“How is he?” Daniel asked, surprising me. “Your father.”
“He passed away when Tristan was two,” I answered.
His hand stopped on a photo page. He looked up at me. “My condolences,” he said, genuinely sad for me. His hair fell loosely in a bourbon wave across his forehead.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Please,” he said, turning the page.
“What do you think of Tristan?” I stumbled over my next few words. “Not him, himself. But Tristan. His name.”
He looked at me carefully, one brow gently inquiring. The green of his eyes reflecting something tender. “It’s good,” he said, meaningfully.
The warm thing spread. I talked to ignore it. “I always liked the name. You know, Tristan and Isolde?” He gestured a nod, not breaking his stare on me.
“So I chose,” I said, picking at the edge of a photo, separating the glossy from paper backing. “I just picked it because I liked it. I think it suits him.”
“It does,” he said quietly, giving me his attention.
I let out a nervous laugh. “I would have guessed when you were the type to want a junior. Daniel the second. You know what I mean. That was before you said, you know, you didn’t want kids.”
“The third. It would be. And I would never want that,” he replied easily, his tone a bit cooler.
We went back to looking at photos. Finally we were on the last book—technically, the first. Starting as we had, on the final page. White-haired, chubby, and full of giggles. And as we got several pages in, I shifted in my seat. Our pictures now were beautiful and happy, but our pictures then were sparser—and bleaker. Tristan grew smaller and smaller as we went. Finally, too small to light up the images, just a wrapped bundle. I always looked young but seeing those photos made me wince. There were few photos of Tristan under six months old. One was of me of me in a hospital bed, holding him. Daniel ran his fingers over the picture and stared at it a long time.
“It was a mistake to not be there,” he said finally.
“I did okay on my own. Besides, you said you didn’t know.”
He looked up at me from the page like he’d found something he was missing. I reached my hand out to him and his slid his underneath it. His look lingered a little long and I felt it, that electric energy running from him to me. His hand wound up, cuffing my wrist, and he pulled me to him. He jerked his chair from the table and pulled me onto him, straddling him. And he was there. Under me, all the way.
Stop-stop-stop a voice in the back of my head said.
Go-go-go screamed my body.
He pressed his lips on mine, quickly deepening the kiss. I broke away breathing heavy as he kissed down my neck and shoulders, tugging the cream top down to reach my chest. He lifted me up and pushed me against the wall, my legs wrapping around him.
“This is what you want,” he said, pushing. “Isn’t it? Tell me, ‘don’t stop,’” he ordered.
“Stop,” I said. And he set me down. I could barely talk. I wanted him so bad I could taste it. Physically. “We can’t. I’m sorry.”
He channeled his frustration onto his coat, stopping short of yanking it on, and asked, “May I borrow these?” The photo albums.
“Yes. You may.” I said smoothing back my hair and trying to slow my heart rate. How did we go from pacifiers and teddy bears to me wanting to be fucked against my dining room wall? He audibly flipping the books closed and thoughtfully flipped to the last page he hadn’t seen of the infant book before stacking it on the others. It was Tristan’s commemorative birth certificate the hospital gave me as a memento. The corners had clip-art rubber ducks.
He stared down hard. Then stabbed a finger down on a line of the document and read aloud, “Tristan August Valentine.”
I’d forgotten about that. Not forgotten but it hadn’t occurred to me before. “Yes, for August.”
“I’ve seen,” he replied, flipping the fourth album closed.
There was a knock at the door and Daniel looked up from the page to me. I had no idea who it was, well maybe one, but I didn’t like being stared down by him.
“Excuse me,” I said, sliding out of his way. Daniel let the albums collapse on the table with a thud. He flipped back his long coat and resumed his seat at the table.
Through the peephole, there was Jill. She was holding onto the door casing, appearing to be dry heaving. I hurriedly opened the door for her. She entered sloppily, shrugging off her own coat, tossing it, revealing a corset top and skirt.
“I hate him,” she said, walking unevenly in her heels. She’d been crying and drinking. “I hate him, and I think. I think I want him run over with an orange mid-sized sedan.” She kicked off her shoe clutching the edge of the counter. “With a professional magician driving it. An illusionist. He would hate that. Imagine the obituary.” She kicked off the other shoe and spun around to me.
“I have his key,” she smiled, pulling the Lamborghini key from her cleavage.
Daniel made an irritated impersonation of someone clearing their throat.
“The heck,” Jill said, squinting at Daniel.
“Popping in for a nightcap?” he said, poised in his chair, legs spread wide, jeans tight on his thighs. He picked up his cold tea, sipping.
“Ew,” Jill slurred. “You? What are you doing here? Bree, what time is it?”
“It’s late,” I said. “We were visiting. Talking about Tristan.”
She swung her head from me to Daniel. Taking him in from head to toe, she had an epiphany. “You want to screw her, don’t you?”
“Jill, you are drunk.” She turned back to Daniel and smirked.
She continued in a nanny-nanny-boo-boo taunt. “You want to screw her.”
“Yes,” he stated casually, setting the cup and saucer down.
She leaned a hand on the counter. Her mouth wasn’t closing all the way. She gave him a glare. “Never going to happen,” she decided and stumbled the step or two to me. “Not with this one,” she said glassy aqua-eyed, punctuating each word, dropping her pointer fingertip on the tip of my nose. I was surprised by her coordination.
She spun back around, “Me on the other hand,” she teased, letting her hair fall around her. “Mr. ‘She-wanted-more’. If you weren’t the cocky dickhead that you are,” she said, running her finger down her corset. Then she laughed at her own joke. “Nah.”
I grabbed her by the shoulders and began pushing her out of the room. She didn’t really resist. I shoved her into my bedroom.
“Take a shower,” I snapped. “And go to bed.”
She glared at me and slammed the door.
I heard Tristan’s door click open behind me. I spun around. Daniel sat up in his chair as Tristan trudged out into the bright light coming from the kitchen.
“Mom?” he said. He started shuffling to the table. I headed towards him.
He looked at Daniel, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fist, he called, “Dad?”
Daniel spoke. “I am here,” he said. “Back to bed, young man.”
Tristan didn’t say anything else, didn’t look for me. He shuffled back to his room and closed the door. Daniel watched him go.
Daniel stood up to leave, sweeping the collection of photo albums under one arm, when my phone began to buzz. He deftly reached across the length of the table and flipped it, eyed the touchscreen while hitting END, flipped it back over with a clatter and continued on his way.
“Dad?” I repeated, flustered. “I didn’t think you were comfortable with that.”
“The boy prefers it,” Daniel said flippantly, making for the door. I opened and held it. A lot of conflicting things happening inside me. He was standing closely. I looked into his eyes.
“Tristan,” I corrected. “Look. I know this is all new,” I said, straightening my shirt. “He mentions Kate is there sometimes.”
“She is,” he said.
I let out a breath, “Dad is fine. That’s one thing.” There was a clang from bathroom.
It sounded like Jill had fallen out of the shower.
“You were saying.” He ignored the disruption.
Thinking of Kate, and him, and my dining wall, and him, I had many thoughts. I took the high road. “Daniel,” I started. “Far be it from me to speculate, but I make a rule not to introduce anyone into his life that I don’t plan on keeping around.”
“Is that so?” His tone was one of accusation.
My back went taut. “Yes.” I met his searching gaze.
“She wears my ring, does she not?” His posture was superior, yet his eyes flashed bitter.
I felt punched in the gut; but I guess I could take a punch. “That’s wonderful for you both,” I countered. “Why don’t you take that to heart from here on?”
“I take what I want, wherever I want to take it,” he said, stepping forward. I stayed put. He was dangerous, but I didn’t need a Taser—more like a chastity belt. He pressed against me.
“That’s your problem,” I informed him, breathing heavily. My eyes moved from his eyes to his throat where I saw his pulse throbbing with rushing blood. He dropped the albums at our feet as his hand slid down and found mine. He entwined our fingers. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“People complain about men like me going after what we want,” he said, just above a throaty whisper. I felt the fine bristles lining his jaw cling to my hair as he rolled his chin across the crown of my head to the opposite side. I felt his breath caress my ear as he spoke.
“They blame men like me for leaving nothing worth having behind me” he continued, conversational except for the weight in his tone. He linked his other hand with mine. “Sometimes things don’t want to be left behind.” He pulled our entwined hands up together, above our heads, and pinned them against the wall. My heart was tripping on itself and my breathing was lazy. “Things,” he said suggestively, letting one arm come down while the other held both of my wrists. “Things want to be taken.” He pressed his knee between my legs. The electricity was coursing through me. He ran his free hand over my top and thumbed my breast. “Things yearn to be had.” His hand slid down my torso and onto my waist. My wrists were beginning to go numb but I didn’t care. His hand slid around my hip to my backside. He grabbed my ass hard and I made a noise. His voice was thick like molasses and rasped like a straw on gravel. “Don’t blame us for taking what’s already ours.” My leg hitched up around him as he pressed down. I curved against him heatedly and got a sense of satisfaction hearing him groan.
I kissed my way up his neck, enjoying it. It wasn’t an effort. Then I nibbled his earlobe. I let myself stall only a few seconds more before finally I whispered, “Go home, Daniel.”
“What was that noise?” Jill grumbled, as I climbed into bed a little later, my hair dripping cool water onto my pillow. She was wearing an old eye mask of mine and pulled it down tighter with a lazy hand.
“Scoot over. All the way,” I ordered. “It was nothing,” I muttered and stared at the ceiling in the dark until dawn. Knowing Daniel was wrong when he spoke, not about the taking. But that there were any such other men as him.
Chapter 19 - The Unforgivable Deceiver
I was back on the grind that week. Daniel hadn’t messaged me to visit Tristan, which was perfectly fine in my book. Maybe we all needed a moment.
After working all day on a commissioned piece in the back workroom, I decided to take a break; or rather, the defunct spindle on my father’s vintage wood-turning lathe decided it for me. I sent Claire to the back-room to sweep and to avoid her peppering me with questions about my “baby daddy” as she was wont to do. With a school function that afternoon, I skipped ahead and changed out of my tattered jeans and smock and caught up on office work. So instead of working on the rapidly approaching due piece, I was in my showroom at the computer, searching for a discontinued replacement part, sipping my soda through a straw when a new bike messenger pulled up on his urban steed, a ten speed, locking the well-ridden white Cannondale to the street rack with a U-lock. Wisely erring on the side of caution, he removed the front wheel as well. The door dinged, and his rubber soles squeaked across my floors, the way only a brand new pair of sneakers can. The replacement messenger. Jeremy had ghosted me for the soda date.
“Good afternoon,” a dermatologically afflicted young fellow with a bolt of bleached hair greeted. A far cry from Jeremy but that was fine with me. I knew our next meeting would be the awkward type. “I have a delivery for Mary Gabrielle Valentine. Are you her?”
“That depends. Are you with Publishers Clearing House?” I made light as I scrolled through the online second-hand market for the pricey replacement lathe I needed.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, readjusting his logoed visor. “Just a messenger.”
I took my attention from the screen and sipped my drink. “Maybe next time. What do you have for me?” He held a large plain manila envelope and rustled through his crisp bag for a clipboard to sign for receipt. He clicked a pen and passed it to me, but I had my own. Finally, he passed the parcel.
He seemed hesitant to leave, I noticed, as I peeled open the lip. It struck me odd as he’d come across as one of the more business-like bike messengers I’d met. “Are you related to Violet Valentine?” he said timidly, and peripherally saw him gazing at the scantily clad mannequin visible in the adjacent shop.
“I am,” I replied absently—scanning the front letter, not understanding.
“My girlfriend…she really digs her,” he continued. “Do you think I could get a picture with her? Could you ask? I’d go ask myself but—would it be weird for me to, like, go in there?”
He may have said more, but everything was drowned out by the growing sound of a glass harp, a wet finger rubbing around the rim of a filled goblet scaling to a drum-piercing pitch, filling my head. Abruptly, my ears popped and the world refocused, but the lens was different. I looked up and surveyed him.
“That’s funny,” I noted tonelessly to the innocuous messenger. “You don’t look like a harbinger of doom.” He looked at me confused, and something in my expression made the prospect of shopping for laser-cut mini-skirts comparably less intimidating; he skittered into the other shop, the wheel hiked protectively high on his shoulder. I picked up my phone.
“August.”
“Hi, Bree.”
“I need the name of the best attorney in the city.” I kept it together.
“Why?” puzzled August.
“Because I’m going to murder him,” I answered detachedly. “He wants him, August. Daniel wants to take Tristan,” I croaked.
I thought the line had died.
“Stay calm, I’ll just, Jesus, Gabrielle, I’ll take care of this, don’t worry,” he paused, clicking computer keys. Then, reading the situation more clearly, he addressed the more eminent threat. “Bree, I’m coming over right now. I’m leaving a meeting near the stock exchange. Please sit tight.”
I was already out the door.
I ended the call, shoving my phone in my purse, and flagged down the first cabbie that passed. Luckily, he stopped. I gave him the address and asked him to hurry. A few blocks from the gleaming beacon of August’s building, lane closures had created a strangling bottleneck, and we were at a dead stop. I willed it to move, but my body seemed to will itself instead, throwing a bill at the driver and jumping out into traffic. Ignoring everything else, I gathered my skirt and ran.
In the elevator, it felt strange passing August’s floor, but then Mr. Fitch’s office had always been on the top, one above. But when I got off the elevator, there was a modern reception area with a curving counter replacing the old cherry desk, acting as gatekeeper.
“I need to speak with Daniel,” I said urgently, the petite brunette assessed me from head to windblown toe.
“Mr. Baird isn’t available right now,” she corrected and went back to her work.
“Is he in?” I quizzed impatiently, my eyes darting down the long corridor and spotting frosted double glass doors; crisply labeled.
&
nbsp; “No,” she challenged, pestered. But I felt it—he was here—and charged towards the doors at the end of the hall. The receptionist was shouting threats as I burst through the doors seeing Daniel sitting behind his desk in a dark suit. He looked up, surprised.
“What the hell is this about?!” I fired as slammed the custody request down on his mahogany desk. His face smoothed out into a neutral expression as he got up and circled the desk to my side where he casually perched on the edge, hiking a pant leg up. I heard footfalls approaching rapidly and saw heavy security arrive from the corner of my eye.
“Do you want us to take her, Mr. Baird?” a bearded guard asked uncertainly from the doorway, baton in hand.
I was breathing heavily and Daniel never broke eye contact with me when he said, “Close the door.”
When I heard it click closed, I started again.
“What is this about, Daniel?” I demanded, stabbing a finger into the paperwork. His eyes narrowed, and his demeanor shifted into hostility.
“This is about the merry band of revelers you surround yourself with corrupting that boy,” he asserted in a confident voice, his green eyes blazing.
“Corrupting? What the hell are you talking about?” I shouted desperately.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he hissed and stormed to the other side of his desk, opening a drawer and slamming his own file of papers down on the desk.
“You brought this on yourself.”
I grabbed the accordion file frantically and started pulling things out, trying to find the cause for the downfall of my life. He bowed his head as he watched me sort through files. No, not just files. There were photos, photos I’d taken, photos from the press, surveillance type photos; and files, no, records, on all of my friends.
Pictures of Violet, newspapers clippings and articles about her past promiscuous freewheeling ways. Her drunk at a nightclub sitting on a man’s lap, smiling for the camera as he pulled down her top, tongue extended. Her at parties, on dance floors sandwiched between men, drinks spilling in her hand. Her first fashion show as a student at Parson’s; an avant-garde show, sending models down the catwalk naked and dusted in coal, Violet wore the same. A political statement about our dependence on oil, but these were backstage photos with the naked coal covered models posed like languorous cats—pawing her, looking like an orgy in dirt. A sepia candid of Violet—legs crossed in some sort of private room looking in deep conversation with a man, Thurgood Badue, on a dark leather sofa. It could have been a Dylan cover but for the girl doing pre-lined appetizer portions of coke off of the glass table; and a small mound of white powder next to Vi’s knee. And then a picture I took of her and a three-year-old Tristan in my kitchen after we baked a cake and she puts dots of white flour on the tips of their noses.
In the Land of Milk and Honey Page 25