He paused, thinking, an elegant hand resting on his well-dressed knee.
Gone were the casual clothes of earlier when I had first met him a lifetime ago as a client at Macfarlane Schaal, his quiet demeanor a welcome reprieve from the unpleasant, unkind nightmare of his daughter, Mara. Gone were the creased pants and wrinkled shirts and quizzical, slightly confused look on his face.
Instead, he sat next to me well-dressed and handsome on this gorgeous Paris morning in an equally gorgeous park, the sky a surprising blue.
Expensive dark slacks, shiny black handmade shoes on his feet, a cashmere coat casually draped over his slender shoulders, his trim torso wrapped in a cotton dress shirt of gentle blue, a pair of soft leather gloves being held in one hand.
He looked handsome. He looked comfortable. He looked happy.
I told him so.
Drawing himself away from his private thoughts, he offered a small smile and a nod.
"Yes, life, it is good now," he said, by way of explanation.
"And Mara?" I asked.
"Ah," he said, his tone changing, "she is living the life of an adult. I no longer help her as I used to. If she destroys a hotel or makes a bad decision, then that is hers to make.
"There is only so much an old man like me can do, you see?" he then said.
"I see."
"She has that new lawyer, a women you once worked with," he continued. "A woman I did not like. But Mara, she likes her and so it is her decision."
Ah, yes. Abby. I had fortunately forgotten. The elevator ride. The awkward silence. My finally telling that bitch to stick it where the sun doesn't shine.
Again, it all seemed a lifetime ago.
"I will tell you something," Radek was now saying. "And this something will, I think, be a help to you with your problem in Greece."
My problem in Greece? I hadn't said anything!
I suddenly panicked, afraid my utter failure with Mikalo's family was now the talk of, well, everyone.
Sensing this,
"No, no, no, Ronan," Radek quickly said, the fact that he remembered my first name and felt comfortable enough to use it making me feel oddly comforted and safe.
"Do not worry," he continued, "I am taking an educated guess that Mikalo's family is not welcoming, yes?"
I nodded. Yes, they were far from welcoming.
"It is a Greek thing, of course," he then said. "But it is more than that. It is their history, the past the Delis family carries. It is ..."
He suddenly stopped, his mind racing as he decided what to share and how much he would say.
"It is the fear they have," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "A fear of those coming from what they think is the outside, falling in love with them, and then, for whatever reason, them leaving, breaking their hearts.
"There are a lot of broken hearts in this family," he concluded. "But then there are broken hearts in every family."
"Tell me, please," I said. "Tell me, what can I do, what can I say, what can be done, if anything, to help Nona see how much I love Mikalo, how much I want to spend my life with me.
"Please," I finished, suddenly aware there were tears in my eyes.
Damnit.
It was true, though. In the distraction of all this drama, that single truth had somehow been lost. I loved Mikalo. Truly loved him. And if I needed to, I don't know, work a little harder or something to gain some modicum of trust from those he loved, well, then I would.
"Then it is Nona that is an issue?" Radek asked.
"She and I, we're not seeing things the same way. She would feel better if I were from a Greek family or came from money or ..."
Radek impatiently waved the words away.
"It is not that at all," he insisted, the color rising to his cheeks. "Nona more than anyone should know about falling in love with those who are not from a Greek family or from money. Nona more than anyone should know how much a thought like this, how much judging someone like this, can destroy a life.
"This disappoints me," he then said, finishing his thought.
We sat quietly for a moment.
"Will you still marry?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I said quickly. "Nothing will stop us from that, that's for sure. Not even not having a dress."
He laughed.
"A dress is not so important," he said.
"That's what I told Mikalo earlier. I'd be happy wearing jeans and flip flops as long as I got to stand there and say 'I do' and have a life with him."
A small smile as he listened, his eyes watching me gently, almost lovingly.
"There can still be a life without the marriage," he then said. "Let us hope there is the marriage, though, yes?"
I smiled.
Yes.
"You will be there, I hope," I then said.
He nodded emphatically.
"Yes! I would not miss this. I've known that boy since he was very small. To see him in love and married, that will be a wonderful thing."
He stood, offering me his hand.
I joined him.
"I must now go, my dear. Mara is waiting for me nearby and, as much as I would love to talk, ..."
"No, no, you go. We'll see each other day after tomorrow anyway."
"Yes," he said. "In Greece on the island on your wedding day."
"Yes," I agreed, gathering him close for a hug, an embrace he welcomed and returned with a long squeeze.
"On my wedding day."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I was back in Greece.
The plane ride with Deni had been unusually quiet, me lost in my thoughts, planning various ways of earning Nona's trust, her love, still convincing myself that there would, as I promised Radek on the bench in the Tuileries, actually be a wedding.
And Deni sitting nearby, surrounded by paperwork, her divorce moving full steam ahead, her mind drifting as she stared out the small oval window onto the clouds below.
It occurred to me that I had completely neglected her. Other than knowing Lucas, her young boyfriend -- or at least I guess that's what he was as we hadn't really delved into the specifics of the relationship she had with him -- had to return to the States for work or something, I knew little else about what was happening.
I hadn't asked about the divorce, about her husband's new bride-to-be, how Deni was feeling about all of this. I hadn't asked how the divorce was coming along, fully aware her financial future hung in the balance, but evidently too distracted to care.
Wrapped in my own drama, I had done the one thing I promised myself many months ago I would never do: get too wrapped up in myself that I forget my friends have lives, loves, worries, fears. Hopes.
I felt ashamed, the same sense of failure I had felt when Deni had first confronted me about my self-obsession in Washington Square Park.
We soon landed in Athens, crossed the tarmac, and moved to a smaller plane, finding ourselves surrounded by the jagged rocks, white sandy beaches, lush hills of green, and crystal clear blue sea of the island an hour or two later.
All I can remember is that sick feeling in my gut as my stomach tied itself into knots.
"An island" Deni had said as we stepped off the plane and, bags in hand, started toward Mikalo and his handsome friend Damen. "Of course."
I shot her a small, knowing smile.
"I know, right?" I said quietly.
She laughed before greeting Mikalo with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.
I watched them, Damen taking my bag with a warm smile before taking Deni's and walking to the Jeep.
They looked happy, those two, Mikalo and Deni. They were friends. Learning about each other, enjoying each other's company, building trust and respect. Forging a connection that could easily last a lifetime.
In the absence of any real family, my decision to keep my mother MIA for as long as I could still in effect, these two really were the closest I'd have.
My Deni, a confidant, a friend, a sister.
And my Mikalo, my love, my h
eart, my husband-to-be.
The realization made me happy.
I started toward the Jeep, preparing to climb into the back, giving Deni the front so she could enjoy the view as we wound our way through the green to the house.
"My Grace," Mikalo was saying as he grabbed me around the waist and playfully carried me to the front passenger seat. "I have not seen you in forever. You will sit with me in the front where I can hold your hand."
"Forever?" I said. "It's been days, Mikalo, not forever."
He plopped me in the passenger seat and held my face in his hands.
"Even one day without you is like forever."
And then he kissed me.
God, he was so dramatic sometimes.
Still, I was sitting in front.
Damen and Deni stood near the Jeep, awkwardly, in silence.
I suddenly felt like the worst hostess in the world.
"And I should have introduced you," I said apologetically. "I'm sorry. Deni, this is Damen, a friend of Mikalo's. Damen, this is my best friend Deni."
After exchanging a quick nod, Deni climbed into the back, Damen easily jumping in behind her.
"Hopefully you'll be a better wife than you are a host," she teased as she settled in and started wrestling with the seat belt. And then she playfully punched me on the shoulder.
Mikalo laughed.
Damen laughed.
I laughed, even though my shoulder now hurt.
"This is agree with," Mikalo added with a wink. "I too hope is she is a better wife and mother than she is a host."
Mother?
The knots in my stomach came back with a vengeance.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Nona would like to speak with you."
The words haunted me as I walked to her room, a grand suite anchoring the opposite end of the first floor.
To all but the most intimate friends and family, it was off limits. A no man's land, the door forever closed, her privacy intact and rock solid.
And now I was being summoned.
I had been resting after dinner, feeling like a slob as I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Deni was down at the water's edge, enjoying the smell of the sea and the late day sun.
Mikalo was doing whatever it is guys do in garages.
I had yet to see Caugina, her absence at dinner quietly delighting me.
Silvestro had eaten quickly, leaving the table in a rush, leaving me alone to finish my meal alone. I tried not to let the rejection sting.
And then Mikalo had entered the bedroom with a discrete knock, finding me spread across the covers like some kind of lazy bum or something.
He had approached quietly, kneeling next to the edge and, my hand suddenly in his, lightly kissing my knuckles.
"Nona would like to speak with you," he then said.
I had sat up.
"What?" I asked. "Here? Now?"
"No," he quickly said. "In her room downstairs. But, yes, now."
I threw my legs over the side of the bed and, untangling my hand from his, walked to the mirror and started dragging a brush through my hair.
"My Grace," he said as he moved to stand behind me. "There is nothing to fear."
I looked at his reflection. Saw the nervous tilt of his chin, the worried look in his eyes, the way he crossed his arms over his chest and then uncrossed them only to cross them again.
Nothing to fear? Bullshit.
This was Caugina. It had to be, the bitch probably making up some ridiculous story about how I attacked her in Paris, ripping off an exquisite dress she had carefully chosen for me before my horrible friend and I had abused her and embarrassed her.
Or some bullshit like that.
"Should I change?" I then asked, realizing I was wearing a simple t-shirt and emerald green shorts.
"Maybe shoes," he carefully offered.
Of course.
I rushed to the side of the bed, dropping to my knees and searching underneath for my shoes. The white sneakers. Or maybe the sandals. I didn't know.
What does wear to an execution?
Didn't matter. They were nowhere to be found.
Shit.
I was starting to panic, certain my bare feet would be misunderstood as a huge sign of disrespect and Nona would order my head chopped off or something.
"My Grace?" Mikalo was saying.
I turned.
What?
He stood holding my white sneakers in his hand.
"You must relax," he then said as he pushed me onto the bed.
Taking my foot in his hand,
"It is a conversation," he said as he slipped the sneaker on my foot and clumsily tied the laces.
"It is nothing more," he continued, the other foot in his hand, the shoe slid on, the laces tied again. Clumsily.
"You and she will have the discussion, you will share your words, your hearts, and then you will return here and tell me everything," he then finished, teasing.
I sat on the bed, willing myself calm.
And then I smiled, thinking of Mikalo tying the slender laces on a pair of tiny shoes on the small feet of our son. Or our daughter. How clumsy he'd be in the beginning. And how those little eyes would watch in awe as his fingers worked the laces, crossing them over and wrapping them into bows.
The thought calmed me.
"My Grace?" he asked, watching me.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"There was a thought."
I nodded.
"Yes, there was," I said.
"Was it fear?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"No, I was thinking of how wonderful you'd be as a father," I said, looking at him.
A big grin spread slowly across his lips.
"Then it was a beautiful thought," he then said as he drew near and kissed my lips.
Yes, it was.
And there was nothing Nona could say or do that would take that away from me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
She was not in bed.
For some reason, I had assumed she'd be propped up in bed, like some kind of empress or something.
Sitting at a large desk in front of a larger mirror, an assortment of brushes, combs, nail files lined up in front of her in neat little rows, a large make-up case dominating the space to the side, she kept her back to me as I entered.
She still wore a simple housecoat, her large feet in worn slippers, her hands rubbing lotion onto her forearms before wrapping around themselves, the fingers and palms massaging her knuckles, her joints.
Her eyes caught mine in the mirror.
She nodded to the seat beside her.
I quietly took my place in the ornate chair near the desk.
The smell of the lotion tickled my nose. Sweet, musky, rich, there was something oddly pleasant and comforting about it.
Breathing deep, I pulled the chair to the side a bit, the better to face her directly, the slender legs moving easily across the square patch of carpet covering the stone floor.
I glanced down to make sure I hadn't scratched the carpet or bunched it up or done something equally worthy of punishment and condemnation.
My shoes were on the wrong feet.
I stopped, my heart racing.
Discreetly glancing again, my eyes looked down.
Yep, Mikalo in his march toward being a future Father of the Year had put my shoes on the wrong feet.
And now here I sat with the formidable Nona, my relationship with Mikalo in the balance, with my shoes on the wrong feet.
The wrong feet.
Are you kidding me?
I sighed, certain it was a sign from the gods that this would be one of many fuck ups for me tonight.
Another deep breath, a tight smile, the silence between us now deafening, I forgot the shoes, forgot my silent promise to kill Mikalo later, and focused instead on Nona who still sat near rubbing her hands with lotion.
"Paris was not good," she said, her eyes on her reflection
in the mirror.
"No," I said.
Honesty was the best policy, right?
"The dress was not one you liked."
"No, it was not."
"And so you will be married in what, exactly?" she then asked.
I almost gasped. She had used the "m" word. Married. Maybe this was going to happen with her blessing after all.
"Without a dress, there can be no wedding," she said, her head finally leaving her reflection to turn toward me.
Shit.
"There will be a dress," I promised, having no idea if it was one I could keep or not.
A small laugh from her. It sounded almost condescending. Perhaps even cruel.
Then again, I could be wrong, my fear, my hypersensitivity making me hear things which didn't exist.
"Perhaps," she answered, her attention on the mirror.
Another long silence.
I considered offering an apology for losing my temper with Caugina. Then realized it wasn't necessary. It'd be a bit like the victim apologizing for kicking her mugger in the nuts.
Unnecessary.
"This friend of yours," Nona was saying, "this Deni Goldin, who is she?"
"My best friend in the whole world," I said, and then regretted, feeling like a fifteen year old girl.
What adult says "in the whole world"?
Ugh.
"She's very close to me," I quickly added. "She's family."
"No," Nona corrected me. "Friends are not family. Only family is family."
Her eyes were on me again as she shifted her bulk to face me.
"Your family is not welcome at the wedding. This I understand. This I accepted, when Mikalo told me. But this bothers me.
"Tell me why you refuse to share your happiness with your family?" she then asked.
Her eyes bore into me.
Time to tell the truth.
"My father is dead," I began. "And my mother, she and I haven't spoken in years. I'd like to keep it that way, to be honest with you."
"To not want to talk with your own mother?"
The words were said with a mixture of disbelief and impatience.
"No, I do not want to talk her. At all. Ever."
I stopped, allowing my words, my conviction, to soak in. There was no way I was losing this fight. I loved Mikalo, wanted his family to, at the very least, like me, but there was no way I was reuniting with my monster of a mother just to please some Greek sense of family.
Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) Page 10