by Lyn Horner
“Marilee can’t eat salad. It doesn’t agree with her,” Char explained as they took their seats.
“You know, those veggies look pretty tasty. Maybe I’ll steal some.” He made a move with his fork as if to spear a few bites.
“They’re mine! You can’t have them,” Marilee declared, pushing his hand away.
“Oh, alright, I guess I’ll have salad,” he said mournfully. Seeing Char cover her mouth to smother a laugh, he winked and tucked into his meal.
After supper and a quick cleanup, they returned to the living room. Marilee wanted to tear apart their house of blocks and build a different one. By the time they completed another lopsided house, the girl was yawning.
“It’s bedtime, young lady,” Char said, rising from the couch where she’d been sitting, watching them.
“No, I want to build more with Tris,” his cousin protested between yawns.
“We’ll build more some other time, sweetheart. Right now you need to sleep.” He rose and gave her a hug. She pouted prettily but didn’t fuss anymore.
Swinging her chair toward the hall, Char paused to glance at him over her shoulder. When she opened her mouth to speak he held up his hand.
“I’ll wait.”
She gave a hesitant nod and disappeared with Marilee down the hall toward the elevator. He was slowly pacing the room when she returned a short time later.
“She fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow,” she said with a tired smile.
“You’ve had a tiring day too.” He stepped close and reached out to touch her.
She hastily backed away. “No, please don’t.” Her smoky voice held a thread of panic.
Recalling the pain he’d caused her at the party, he lowered his hand. “Sorry, I forgot. But I touched you earlier today and you didn’t even flinch.”
“I was wearing a thick coat. I felt something but it … it wasn’t painful.”
He rested his hands on his hips, studying her. “Have you ever been touched by a man and actually found it pleasant?”
She blinked, pivoted partially away and hugged herself. “No, but there was a boy once,” she said softly. “We were ten years old, in the same grade at school. He was sweet and his touch never hurt. Then his father caught us holding hands and yanked Robbie – his name was Robbie – away from me. He called me bad names and told me never to come near his son again or he’d make me sorry.”
Tristan swore, wishing he could make the man sorry for frightening a young girl. “Why did his father not want him near you?”
She laughed bitterly. “He thought I was touched in the head or maybe a witch, like most of the townspeople believed.”
“Because of your gift?”
Char faced him, rubbing her arms. “Yes. My mother made me wear long sleeved clothes to school no matter how hot it was. She told me to avoid touching others as much as possible and not to let on if I felt things. But I picked up flashes of emotion constantly and being just a kid, I couldn’t control my reactions. Sometimes I’d start laughing or crying for no apparent reason in the middle of class. When I babbled about what some boy or girl was feeling, he or she would want to kill me and the teacher would send me down to the office, again.” She sighed. “Being different was a curse.”
“I can see that. And since Robbie, there’s been no boy, no man in your life?”
Her eyes fled his. She shook her head, auburn hair swinging back and forth. “I can’t let anyone close.”
“You’re willing to shut yourself away, always afraid to touch and be touched? To love and be loved? You’re a sweet, kind person, Char. It’s not fair for you to have to live like that.”
She stiffened and he could almost see an curtain drop over her features. Fisting her hands at her sides, she stared past his shoulder. “It’s the only way I know to survive without being crushed by the pain of someone else’s emotions. I didn’t choose this kind of life. It chose me and nothing can change that. I’ve accepted it.”
She lifted her chin, shoulders thrown back. “Thank you for showing Marilee a good time today, but now you need to go.”
He’d pushed her too hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize you.” He retrieved his coat from the chair where he’d tossed it and shoved his arms into the sleeves. Not bothering to button it, he strode past her into the hall. Halting, he drew a deep breath. He refused to leave her like this. She deserved better. Turning, he said, “I hope you’ll let me see you again. I’d like a chance to show what pleasure the right person’s touch can give you. At least allow me to be your friend.”
She hugged herself again, watching him. “Just go. Please,” she said, smoky voice tight with emotion. Was it regret?
He did as she asked without another word. Driving away, he forced himself to concentrate on the dimly lighted road while another part of his brain wondered why he’d said what he did, why he was so driven to pursue her. Did he really believe he was the right man for her? Could he break down the wall she’d built around her heart and give her pleasure, not pain? Was he really ready for a relationship with her, with any woman? Thinking of how he’d lost Jennifer, he found no answers to his questions.
*
Char stared at the retreating taillights of Tristan’s car until they disappeared down the dark, curving lane. Swamped with a muddle of her own unhappy emotions, she trudged upstairs to her room. Tristan didn’t understand, didn’t know what a burden she carried. It wasn’t only her fear of being touched that prevented her from letting him into her life; she was a Guardian of Danu sworn to protect the sacred scroll entrusted to her.
Peeling off her clothes, she recalled the day her mother handed her the precious relic, the day she’d finally understood Mama’s sometimes secretive behavior. Now she was the one who must keep secrets, the one who must not repeat her mother’s mistake by giving her heart to an unworthy man. Not that she thought Tristan would turn into a drunken brute like her father, but if she ever dared to love, the man had to be someone who would accept her as she was, a man she could trust with her deepest secret.
She donned her nightshirt and climbed into bed. Lying there, she replayed the gentle playfulness Tristan had displayed with Marilee. Might he possibly be the kind of man she’s never expected to find? Should she agree to see him again if he called? The questions buzzed through her head like annoying bees until she at last fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tristan called two days later. Char hesitated to answer when she read his name on the caller ID, but following her instincts, she pressed the talk button.
“Hello,” she said, struggling for a steady voice.
“Hi, Char, it’s Tristan. Are you free to talk for a moment?”
“For a moment, yes.”
“Good. First, I want to apologize for the other night. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I-I know. I accept your apology.”
“Thanks. That means a lot to me.” He sounded truly relieved. “Now, do you ever get an evening off? If so, would you join me for dinner one evening at Gus and Tristan’s? I promise you’ll enjoy Gus’s cooking and I won’t give you a hard time. About anything.”
Her first thought was to say no, but she couldn’t ignore the flutter of excitement just hearing his voice produced. Her longing to see him again won out. “I’d like that. Once in a while, a relief nurse stays with Marilee when I need time off. I’d have to see if she’s available. What night do you have in mind?”
“Tomorrow if she’s free or any evening if she’s not.”
“Alright, I’ll call her and get back to you.”
The next evening worked out fine for Sally, the middle-aged relief nurse. Tristan wasn’t able to come get Char but he sent an Uber driver to pick her up, paying ahead of time. The man dropped her off at the East Village restaurant around seven o’clock. She stood outside for a moment, looking over the multi-story brownstone and the eatery on the ground floor. The name Gus and Tristan’s arced across the plate glass window in gold
. A dark red awning provided shade on sunny days for the patrons within.
Char opened the door, walked inside and was instantly immersed in the hum of customers’ voices and a blend of delectable aromas. She paused to scan the interior, noting the brick walls, cozy seating and candlelit tables. Then the dark-haired, fortyish hostess looked up from a reservations list she was checking and smiled.
“Miss Dixon?”
“Yes.” Char stared at her in surprise. “How did you know?”
Smile widening, the woman, whose nametag read Monica, stepped away from her podium. “Chef Jameson described you to me, particularly your stunning auburn hair. His words, and I must say he didn’t exaggerate in the least.”
“Oh, uh, thank you.” Blushing at the compliment, Char felt absurdly pleased by Tristan’s flattering description.
“Follow me, hon. We have a special table for you.” Clad in a tailored black dress, Monica led the way to a secluded corner where a linen-draped table stood ready with a reserved sign placed next to the round glass candleholder. She pulled out a chair and, as Char draped her coat over the back and sat, Monica signaled a young, black-haired waiter she addressed as Antonio over to the table. “I’ll let Chef Jameson know you’re here,” she said and marched off while the smiling waiter poured ice water into a goblet for Char, following that up with a breadbasket.
She was munching on a piece of warm, fragrant bread when Tristan emerged from the kitchen. Char’s pulse leapt at the sight of him. He looked dashing in a white uniform with a large black kerchief tied loosely around his neck. The only thing missing was a puffy white chef’s hat. Customers hailed him and he paused to exchange a few words with them as he approached her table. Impressed by his well-known status, she smiled when he drew near. He grinned, dimple popping.
“Hello, gorgeous. I’ve looked forward to seeing you all day,” he said, causing her stomach to flutter as he took a seat across from her.
She laughed. “You have a knack for exaggeration.” Flicking nervous glances at him, she toyed with the stem of her water goblet.
“Nope, not a bit. You’re always lovely, but that color really becomes you,” he said, gesturing at the bodice of her sea-green sweater dress.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, blushing beneath his gaze.
Using a corner of his neckerchief, he mopped his slightly flushed face. His sleeves were cuffed up close to his elbows, revealing ropey muscles along his forearms. “Sorry, the kitchen gets pretty warm.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ve been working.”
“Yeah, but tell me, how was the trip in? Did the driver treat you alright?”
She nodded. “He was very polite and he drove carefully.”
“Good. I wish I could have picked you up myself, but Saturday is a busy night.” He glanced around the crowded room, waving to a smiling customer. “Now, do you like duck à l’orange?”
Crinkling her brow, she searched her memory. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted it.”
“That’s a real shame.” He sighed dramatically and shook his head, making her lips twitch. Then he winked. “But not to worry, duck à l’orange is one of Gus’s specialties. His orange sauce is superb. Are you willing to give it a try?”
“I’d love to. It sounds delicious.”
“Great. I’ll put in an order for two.” He paused then added, “I hope you won’t mind if I leave you alone for a few minutes. I need to instruct my assistant on a couple details.”
“Of course, go ahead, please.”
“I won’t be long. In the meantime, do you like pinot noir? It goes well with duck but if you prefer a different wine … .”
“No, that’s fine. I trust your judgment.” She seldom drank wine and didn’t know one type from another.
“Okay then.” Pushing to his feet, he motioned the same young waiter over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Antonio, bring us a bottle of the best pinot noir and take good care of my guest,” he said. Receiving a smiling, Spanish-accented response, he strode back to the kitchen.
Antonio brought the wine and poured a glass for her. Then he delivered a salad with dressing on the side as she requested. She enjoyed the garden-fresh greens between bites of bread and sips of wine. Tristan rejoined her moments later.
“Do you like the wine?” he asked, pouring some for himself. When she nodded, he refilled her glass. “How about the bread?”
“Mmm, I love the crunchy crust and flaky inside. Did you bake it?”
“One of my crew did, following my grandmother’s recipe.”
“She’s obviously an amazing cook. I could eat a whole loaf,” she said, popping one more piece into her mouth.
He chuckled. “I’m glad you like it, but save some room for the main course.” With that he dug into the salad Antonio had set before him. He polished it off just as the duck arrived.
Taking a bite, Char savored the tender meat and tangy orange sauce. Swallowing, she said, “This is wonderful.”
Tristan nodded, downing a mouthful. “Gus will be happy to hear you like his creation.” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “And here he comes now.” He pointed his fork at a tall, portly black man dressed all in white who had just stepped out of the kitchen.
Char watched the man stroll toward them, talking with customers as Tristan had done, but in a deep British accent that carried across the room. Arriving at their table, he gave a huge, gleaming grin.
“Tristan, old boy, you neglected to mention how beautiful your guest is,” he said.
Grinning, Tristan said, “Charlotte, this is my partner, Gus Faraji, late of London. Gus, meet Charlotte Dixon.”
Splaying a hand across his massive chest, Gus bowed. “I am extremely pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dixon.” Straightening, he waggled a finger at Tristan. “I advise you to be on guard, my friend. You’re going to face fierce competition for this ravishing creature.” He winked flirtatiously at her.
Tristan chuckled but Char ducked her head at Gus’s extravagant compliment, hair swinging forward to hide her embarrassment. When he touched her shoulder, awareness zinged through her. His flirting was only for play, she realized. He was gay and judging by the feelings she gathered from him, he was happily engaged in a romantic relationship. He visited with them for a moment or two then hurried back to his domain.
“He’s terrific,” Char said with a smile.
Nodding, Tristan paused with a forkful of duck halfway to his mouth. “Meeting Gus is one of the best things that ever happened to me. He turned my love of baking into a profitable business.” Setting his fork down, he traced a pattern in the tablecloth with his finger. “Without him, I’m not sure I would have survived after Jennifer died.”
Char hesitantly reached out to touch his hand, picking up a wave of sadness. To her relief, this sensation was much duller than what she’d felt on the night of the party.
He looked up and gazed into her eyes, stilling the repetitive movement of his hand. His mouth twisted up at one corner. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to throw a wet blanket over our evening.”
“You didn’t. I’m glad to know Gus was there for you.” Smiling sympathetically, she withdrew her hand.
Sighing, he said, “Come on, eat up before Gus’s masterpiece gets cold.”
She nodded and took his advice. They carried on sporadic small talk as they dined. When she laid her fork down, unable to eat another bite, Tristan motioned Antonio over to their table.
“Bring us the special dessert I set aside.”
Char’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t want to offend you but I really can’t hold any dessert,” she protested.
He gave a Cheshire Cat grin. “But I insist you at least taste this one. It’s my specialty.”
She threw up her hands. “Very well, but I warn you –” She was interrupted just then as Antonio returned carrying a silver tray, which he set in the middle of the table. Arrayed on the tray were elegantly frosted Christmas cookies.
Char laughed
in delight. “My mother’s recipe?”
“Yes ma’am. They’re a regular item on our menu now and very popular.”
“I’ll have to tell Mama. She’ll be thrilled.” Shaking her head in amazement, she chose a bell-shaped cookie decorated in white and silver. Biting off a small piece, she let it melt in her mouth. “Mmm, it tastes every bit as good as Mama’s.”
A huge grin split Tristan’s handsome face. “Now that’s a compliment I’ll cherish. But to be honest, I feel like a thief for making money off your mother’s recipe. I really want to pay you and her for it.”
She frowned and waved away his offer. “No way. I won’t hear of it and neither would Mama. Consider the recipe a Christmas gift.”
He turned serious. “You gave me more than one gift at Johanna’s party. You gave me sincere sympathy and your trust. You shared a part of yourself that you hide from most everyone else. That means a lot to me.”
She ducked her head again, not knowing what to say. It came as a relief when he said he needed to check on things in the kitchen. She looked up as he pushed back his chair. “I should be getting back.” She slipped a hand into her evening bag and drew out her cell phone. “I’ll call a cab.”
“There’s no need for that. I’ll drive you home,” he said, standing. “Relax and enjoy your coffee for a few minutes while I make sure everything is going smoothly.”
She tried to dissuade him, not wanting to take him away from his job, but he insisted, saying his assistant could handle things. Minutes later, having changed into casual clothes, he ushered her from the restaurant to where his car was parked.
“Wow!” Char exclaimed upon seeing the silver Porsche Carrera 911.
He chuckled. “You like my baby?” At her dumbfounded nod, he gave a pleased grin and held the passenger door open as she folded herself into the low-slung car. A short time later, maneuvering the sleek machine through late evening traffic, he said, “My dad always wanted a Porsche but never could afford one. I guess you could say this little honey is my way of paying homage to him.”