by Raine Miller
Ethan made sure to mention our upcoming wedding, and the date, while linking his hand with mine, bringing it curled to his lips, and kissing the back of it. Same effect as a dog pissing on a lamppost, really, just done very elegantly, with me being the metaphorical lamppost. Ethan managed to get away with such behavior, and make it look gallant. He always had.
And again, I wondered if he’d identified my “past” with Karl. I swear he was capable of figuring it out. Ethan’s Spidey sense was ultra-keen when it came to other men and me. Remembering his blowup when I’d met Paul Langley on the street in front of the coffeehouse, I recognized Ethan’s vivid jealous streak in regard to my past relationships with other men. I definitely had a past, that’s true. There had been more than a few men, and he had to acknowledge that fact. Nothing I could do would change anything. But Ethan had a past too, and acceptance of what couldn’t be altered was part of learning to trust in a relationship. We both had to let go of some things. I wasn’t going to avoid speaking to people like Paul and Karl just because Ethan was insanely jealous of any man who had been with me before him. I was not with those others now, I was with him.
I shrugged it off as best I could. Didn’t matter. The past was just that: in the past . . . finished . . . over and done with. Even though I was aching inside, and desperately low from losing my dad, I still understood what was most important. My eyes were opened clearly from this experience, and they would stay that way. Loss of a loved one will shift your priorities in an instant, I had learned.
My father was gone, but my mind was intact.
I knew what mattered, and what didn’t. The person holding me against his strong body in protection with loving care, and, the tiny person growing inside me were my whole world now.
♠ Having Brynne sleeping against me on the flight home to London made me feel the best I had in days. She was utterly spent and so exhausted she’d nodded off almost immediately after taking our seats. I didn’t blame her either. The send-off from her mum had been . . . painful, for lack of a better description. I was exhausted from the experience myself. God, I really did not like that bloody woman even a miniscule bit. I was headed for absolute fucking my-worst-nightmare mother-in-law hell. And there was not a thing in the world I could do about it. My sweet girl had a gorgon for a mother. She was very beautiful in a designer-chic way, just as I had imagined she would be, but a hideous gorgon all the same. I envisioned Tom Bennett was now receiving his saintly wings for putting up with her for as long as he had. I suppressed a shudder.
Mummy dearest had tried to get Brynne to extend her trip and let me go on home alone. I ground my teeth together in remembrance. As if I would ever allow such a thing! She would have tried to influence her to terminate or get her to move back to the U.S. probably.
In the end, Brynne hardly reacted to her mother at all. She just turned away and said she was going back home to London to marry me and have our baby. I don’t believe I was ever more proud of anyone as I was of my girl when she said those words and looked to me.
Brynne opened her eyes and I caught that moment of innocence, the waking up blissfully unaware of all the bad things that have been happening in your life . . . like losing a beloved parent. It only lasts for a fraction of time, anyway. I know from lots of experience.
Her eyes were bright at first, and then they shuttered, showing the pain of her reality, before closing off to shield herself from the painful thoughts so she could get through the rest of this very public journey. First class was better than coach, but we were still in a cabin with strangers around us and nowhere near private. Brynne was holding it together so far. She’d not broken down yet, and I have to say it worried me more than a little, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t grieve for her. She would have to do it in her own way, and in her own time.
The flight attendant came by to take our orders for dinner. Salmon or chicken parmesan topped the menu tonight. I looked over at Brynne and got a tiny head shake and a sad face. I ignored it and told the attendant we’d both take the salmon, remembering how much she enjoyed it for dinner that night with Dad and Marie.
“You have to eat something, baby.”
She nodded and her eyes got wet. “What—w-what am I going to do now?”
I picked up her hand and pressed it to my heart. “You’re going to be back in our home and take some time to rest and do whatever makes you feel better. You’ll go see Dr. Roswell and talk to her. You’re going to work on your research for the university when you feel up to it. You’ll plan the wedding with the girls and Ben. We’ll go see Dr. Burnsley for the second appointment and find out how green-olive is doing. You’re going to let me take care of you and go forward with your life. With our life.”
She listened to every word. She soaked each one up, actually, and I was glad to give her something I think she really needed to hear. Sometimes having another person tell you that everything will be okay is all you really need to get you through the toughest part. I know Brynne needed to hear it, as much as I needed to say it.
“And I will be right with you every step of the way.” I brought her hand up to my lips. “Promise.”
“How do you know about green-olive?” She actually smiled a little.
“I put Bump dot com in my favorites and check it religiously, just like you suggested. We have a green-olive this week, and next week we get a prune.” I winked.
“I love you,” she whispered very softly, and ran her hand through her hair.
“I love you too, my beauty. So very, very much.”
The attendant arrived with the hot towels and drink service. I got the wine, and Brynne got cranberry juice on ice. I waited until she took a sip. I didn’t want to have to force-feed her, but would resort to persuasion tactics if I had to.
To my surprise and relief she seemed to enjoy the cranberry juice.
“This tastes really, really nice.” Another sip. “I’m picking up your words.”
“I can assure you that you still sound like my American girl, baby.”
“I know that, I mean I’m picking up the words you say, like saying ‘this tastes nice’ instead of saying it ‘tastes good.’ It’s rubbing off from being around you so much,” she said.
“Well, since you’re never getting rid of me, then I guess that means I’ll have you speaking like a native in no time.”
“Well, you can certainly try.” She sipped some more juice and looked a bit brighter.
“By the time green-olive is born, you’ll be unrecognizable as a Yank, I’m sure.”
Her face lit up. “I just realized something kinda cool.”
“What’s that?” I asked, intrigued but happy to see her more animated than she’d been in many days.
“Green-olive will call me Mummy instead of Mommy or Mom.” She wrinkled her nose a little. “Seems a little weird . . . but I suppose I’ll get used to it . . . and I like the way it sounds.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “You’ll be the best mum green-olive has ever known.”
She smiled at me briefly, but then it went away just as fast as it had appeared. “Not like mine, that’s for sure.” The hurt and anguish rang out loud and clear in her words.
“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” I shook my head, not wanting to badmouth her mother, but finding it very hard not to.
“You mean bringing her up.”
“That too,” I countered. I really didn’t want to get into the complexities of Brynne’s relationship with her mum, but if that’s what she wanted to discuss, then I could surely give my opinion. I just hoped I didn’t have to.
She saved me by asking a different question. “What about your mother, Ethan?”
“Well, I barely remember her. All I have now are the memories suggested by the photographs mostly. I think I can remember things about her, but I’m probably just imagining those experiences because of the subject of the photos and the stories Dad and Hannah have shared with me.”
“You said you got the wings ta
ttooed on your back because of your mom.”
No, I don’t want to do this right now.
I almost sighed, but I just managed to hold it in. I knew better than to shut her out in this moment. Brynne had asked me about the tattoo before, and I know she wanted me to share with her now, but I just didn’t feel ready for that yet. Not here on a public flight under tragic circumstances. This wasn’t the right time, nor the right place, for me to let out those emotions.
The salmon showed up just then and reprieved me.
Brynne continued to sip her juice and avoided the food, which wasn’t bad at all for airline fare.
“Here.” I offered a forkful of fish, deciding if she wasn’t going to eat on her own, then I would feed it to her myself.
She eyeballed the bite carefully before opening her mouth to accept it. She chewed slowly and deliberately. “The salmon is nice, but I want to know why the wings remind you of your mom.”
So that’s how this game would be played, huh? Emotional blackmail in exchange for eating a meal . . . I offered another bite of fish to her.
She kept her lips pursed together. “Why that tattoo, Ethan?”
I took a deep breath. “They’re angel’s wings and since I think of her as such, it was very fitting to have the wings across my back.”
“That’s a beautiful idea.” She smiled.
I offered a fresh bit of salmon, which she accepted with no argument this time.
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Laurel.”
“It’s pretty. Laurel. Laurel Blackstone . . .” she repeated.
“I think so,” I told her.
“If green-olive is a girl, I think we have a perfect name for her, don’t you?”
I felt my throat move as I swallowed hard. And it wasn’t from eating the salmon. Her suggestion meant something to me—something deep and very personal.
“You would do that?”
“I really do love the name Laurel, and if you want it, then . . . yes, of course,” she answered, her eyes a little brighter than before.
I was stunned, utterly humbled by her generosity and willingness to give to me such a beautiful gift, especially in a time of such horrible grief for herself. “I would love to name our girl Laurel after my mum,” I said truthfully, before holding up a small piece of bread torn from a roll.
She took the bit of bread and chewed it slowly, never taking her eyes off mine. “Good, that’s settled then,” she said softly, her voice wistful and sounding rather far away.
I imagined what she might be thinking about, so I went for it. “And if our green-olive is a boy?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” She started to cry. “I want to . . . name him Thom-m-mas,” she managed, before breaking down right over the Atlantic Ocean, in a first-class cabin, on British Air flight 284, the red-eye, San Francisco to London Heathrow.
I pulled her to me and kissed the top of her head. I held Brynne and let her do what she finally needed to do. She was quiet about it and nobody even paid any attention to us, but still it hurt me to have to witness her going through this next step in a very normal process.
The flight attendant, wearing a badge with the name Dorothy and a soft Irish burr, clued in, though, and rushed right over to offer assistance. I asked her to take away the dinner and bring us an extra blanket. Dorothy seemed to understand that Brynne was grieving, and worked quickly to get the food removed, the lights turned out and a blanket for us to cover up. She took extra care of us for the remainder of the flight, and I made sure to thank her sincerely for her kindness when we disembarked several hours later.
For the rest of that flight, I held my girl against me until she’d exhausted her tears and fell into sleep. I slept too, but on and off. My mind was moving all over the place. I had worries galore and could only hope and pray that calling Oakley’s bluff at the funeral service would work. I was prepared to do everything I’d promised if anyone made a move on Brynne I knew how heavily guarded she would be from here on out.
I didn’t know who was responsible for Montrose’s and Fielding’s deaths. I didn’t know if Tom Bennett had been part of that mess and was murdered. I didn’t know who sent the lunatic text message to Brynne’s old mobile or who called in the bomb threat the night we were at the Mallerton Gala. I didn’t know a lot of shit that I really needed some answers to.
I had fear inside of me.
Batshit, crazy-as-fuck, have-me-committed, I’m-petrified-out-of-my-bloody-skull fear.
18
♥ "I slept for about three days straight once we got back to London. I needed it, and returning to my familiar surroundings did help a great deal,” I told Dr. Roswell. “I’m starting the research project the university approved for me, and have good friends around me helping to plan this wedding.”
“How are the night terrors now that you are off the medication?” she asked.
“It’s inconsistent. I started having them again after I stopped the pills, but now that this stuff—now that my dad has died—they’ve stopped again. Do you think it’s because my mind is now full of something worse to take the place of what I dreamed before?”
Dr. Roswell looked at me carefully and asked, “Is the death of your father worse than what happened to you when you were seventeen?”
Whoa. Heavy question, that. And one I had never pondered before. My first urge was to say that of course, the death of my father was worse, but, if I was honest with myself, I don’t think it was. I was an adult now and could see things with more experience than when I was a teenager, but I had tried to kill myself over the rape video. I had no thoughts even in the same realm as that now. I wanted to live. I needed to live my life with Ethan, and especially to take care of our baby. There were no other options. As I sat there in Dr. Roswell’s office, everything sort of illuminated for me all in an instant. Finally seeing the light helped me realize that I would be okay. I would get through this, and the joy would return for me—in time.
I shook my head and answered my therapist truthfully. “No. It’s not worse.”
She wrote that down with that turquoise fountain pen I thought was so beautiful.
“Thank you for helping me to see everything with clarity for what I think is the first time,” I told her.
“Can you explain what you mean by that, Brynne?”
“I think so.” I took a huge breath and gave it my best shot. “I know my dad loved me and I know he knew how much I loved him back. We had the kind of relationship where we shared our feelings all the time, so there are no regrets there. I’m heartbroken our time was cut short, but there is nothing to be done about that. It’s just life. Look at Ethan, who lost his mother at the age of four. They basically had no time together and he barely remembers her. I got my wonderful loving father for almost twenty-five years.”
Dr. Roswell gave me a beaming smile. “It makes me so happy to hear you talk like this. You’ve cracked the secret code, I’m afraid. Pretty soon I won’t have any excuses to keep sending you a bill for my services.”
“Um . . . no, that won’t be happening, Dr. Roswell. You will be stuck with me for years yet. Just imagine all those mommy guilt trips I’ll be taking soon.”
She laughed in her gentle way. “I look forward to those chats very much.” She closed her notebook and capped her fountain pen. “So tell me about these wedding plans. I want to hear every detail . . .”
♥ Facebook was quite a nice tool for planning a wedding, I had discovered. Elaina had suggested it to me because she was deep into planning her own and knew what she was talking about. I sat down with my Cranberry Zinger tea and logged into my account.
I’d set up a private group for sharing photos and business links that consisted of me and my small army of foot soldiers: Gaby, Ben, Hannah, Elaina, Marie and Victoria, the official wedding planner, who actually made her living at what had to be a very challenging job, in my opinion. Things were coming together amazingly smoothly for what was now an impossible deadline of only five w
eeks. Considering I was hormonal and pregnant, and coming off a devastating personal loss, I decided I was doing pretty damn well for myself.
Ethan had been so crushed at his job we barely saw one another, and the majority of our conversations were via text message. I know he worried about me and tried to give me as much of his attention as he could, but there just wasn’t any time to spare. I understood the pressure he was under, and I mostly needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened in the last weeks anyway. He came home very late, and pretty much wanted only two things once he got there. To make love, and to have me within reach while he slept. Ethan’s need for physical contact was still as strong as ever. I did not mind a bit. I needed it just as much as he did, I think. We both worried about each other.
I shot off a quick message to Elaina about the pictures of floral arrangements she’d posted and joked that we talked to each other more on Facebook than we did in person. Stupid, really, especially when she lived in the same building as I did. Elaina and Neil were just as totally swamped with their jobs at Blackstone Security International as Ethan was. Nobody had much time to spare.
I left there and checked my main profile to find some new messages had been left for me. There were some donation notifications from the Meritus College Fund in San Francisco that my dad had supported for years. It was a nice charity pledged to assist disadvantaged but motivated kids to get a university education. I knew he would have wanted it, so I had announced that in lieu of flowers, donations could be sent directly to Meritus instead. The fund kindly sent me a notice whenever someone left a gift in my dad’s name. Paul Langley had left a gift, as had the staff at the Rothvale Gallery, and Gaby’s father, Rob Hargreave. Their thoughtfulness touched me deeply, and I told them so in my personal thank-you messages back to them.