I drank too much,’ he said, his words expelling around the bulk of his tongue.

‘You were just having fun. That’s what you’re here for. I’ll see you in the morning.’

 Mortimer heard what she said through the fog. He rode the lift to his floor, staggered along the corridor, fell through the bedroom doorway and nose-dived toward his bed. He almost made it.

The morning sun filtered through the cobwebs and dust of the hotel’s skylight giving the corridor of the fourth floor the soft glow of suffused decay.  The place had seemed bad enough before dawn but the daylight made Eve Desjardin wonder how Mortimer had raised the money to afford her services. She rapped on the door to Mortimer’s room and waited. Rapped again, rested her ear against the timber frame and listened.  The sound of silence issued forth.  She looked at her watch and rapped with increased vigour.

The agonising squeal of the lift rent the air as it stopped at the floor. Mortimer rushed from the lift, his breath punctuating staccato interludes into an uneven melody. Perspiration beaded on his forehead but, unexpectedly, his eyes were clear.

A look of boyhood excitement shone through the sweat while a pained expression gave Mortimer the appearance of a constipated greyhound.

‘Thank god, you’re here,’ Mortimer said, between gasps for air. ‘I’ve been out for my morning run I found it.’

Eve remained cool. ‘What have you found?’

‘The dress for Emma. She will look more fabulous than ever. It’s perfect. Follow me, I’ll show you.’

Eve put her hand up to stop Mortimer talking. ‘Emma called me early this morning. She’s not well…too much sun. I was here earlier to tell you, but you didn’t answer your door. The security guy told me to let you sleep it off...so I did. Problem is, Emma can’t be with you today or tonight.’

Dark clouds flashed across Mortimer’s eyes. ‘In don’t understand.’

‘Emma’s not well…but I have a rose available. Newly minted.’

 She took out her smart phone and slid the screen, spoke for a couple of minutes then hung up.

‘But…’

Eve held up her hand. ‘It isn’t a problem. My obligation is for you to be seen with beauty. Last night, people envied you. Tonight, they will be insanely jealous. Her name is Jacqueline du Pre. She just agreed to meet you at the Naismith Art Gallery in an hour.

Mortimer was lost until he arrived at the gallery displaying the floral artworks of Alain Géneau. The only woman inside, sitting on a bench and now looking in Mortimer’s direction, was part of a rare breed that carries beauty with casual ease. It was hard to imagine that the vision in his eyes was ever less than perfect. The woman’s blond hair was parted in the centre and curled around a lightly tanned face to further soften a smoothly rounded jawline. Bright greyish eyes shone from above high and only slightly made-up cheekbones. As she turned to stand, he noticed how smallish breasts pushed at her mauve blouse, making petite conical peaks.  His eyes were descending when she spoke.

‘Mr. Mortimer?’

‘Miss du Pre, I presume,’ Mortimer replied, as his eyes drifted back to her face.

‘You may call me Jacqueline, or Jacque, if you prefer.’

Memory of Emma drifted from his mind but, as with her, he expounded newly acquired knowledge. ‘Your name…the same as the cellist. Are you from the same family?’

Jacque smiled. ‘I am a rose, from the family named in honour of the cellist.’

‘Mortimer looked at his watch. It had stopped. He checked his smart phone. ‘Shall we go somewhere for lunch.’

‘Bit early for lunch. Maybe breakfast?’

 As Jacqueline sipped coffee and nibbled at a croissant, Mortimer stared out of the café window. She sensed his restlessness. She tried to calm him but he remained seated on the edge of his chair, his body making little contact with the cane seat. She was amused and a wide smile creased her cheeks. 

Mortimer noticed. ‘Okay, okay.  We have the whole day, right?’

‘What’s the problem?’

 ‘I saw a beautiful dress for Emma this morning….but it would suit you as well. Sorry but Emma…’Mortimer didn’t finish the sentence.

‘It’s okay Peter. We have let you down, not the other way. To maintain perfection, conditions must be perfect. I just hope you’re not disappointed.’

Mortimer was shocked. ‘No, not at all,’ he spurted. ‘I just wish I had been introduced to you first. I was worried about your feelings.’

‘There are only a few who argue that we have feelings. Why don’t we go and see this dress you want me to look at?’

Mortimer led the way but, after walking half a block, Jacqueline’s blood turned to ice. She knew where they were going. There was only one boutique in the direction they were headed. She figured he wouldn’t enter a dress shop by himself, so the dress had to be on display. She steeled herself to disappoint him. She slowed her pace while she thought about her predicament. The dress would be black. She was a rose. Roses don’t wear black.

Mortimer subconsciously increased the grip pressure on her hand as they approached the boutique. His excitement grew. The most fabulous dress he’d ever seen for the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. ‘Voilà,’ he said as they stood in front of the display window. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

Jacqueline nodded agreement as her stomach turned. The black dress reposed on a mannequin as an eclectic gathering of styles that formed one perfect whole. The airiness of an Ancient Greek tunic, the texture of the finest Chinese silk and the understated elegance of Valentino combined in a creation bound to please even the most discerning admirer of style. One of the mannequin’s legs was exposed almost to the thigh; the other covered to the knee as the angled drape combined formality and freedom in an unusual paradigm. Jacqueline had not seen its like before. ‘Oh, Peter,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘Stand here, stand here.’ Mortimer had Jacqueline stand in front of the window as he stepped back and framed her with his hands.

‘Perfection. And it must be your size.’

Before Jacqueline could speak, Mortimer grasped her hand and led her into the inner sanctum of The Bouton Noir Boutique.

Jacqueline hesitated. ‘What if it isn’t for sale? We’ll need to look for something else,’ she murmured to Mortimer, in conspiratorial tones.

Mortimer nodded to a saleswoman, whose flashing teeth reminded him of a shark preparing for lunch. 

‘May I be of assistance?’ she asked as she approached.

‘My friend thinks the dress may not be for sale.’

‘Everything in the store is for sale, sir…except the saleswoman of course.’  The woman giggled at her own joke. Mortimer chuckled in sympathy.  

‘May we try this one on?’

‘It is an original sir.’

‘I expected as much.’

The saleswoman was surprised to hear the man talking.  She directed her gaze to Jacqueline. ’Madame doesn’t like the dress?’

   ‘Ohh...of course, it’s beautiful.’ She looked at the nametag on the saleswoman’s jacket. ‘Janelle. It’s just that black isn’t a good colour for me.’

Mortimer chipped in. ‘You have to be kidding. You’ll look sublime.’

‘It’s not the way I look. Black always brings such bad luck to those around me and I don’t want anything to happen.’

‘How could you bring bad luck?

‘You would be surprised.’

‘Try it on. I’ll take the risk,’ Mortimer said, in mock seriousness.

Janelle unpinned the dress from the mannequin and guided Jacqueline to the dressing room. She undressed slowly. Without pleasure she slipped the black dress over her head and let it slide into position. She looked closely at the mirror, searching for imperfections. There were none. If only it wasn’t black, she thought. Maybe if she wore it sparingly. Yes, that was it. She could spill something on it at the awards ceremony and she could change for later engagements. She left the dressing room pleased with her decision. 

The expelling of breath, by every person in the boutique, came as a shock. Women stopped mid-sentence and overtly stared. Men stood with their mouths agape. Janelle clapped like a small child at a party. Jacqueline pirouetted and the bottom of the dress rose as if suspended on an air cushion. Her legs evoked involuntary gasping from the males.  Mortimer’s mouth wouldn’t close. He had never seen such beauty.  As Eve Desjardin said, Jacqueline was a rose.

Mortimer felt like a kid who’d found a million-dollar note as he was delivered to the Oscar’s ceremony in a stretch limousine. He glanced at Jacqueline and eyes like fire in the night came to mind. Her hair was swept to one side and her swanlike neck reminded him of the fragile stem of a hand-blown glass. She appeared not to be wearing makeup, yet she was flawless.

He gripped her hand a little too hard, she winced. ‘Oops, sorry,’ he said, sincerely.

 ‘You seem a little excited.’

 ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever been to one of these things as a nominee.  Usually I have to scrounge for tickets from friends in the business.’

‘After tonight you’ll be a winner and never have to scrounge again.’

‘If only it were true.’

‘We’ll soon find out,’ she said, as she squeezed his hand.

The limousine pulled up outside of the Dolby Theatre and Mortimer saw the red carpet carving a path to the door. Thousands of people lined the footpath and flashguns created a resonant blur of bluish light. Media with microphones stood in ambush between them and the door. Mortimer loved it.

As they stepped from the comfort of their cocoon there was silence. Then, as at the boutique, an audible gasp emanated from the crowd, followed by the most tumultuous applause Mortimer had ever heard. He knew t it wasn’t for him but he didn’t care. He was with the object of their devotion.

Microphones prodded their faces like gauze chicken legs, each carrying the breath of its holder. Inane questions were answered with smiles and spontaneous quips. Adrenaline coursed through Mortimer like a flood. He felt as if he’d died and gone to heaven. He longed for the feeling to last forever. He finally belonged.

For the first time in his life, he was escorted to a seat at the front of the theatre.  He noticed that even famous heads turned to overtly stare at his companion. He couldn’t believe his luck held. He paused to let Jacqueline precede him to their seats, which placed her on the aisle.

She stopped. ‘This is your night, I’m unimportant,’ she said. ‘You must savour the moment, be it good or bad.’ She couldn’t believe what she’d uttered. Her job was to keep Mortimer flying, not open up possibilities of defeat. She looked at the black dress and cursed.  ‘Is your category early or later?’

Mortimer opened his program and ran his finger down the events list. ‘We’re not one of the big awards. We’re on in the first half-hour. Why do you ask?’

‘Nothing really…it’s just that I’m not feeling well. It must be the excitement.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Mortimer said.

Jacqueline nodded affirmation, sat back and cast her eyes over the gathered crowd. She saw no one she knew personally, yet many faces seemed familiar. She even felt a closeness to some, but nothing tangible. She looked across at Mortimer who looked to be in deep shock. She would leave him for a short time in order not to spoil his chances of success. She wouldn’t spoil his evening simply because she wore black. She would stay as long as possible but what she dreaded wouldn’t be long in coming. She waited.

When it hit her, it took the form of slow creeping paralysis. Something she had learned to dread, like prickly heat crawling up her legs to her torso and then her upper body. A flush embodied the crushing of her spirit. She grabbed Mortimer’s attention and silently indicated her problem. He nodded, with a look of deep concern on his face, as she left.  Once outside the theatre she rushed along a corridor trying doorknobs as she went. They were all locked. She ran on, stumbling in her high heels, looking for respite, trying each room. Then a lock moved and she rushed through the door of a small broom closet. She turned on the light and found herself staring at the tangled tresses of a mop head. This will have to do, she thought. She pulled the dress over her head and stood silently in her underwear, trying to regain composure. She knew Mortimer wanted her near when the announcement was made but she also wanted him to win. She glanced at her watch. Timing would be everything. She took deep breaths and stood motionless willing herself to remain calm.

It was five minutes before she pulled the dress back over her head. Her skin tones had returned to normal. Mortimer didn’t notice her resume her seat. He was too focused. He leaned back on his seat as if relaxed and comfortable but his mind floated above it, his senses primed. A fixed smile bathed his face like a children’s clown. He was ready to applaud the winner. He felt the television cameras of the world boring into him, robbing him of his soul yet giving affirmation of his success. He looked at Jacqueline and had an urge to hold her hand so they could live the moment together; to be as one, whether in success or failure. He waited as the nominees were read out.  He knew the names and the quality of the work; his paled by comparison. He had to be kidding. Panic struck and he fought an urge to wretch but kept his nonchalant smile in place. 

‘And the winner is…’

The air rushed from Mortimer as if he’d been punctured, his heart dropped, he sat heavily into his chair.  His brain told him to applaud the winner but he couldn’t move his arms.

‘You won it Peter, it’s you.’  

Mortimer’s eyes bulged open as if forced from his head by internal pressure. It registered. He heard his name in slow motion. He stood like an automaton, his mind in freefall, his body robotic. He placed his hands on either side of Jacqueline’s head. She moved in close and hugged him. ‘And you said black would bring me bad luck. If this is it, then I want more,’ Mortimer jibed, as he left her and moved toward the stage.

   Jacqueline had never seen a man so happy. She waited until an usher escorted her to the winners’ reception area and mingled with the growing crowd, drinking champagne and bathing in reflected glory. As each award recipient entered the room applause rang through the rafters. Mortimer bowed as he entered, as if winning had been a realistic expectation.

He handed Jacqueline the trinket as soon as he reached her side. ‘We’re expected to go off to the official reception. Is that okay?’

‘Fine by me, except I would like to get out of this dress. I spilt some champagne on it. I am a little uncomfortable. Maybe I can change and join you at the reception’

‘You’re kidding. You look fine. It’s that luck thing again isn’t it? You’re my lucky talisman.’

The words well done, Peter, I knew you’d do it floated on the air like characters written on the wind. There was no truth of course but Mortimer savoured the moment like a child with an ice cream. Everyone was his friend. Celebrities he venerated shook his hand with vigour, as if they were old friends. This was it, the reason for his hard work. Recognition by one’s peers, the epitome of one’s career.  He dismissed the thoughts as pretentious, and then turned on his heels as he was slapped on the back. Jacqueline moved away and returned to the broom closet. The heat was back.

When she returned, Mortimer noticed the glass tremble in her hand like a small seismic shuffle. Her knuckles were white with exertion and she fidgeted with the rim of the champagne filled glass. ‘What is it?’ Genuine concern creased his face.  

   ‘I just keep getting these hot flushes. They come and go but I’ll be fine. You enjoy yourself.’

‘You look great,’ Mortimer said, overtly casting his eyes over Jacqueline’s lithe form. ‘You don’t look flushed.’

‘Comes and goes. Don’t worry. Let’s just have fun. After all, this is the night.’

‘Hey, you two…we’re off to a party. Coming?’ someone yelled.

 Jacqueline shrugged approval.  Mortimer nodded.

They left the theatre through a rear door and down the stairs into a narrow alley. Refuse and comestible garbage belied the glittering entry on the other side of the building. Mortimer let Jacqueline walk just in front of him, admiring her rear view. The black dress flared slightly over her hips, giving her a seductive wiggle. He had to kiss her, despite the rules he had agreed with Eve Desjardin. He had to break the ice with her and see where things led.

They walked along Hollywood Boulevard, the palm trees along one side reminding him of the Boulevard de la Croisette in Cannes, with its palm tree lined median strip running to the edge of view in both directions. One of the crowd grabbed his girl’s hand and headed out through the line of oncoming traffic.  Mortimer hesitated, then took Jacqueline’s hand and followed suit. Car horns blared and lights flashed as they skipped and jigged to the centre of the road. On the other side things were worse; the traffic was non-stop as if traffic lights had no effect on the flow. They set off again, between cars. The shrill sound of a whistling kettle horn blared as a car rushed by. Another car slammed on its brakes and buried its nose in the bitumen with a screech. They made it across, laughing at their death defying feat.

 The time was right, Mortimer decided to act. He turned Jacqueline toward him, placed his hands squarely on her shoulders and kissed her. There was no reaction, his ebullience evaporated like water on hot concrete. Then he felt it; she’d bitten his lip. The sensation was strange. It didn’t feel like teeth; it was more like a thorn sting. The same sensation affected both hands, where he gripped her shoulders. He looked at his palms and saw blood spots forming from pinpoint specks. He couldn’t comprehend. Perspiration formed on his forehead and ran from the back of his neck. He wobbled as he stared at Jacqueline, whose expression was passive; as if a veil had descended. Blood began to gush from his bottom lip and fingers like tiny fountains. He stepped backward, into traffic, to get away. He didn’t notice the van.

Jacqueline looked down at Mortimer’s body as it bounced from under the van. Tears ran down her cheek.  She shook her head from side to side, mumbling softly to herself.  She pulled the sleek black dress over her head and walked to where Mortimer’s crumpled body was strewn, like so much garbage, on the road.  She dropped the dress to cover his unseeing eyes and walked away in her lingerie. She saw Eve Desjardin at the corner, holding out a coat to cover her.  Tears ran down Eve’s face as she placed her arms around Jacqueline. She held her close and felt the trembling.