“Depends on this plan of yours.” I keep my gaze fixed on his eyes. “I need to know what I’m getting into—where you’re planning to take me. I can’t just blindly agree to any ol’ thing. I have my standards, you know.” I look away, look down at my hands, refusing the sight of him, the whole glorious bounty of him, and choose to focus on my cuticles instead.

Hearing him laugh in reply, the sound of it like a deep, joyous roar that fills up the room, fills up my heart. Happy to know that the dark moment from a moment ago is forgotten for now.

Turning and making his way into the bath, the words drifting over his shoulder when he says, “A vacation. Just you and me and some glorious exotic location. A right and proper vacation, Ever. Far from everyone, and everything. A vacation in a place of my choosing.

That’s all you need to agree to. Leave the details to me.”

I smile to myself, loving the sound of that and the images it spurs in my mind, but I’m not about to reveal that, so to him I just say, “We’ll see.” The words drowned out by the sound of gushing water coming from his oversized shower. “We’ll see about that,” I whisper, tempted to join him, knowing that’s exactly what he wants, but with only a week to crack the code, I head for his laptop instead.

Chapter four

“Find anything?” Damen rubs a towel against his wet hair, ridding it of excess water before tossing it aside in favor of a quick comb-through with his fingers.

I push away from his desk and swivel a few inches toward him, rolling the chair back and forth and from side to side as I say, “I ran several searches—ran those numbers she mentioned, thinking it might be a date, or a code, or a link to an important passage, or hymn, or a psalm, or a poem, or… something.” I shrug. “I even ran that name she mentioned, Adelina. But nothing came up. So then I ran a search on the numbers and the name together, but still nothing. Or at least nothing that seems even remotely connected to us, anyway.”

He nods, disappears into his walk-in closet for a moment, then reappears wearing a clean pair of jeans and a black wool sweater.

While I opt for the far easier, somewhat lazy approach of manifesting my own set of clothes, which turn out to be pretty similar.

Except that my sweater is blue. He likes me in blue. Brings out the blue in my eyes, he says.

“So, where do we start?” He lowers himself onto the chaise and slides on some shoes—black TOMS slip-ons, one of the few things he actually buys anymore—but only because part of the proceeds go to charity.

Gone are the handcrafted Italian leather motorcycle boots he wore when we met. It’s now cheap rubber flip-flops in the summer, TOMS in the winter. Aside from his opulent, oversized, multimillion-dollar mansion, and the shiny, black, fully loaded BMW M6 Coupe that sits in the garage (a car I pretty much forced him to re-manifest and keep), his somewhat recent vow to live simpler, less flamboyantly, more conscientiously, and less materialistically appears to be one he plans to keep.

“For the next week, I’m all yours.” He rises to his feet, taking a moment to shake out each leg and settle the hems of his jeans.

“Only for the next week?” I stand before the framed full-length mirror that leans against the wall, trying to convince my hair to do something other than just lie flat against my head. But after manifesting some curls and waves that don’t really do it for me, I return it to the way it was and settle on a low loose ponytail.

“While you and I have no expiration date, this little project of yours does—as you clearly agreed. So, tell me, where do we start?” He looks at me, awaits further instruction on how to proceed.

I check out my profile, smoothing my hands over the stray wisps of hair that insist on springing out from the sides, thinking I should try something else, that I’m not quite pleased with the reflection that stares back, when I take a deep breath and force myself to accept it.

Whenever I look at me, all I see are things I’d like to change.

Whenever Damen looks at me, all he sees is a glorious gift from the universe.

Somewhere in the middle lies the truth.

“C’mon.” I turn away from me in favor of him, knowing we have no time to waste, that a busy week, a week like I’ve planned, can feel like only a minute or two when it’s all said and done.

Grasping his hand in mine, we stand side by side, the two of us envisioning that soft golden veil of shimmering light, the one that leads us to Summerland.

We skip the vast fragrant field of glistening flowers and pulsating trees, choosing to land at the foot of the broad swath of steps that leads right up to the Great Halls of Learning. Pausing a moment, our thoughts silenced, eyes wide, looking upon it with such awe our breath halts right in our throats.

Taking in its beautiful elaborate carvings, its grand sloping roof, its imposing columns, its impressive front doors—all of its vast and varied parts rapidly shifting, conjuring images of the Great Pyramids of Giza morphing into the Lotus Temple, which transforms into the Taj Mahal, and so on. The building reshaping, reforming, until the world’s greatest wonders are represented in its ever-changing façade.

Admitting only those who can see it for what it truly is—an awe-inspiring place created of love, and knowledge, and everything good.

The doors spring open before us, and we hurry up the stairs and into the large spacious entry filled with the most brilliant warm light—a luminous showering radiance that, like the rest of Summerland, permeates every nook and cranny, every corner, every space, allowing for no shadows or dark spots (except for the ones of my making) and doesn’t seem to emanate from any one place.