Midnight Side by Natasha Mostert

When the phone rang Isa was dreaming.

She was dreaming of a funeral: the funeral of her love. The funeral to which she was not invited, to which she dared not go.

Wind in the trees, white flowers on black mud. The widow's dress billowing at the hem.

At the widow's side stood Mark. Isa recognized him instantly, although they had never met. In a few years' time Mark would lose the graceless, gawky gestures and the outsized nose of adolescence and become the image of his father. At this moment his hand was protectively draped around the shoulder of his mother, who was weeping with wild abandon, without any thought of propriety. Her face was screwed up into an ugly grimace of woe and her mouth was open. To her left were the two younger girls--twins --Cecily and Anne. Their long, blond hair was pulled back behind their ears with crimson velvet ribbons.

Isa wanted to join them. She wanted to take the widow's slack hand into her own, and kiss the smooth cheeks of the little girls. She wanted to say, “Please talk to me. I want to talk about him. I have no one to talk to about him. I have no one with whom to share my grief.”

Isa started to speak but the wind blew the words from her mouth. She started to walk toward them but her legs dragged, heavy as lead.

Then she felt a tug at her sleeve. She looked down and saw the hand resting on her elbow. As always, this hand was small, much smaller than her own square, capable-looking hands. And as always,Isa was unable to see the owner of the hand although she could sense her presence, and on the edges of her peripheral vision hovered a shape . . .

The phone rang: the sound a long, long chain dragging her back to consciousness.

She fumbled for the phone, her fingers slipping and then clumsily gripping the receiver. Behind her eyes was a sense of flickering nausea. The ringing of the phone sounded odd: flat, atonal; strangely off-key.

“Isabelle, is that you?”

The connection was poor. But the voice could only belong to Alette. There was no mistaking that whispery voice. And only Alette ever used her full name: Isabelle. Or rather I-I-sabelle. Alette always pronounced her name with the first syllable slightly drawn out: “I-I-sabelle”--like a child calling out the name of another child during a game of hide-and-seek.

Isa struggled to concentrate. She had difficulty hearing. And her mind was still stupid with sleep. The phone call seemed almost an extension of her dream. In her dream she had sensed Alette beside her, had felt the pressure of her hand, and now, only a waking moment later, here she was talking to her. The switch from dream to reality was so abrupt, her brain was struggling to cope with the transition.

Isa knew her cousin was calling from London, but although the satellite hookup between the UK and South Africa was sometimes poor, this connection was particularly bad. Some words came through as clearly as though Alette was standing next to her, while other words were drowning in a sea of scratchy noises. The words faded away but it sounded as though Alette was constantly repeating, “Isabelle, is that you?”

Isa pushed herself upright and pulled a pillow into place behind her back. “Alette, it's me. Listen, we have a terrible line. Let me call you back.”

“No.” The word came over the line with the force of a bullet. “Don't do that. Don't hang up.”

“What's wrong?”

Silence. But the noise on the line was lessening.

Isa looked out the window. The curtain was open. She must have forgotten to close it when she went to bed last night. Actually--she could hardly remember the previous night. The sky outside her window was gray, streaked with pink. Leaning over, she picked up her wristwatch from the bedside table. Five a.m.

She ran her tongue over her lips. Behind her eyes lurked a wicked ache, which no doubt had something to do with the wineglass that stood next to the telephone. But it wasn't the aftereffects of the wine that made her feel suddenly apprehensive. Something was wrong. London was two hours behind Durban--it was three o'clock in the morning for Alette.

“Alette--what's wrong?”

“I couldn't sleep.” The ghost of a laugh. “Sorry I woke you.”

Isa shifted more comfortably against her pillow. “It doesn't matter.”

“You were having a nightmare.”

Isa hesitated. “Yes.” She didn't ask how Alette knew. Alette always knew.“Do you want to talk about it?” Alette's voice was clear. The noise on the line was now hardly noticeable.

“No. I'm okay.” For a moment she considered asking Alette about the hand in her dream. But no, then she'd have to discuss with Alette the rest of it--her distress at not being able to attend Eric's funeral; her insane desire to approach his family--and she most certainly did not want to discuss Eric with Alette. The last time they had talked about him the discussion had deteriorated into a row. Alette had not approved of Eric. “He doesn't even make a pretense of ever leaving his wife,” she had said vehemently. “Thirteen years you've given him. How could you do this to yourself?”That conversation had taken place three months ago; only ten days before Eric's death.

Isa repeated the words to herself silently: Eric's death. Eric was dead. Death. Such a tired, dusty word. It hovered on the lips like a poisoned sigh.

“Isabelle . . . Isabelle, I may have to ask a favor of you . . .”

“What is it?”

The Midnight Side. Copyright © by Natasha Mostert. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.