CHAPTER SIX

The ballroom was full when Liam arrived through the back door. He could hear the murmurs and chatting as the participants indulged over coffees and teas served from giant dispensers along the back wall. In deference to the nature of his work, their work, the snacks were vegan and healthy—as healthy as a massive hotel could do, anyway, which was piles of grapes and bananas and hearty muffins (carrot or pumpkin or almond) and bowls of nuts and granola bars. Lots of coffee, and teas of every variety.

Krish, who was not only his friend but also his team manager, rushed over, a clipboard in his hand, an earpiece circling his ear. "Liam, where've you been? They're just about to get restless."

He smoothed the air with his hands, giving Krish his most calming smile. "It's fine, bro. Sorry. Time got away from me. Give me five minutes."

Krish gave him a look. They'd known each other a long time, since their school days in Auckland, way before all this started, which meant that Krish knew him a bit too well at times. "A woman, is it?"

"It's not like that."

He raised an eyebrow. "It never is, but here you are, late enough that I was afraid we'd have to cancel." His expression was not reassured. "Be careful."

"I'm good. Really."

"Go. Get yourself ready."

Liam clapped him on the arm and headed for the small dressing room. He donned a clean linen shirt and casual trousers, and pulled his hair back from his face, dampening his fingers at the sink to skim back the loose hair. It would fall free by the end of the first session, but as long as he started in a neat place, the participants didn't mind.

That finished, he sat for a moment and closed his eyes. Flashes played over his memory: Tillie's eyes, a greenish blue like the sea, fringed in heavy lashes he didn't think were fake, though he wasn't the wisest when it came to women's cosmetic enhancements. In the taxi, reading her palm playfully, he'd felt a frisson of connection, smelling the fragrance of her, something elusive and green.

And then, her dramatic fainting, that river of dark hair spilling everywhere, her legs in green stockings like a creature from the forest. This morning, her simple crossed legs, the calm in her rooms, the riotousness of her paintings, strange and compelling. He hadn't wanted to leave her yet.

Focus.

He took in a breath and mentally built a wall around any thoughts of Tillie. People had paid hundreds of dollars for the experience they hoped to have today, and he owed them his full attention.

More, he wanted to be present with them, and for himself. To do whatever he needed to do here, today, in this place. He allowed himself to empty, to clear his thoughts, his heart, and as much of his ego as he was able.

In a moment, Krish knocked. "We're just about to start."

"I'm ready." Liam rose and followed his friend's dark head through a small hallway to the stage. The lights had come down, not all the way, but to a more agreeable coral tone than the usual overhead brights. The participants were in mostly tidy rows, on cushions or mats or on the floor, most of them cross-legged, waiting. Many of them wore prayer shawls or sweaters. He scanned their faces, each one precious, every age and color and culture and sex, and love filled him. He looked at them, one by one, taking his time. The old woman with her thin white hair, embroidered violet blouse, and bare feet. The young man with a shaved head and enormous eyes. The two plump women with long dark hair, both dressed in red, perhaps sisters.

He rested his eyes on each one, seeing as many as he could before he began. Acknowledging them.

Years before, when he'd been stricken to his very soul by the devotion of the pilgrims at Varanasi, he could not have foreseen where his studies and practice would take him, but as he settled now, connected to himself and to them, and to spirit or presence or whatever terms felt right in a given moment, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Here. He was imperfect in his practices. Flawed as all humans were flawed, but imperfect practice was healing, anyway. The more seekers in the world, the better, he thought, and came onstage, barefoot and calm, raising one hand. Gentle, respectful applause rose. He took the tiny mic from Hanna, the stage manager, and tucked it into the neckline of his shirt, then sat on a cushion placed on a small riser. They'd started with the cushion on the floor of the stage, but it was hard to see the room from such a low vantage point, and hard for the back of the room to see him, so they'd gone to the riser.

As he settled, all the reasons and all his calm swirled in and filled him. "Hello," he said in a normal voice. "I'm so glad to see you all. Let's begin."

The world over, especially in the West, people misunderstood spiritual pursuits. Feared them. Liam had given up trying to name that benevolent force.

What he knew was that when it came time for this moment, the silence, the feeling of eternal connection with whatever it was that lived outside and inside of him, and the connections of the souls in the room when they meditated together, was a real thing.

Powerful. Important. For this time, for these hours, they were creating something calm and peaceful in a violent, chaotic world.

It wasn't until he was on his way back to his dressing room that he thought again of Tillie. A flash of her tumbling dark hair, the way she slid her eyes sideways to look at him.

Be careful, bro, Krish had said. Not be careful because a woman might try to use him for his position or status or whatever the hell. Be careful because his weakness was falling—falling hard. And yes, he felt that now, had felt it from the first moment he'd seen her in the gallery, but was solid, like fated , as if they were meant to meet, as if they were—

Don't say it, some voice in his head jeered. Soulmates, right, bro? How many times ...

Disheartened, he sank onto the couch in the dressing room and fell back, closing his eyes. That was long ago, the pattern he'd broken after his pilgrimage.

Tillie was something else, something real. He felt it as solidly as his own hands.

He was sure of it.