“Here we are.”
“Yes…but why, Ephie? Why are we here? Why are you here?”
“I told you we’d talk later.”
“I assumed you were being figurative.”
She shook her head. “No. I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Oh. Can we sit down? Maybe you’d like”—she reached out to him, but he flinched, and she let her hand fall to her side—“to take off your jacket?”
He nodded and then looked away, unbuttoning the coat and shrugging it off his shoulders. Folding it in half, he laid it over the arm of the couch, continuing to avoid her gaze.
“Are you hungry?” She angled her head, trying to catch his eye. “Can I make you something?”
“No, thank you.”
“A drink?”
That got his attention. He almost smiled.
“God, yes.”
“Wine?”
“Scotch.”
“I’ll get it.”
She sidestepped around him, heading toward the side-by-side secretary across the room which David used as a bar. Arriving at the heavily carved claw-footed antique, Ephie lowered the desktop, revealing three cut crystal decanters set on a silver tray in the interior.
“Scotch is the darker one, right?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and discovered him sitting in the middle of the sofa, his head tipped back onto the cushions, a hand over his eyes. He’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt. It was the closest to being disheveled she’d ever seen him outside of the bedroom. She’d been right to stay.
“David?”
“Mmm.”
“The scotch, it’s the darkest, right?”
“No, that’s the cognac.”
“Oh, right.”
Ephie opened the glass door beside her and got out a couple of tumblers, setting them on the desktop and then pouring. After returning everything to its proper place, she got their drinks and went to him. He drained half his glass in the time it took her to sit. She took a tentative sip of the strong-smelling alcohol. When she looked up, she caught him staring, a strange longing in his eyes.
“David…”
Hastily, he finished off his drink and then leaned forward, placing the empty glass on the coffee table in front of them. Ephie remembered being mesmerized by its copper trimming while her bottom had been paddled to a similar hew. It seemed no corner of David’s home had been left untouched by their decadence, the sophisticated rooms forever edged in eroticism. She did not envy him having to live with it.
“Before you say whatever it is you stayed to tell me, I wanted to tell you”—he turned his head to look at her—“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“My behavior in the alcove. I had no right.”
She wanted to tell him there was no need for him to apologize, but sensed he had more to say. She nodded, lowering her gaze to watch the ripples moving over the amber liquid in her glass. He sighed.
“I never expected…”
When he didn’t go on, Ephie looked at him, but stayed silent when he shook his head.
“I never expected his death would affect me like this.”
“He was your father, David.”
“I know, but I’d shut him out, had barely spoken to him in years.”
“But why?”
Her quiet query had been automatic, instinctual. Ephie regretted the words as soon as they’d slipped from her lips. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Most likely, he would simply ignore the infringement. But then, to her surprise, David turned his attention to her, his eyes heavy-lidded and bright.
And he began to talk. “Dan and I were very young when she left. Our father tried to explain as best he could, but how do you tell a seven-and a nine-year-old their mother has abandoned them? I still don’t know where she is, or even if she’s alive. She just disappeared.”
For an instance, Ephie saw the little boy he’d been, forsaken and bewildered by circumstances he couldn’t comprehend.
“And I blamed him. He dedicated himself to us and to the business, but I could never get past the idea he’d failed her in some way. I convinced myself she’d left because of him, and I despised him for it.”
“You didn’t despise him.”
“I did.” He swallowed, misery tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I tried for indifference, but never quite managed it. And now…now it’s too late.”
His shoulders sagged, and he dropped his head low. “I’m not like you, Ephie. Forgiveness has never been my strong suit. Our father did the best he could. He made a good life for me and Dan. But I only saw failure. All those years, and I couldn’t bring myself to forgive him, forgive her. And now—I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”
She considered him, a study in despair and self-loathing, and a calm determination came over her. She twisted sideways, placing her glass on the end table next to her before sliding off the couch. Kneeling on the carpet in front of David, she insinuated herself between his legs and rested her palms lightly on the tops of his thighs.
“What are you doing?”
“I have something to tell you, but first you have to promise me…”
As he gazed down at her, his expression curious and earnest, Ephie thought she might finally understand what had drawn her to him from the start. Whether by choice or an unconscious act of self-preservation, David had adopted dispassion to shield himself against the grief which pervaded not only his professional but his personal life. She’d cast him in her deepest, darkest fantasies because she’d sensed he would accept them, accept her…without limitation…without judgment. It made him safe. It made him strong. It made him beautiful.
“Promise you what?”
“Promise me you won’t say anything.”
“How can I—?”
“Please,” she interrupted. “I know I’m asking a lot”—a small smile curved her lips—“especially of you. But I…Please, just promise me.”
Her heart sank when he shook his head. But then he shrugged and turned to her.
“All right. I promise.”
“David,” she whispered, reaching out to frame his face with her hands. “I love you.”
Chapter 26
TIME slowed. The sound of his breath, loud and rasping, lingered in his ears. Ephie blinked up at him, the lazy sweep of her lashes a fascination.
He’d confessed his most shameful secret, revealed what was ugliest about him. The thing he hid from everyone, including himself. And her response had been to get down on her knees and tell him she loved him.
“Ephie, I—”
She cut him off with a dazzling kiss, and David clung to her, struggling to find his footing in the flood of emotions her words had unleashed.
“You promised.”
She slid her hands along the sides of his face, caressing his chest and abs before finding his belt buckle.
“What are you doing?”
“Shutting you up the best way I know how.” She brushed her mouth over his as she stared into his eyes. “Now, hush.”
“But—”
“Hush.”
She kissed him on the cheek as she reached for his wrists, guiding his hands to rest on the couch on either side of his hips. Then she sat back on her heels, beyond his reach. With a wicked smile, she leaned forward, grabbing him by the hips and urging him toward the edge of the seat.
She glanced up at him often as she worked at opening the front of his pants, the inadvertent brush of a thumb or the heel of her hand making him shift beneath her. But her gaze clung to his when she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers. Giving him a heart-stopping grin, she freed his erection from its confines. And then Ephie lowered her head.
David threaded his fingers through the tumble of Ephie’s curls as she took him in, thousands of tiny taste buds sweeping his most sensitive skin. She moved over
him with a silken reverence. The act elevated to worship. Slowly, the tension drained from his limbs. His head became impossible heavy, lolling onto the cushions behind him as the room faded to black, his eyes rolling up beneath their lids. He forgot about declarations of love and dead fathers and decades-long resentments. Nothing mattered beyond the exquisite torment of Ephie’s mouth and the shuddering pleasure coiling through his muscles.
Suddenly, she grabbed at his hips, angling him up into her downward motion and thrusting him beyond the tight ring of muscle at the back of her throat. David clenched his fingers in her hair, a moan drawn from deep in his chest.
“Please.” He was shocked by how easy it was to beg. “Please, Ephie. Please…”
She slowed, but didn’t stop, the leisurely pace inconceivably more torturous.
“Fuck. Please,” he groaned in desperation.
The muscles surrounding him shifted and flexed and, in a flash of intuition, he understood he was experiencing her smile, from the inside. If she managed a giggle, he knew he’d be lost. Before she could offer any resistance, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her onto his lap. Covering her lips with his own, he plundered her mouth with his tongue, discovering his taste lingering in the recesses. With a growl of impatience, he flipped her onto her hands and knees. Frantic to lose himself in her sweet salvation, he shoved the hem of her dress over her hips and swept aside the slip of fabric barring his entry. Almost too late, he remembered.
“Fuck.”
“What is it?” she panted.
“Condom.”
She did giggle then, and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying for strength. She wriggled against him, and he looked down to see her fumbling in the folds of her disheveled skirt. The she stretched her hand toward him. When he saw the small foil packet in her palm, two things struck David with numbing physical force. She’d come prepared, believing his comfort would begin and end in the two square inches between her thighs. And he had been the arrogant ass to put the repulsive idea in her head.
“No.”
She looked back at him, confusion wrinkling her brow.
“It’s the right brand, isn’t it?”
“It’s not the damn condom.”
Taking it from her, he quickly pulled up the waistband of his underwear before drawing her into his embrace. She placed a hand on his cheek, and he leaned into her touch.
“What is it?”
“Ephie, I…” He looked into her wide brown eyes, full of wonder and possibility. “Please, I just want to hold you. Would that be all right?”
She smiled.
“Of course.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers gentle as she twined them through his hair to cradle his head. He buried his face in her neck, filling his lungs with her scent.
David got to his feet with Ephie in his arms and then carried her to the bedroom. When he set her down, she stepped away from him, going to the bed and pulling back the covers before returning. As she trailed her fingertips up his chest, he found her hips with his hands, tugging her closer as she unknotted his tie. She slid it from around his neck, giving him a sly smirk before laying the strip of navy blue silk over her shoulder. Then she turned her attention to his shirt, her brows drawn in concentration as she worked at releasing the row of buttons. And then she went up on tiptoe, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and leaning in. He felt her lips, warm and soft, pressed to his bared skin. And, at least for a moment, he let himself believe she was the cure for his damaged heart.
And then, fingers clutching the waistband of his pants, she urged him backward, drawing him to a halt beside the bed. She pushed his pants and underwear down to his knees before giving a playful shove to his middle, indicating he should sit. She crouched in front of him, taking off his shoes and socks and putting them neatly beneath the bedside table before stripping away the last of his clothing. She smiled at him as she stood, folded his pants on the crease, and then draped them over her forearm. She turned and walked away, pausing to pick up his shirt before going to one of the chairs in the sitting area and carefully laying out his things. She came back to him, touching his cheek before turning around.
“Would you mind?”
He reached up and unzipped her dress, enjoying the slow reveal of her smooth, ivory skin. When he was done, she glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Why don’t you lie down?”
He did as she asked, sliding his feet beneath the cool crisp sheets as he stretched out on his side and slid his arm between his head and the pillow. With a shrug, Ephie shed her dress, the black crepe falling to the floor and pooling at her feet. Her bra quickly followed, as well as her panties. In short order she stood naked before him.
He watched in wonder as she stepped out of her shoes and over her clothes, pulling the covers over both of them as she joined him. Her head cushioned in the bend of her elbow, she gazed up at him, warm fingers idly tracing his hairline.
“Are you sure this is all you want?” she whispered.
He slid his hand the length of her back, finding the nape of her neck as he caught her hip in the hook of his leg. She gasped when he cinched her tight, their breath mingling in the space between their lips. And as her heart beat next to his, strong and steady, he knew a stunning truth.
“It’s more than what I want, fireball. It’s all I need.”
She gave him a brilliant smile and then nestled into his embrace, folding her arms between them, her hands taking up their familiar post over his heart. As her breathing slowed, David thought back to the first night of Stranger than Fiction, when he’d stumbled upon her loitering in the hall as if lying in wait. But in reality it had been he who had been waiting—waiting for her to remind him love, with all its uncertainty, was just the sort of complication which made life worth living.
Chapter 27
THE past is a treasure too often forsaken and more difficult to retrieve than some might imagine. Though it’s relatively easy to amass a great deal of information, especially in the age of Google and computerized records, dates of renovations and shifts in design don’t tell much of a story.
Stories need drama. And drama is the purview of human beings. Lives which are ephemeral, fleeting, and fragile, lost to the ravages of time and the constant demands of change. Notches painstakingly cut into a doorframe to mark growing children and expanding families obliterated for the sake of a shiny, new finish. Entire rooms gutted and repurposed. The narrative of a generation stripped away with the outdated wallpaper.
Of course, traces remain, subtle and haunting. The burnish of the staircase handrail, for instance, a rare patina achieved only through touch—the skim of gloved hands in hasty descent, the grip of aged fingers for support at the end of an arduous day. A thousand caresses, each leaving an impression, all playing a part, and, for the house at 1621 Washington Street, every one made by a Briar.
Briar, derived from the English spelled b-r-a-e-r, the noun is commonly defined as any plant having a prickly stem, or a mass of said plants. In fifteenth-century England, when the word first came into use, it was common practice for homeowners to cultivate barriers of the thorny shrubs around their property in an effort to discourage unwanted visitors. To this day, no one knows if one such inhospitable family lent their name to the flora, or if it was the other way around. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. As Shakespeare so famously asked, What’s in a name? Does the rose not smell as sweet? Or, perhaps more apropos, the thorn cut as deep?
Thorns and roses, life and death, hard facts and sweeping drama, the story of Briar House is a study in contrasts. Generations struggling to live and love, quite literally, in the shadow of death. Some would succeed and some failed miserably, but all of them tried their best not to lose sight of a truth as fundamental to them as their very name. Beauty secrets among the thorns. You only have to look to find it.
* * * *
“For the longest time, I refused to even try.”
&n
bsp; David lowered his head, crumpling the papers he’d been reading from in between his hands.
The morning after Ephie had told him she loved him, he’d woken to a note. I’ll be near, it read, the only other mark a perfectly penciled heart. He’d rolled onto his back, placing the crisp sheet of paper in the center of his chest as he’d imagined her drawing the small symbol, carefully forming each curving half and then painstakingly filling it with wispy, diagonal strokes.
She’d been true to her word, nearby throughout the day, though never close enough for his liking.
At the chapel, he’d caught her slipping into the last row. Her tentative smile had reassured him, even as it conjured images from the previous evening when she’d been on her knees before him. He’d shifted in his seat, earning a scowl from Meg severe enough to keep him in place, eyes front, for the rest of the service. At the cemetery, however, he’d been able to drink his fill. Ephie’d kept to the periphery, again, joining the semi-circle of mourners at the opposite side of the gravesite. The setting sun, low on the horizon behind her, had cast her in relief. Still, he’d sensed her gaze. And as his father’s body had been consigned to the earth, David had kept his focus on her, committing the details of her silhouette to memory.
Short, brown curls buffeted in the wintery wind. The quiet strength defined in her shoulders, the graceful arc of her arms disappearing into the angling of her crinoline-structured skirt. Despite the plunging temperatures and her platform heels, she’d been steady as a pillar.
He hadn’t realized how much her presence had comforted him until he’d stepped forward with his brother and sister-in-law to drop the blood red roses they’d been holding onto the top of the casket. When he’d looked up from the solemn chore, she’d been gone. And though he’d ached at her absence, for the first time in his life, David hadn’t felt alone.
He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since.
She meant it as a gift, giving him time to mourn, to think, to consider his options. But as the days had gone by in tortured succession, his choices had narrowed to one—her. What he didn’t know was if his words would be enough to make her believe it.
David's Epiphany Page 14