by Sarah Abbot
His head started to pound. Realizing he’d been wrong always affected him adversely.
A comforting surge of anger curled through his veins.
So he’d been wrong to paint the daughter with the same brush as he had her mother—that didn’t mean he had to get chummy with Abby. She was still a spoiled society brat, and he’d been smart to give her a wide berth.
And besides, if people didn’t learn from the past, they were doomed to repeat its mistakes, right?
Well, he wouldn’t repeat them, and Abby could take that to the bank.
Chapter Twelve
Abrielle had not reacted to his gift of flowers as he’d hoped. The flowers were meant to be received in gratitude, yet she had been repulsed by them. It was another subtle reminder that Abrielle was not the lady her mother had been. But she would progress under his patient tutelage.
Patience. That was the key.
Though Abrielle was apparently unschooled in the dictates of polite courtship, he was not. He would patiently continue along the prescribed path of romance. After flowers came jewelry.
There would be no shopping at a jewelry store for him, oh no. He had something infinitely more precious to offer his darling Abrielle, and it was hidden here, in the graveyard.
The Lover looked up at the polished marble angel, saliva filling his mouth with longing, hands trembling only slightly as they rested on his bent knees.
He was alone in the cemetery—the one place that he never felt entirely lonely.
How many years, he asked himself, how many years have I come to this very place? As if each day of every year had not added a leaf of pain to the burgeoning growth that now threatened his very existence.
If he could grasp it within his hands—the agony that had twined around him for so long—if he could peel back the layers like the rippled skin of forbidden fruit, he would find Celeste within the layers, and his darling mother at the core, with her long red hair so like Celeste’s, wrapped around the fertile center of his pain.
The pain throbbed with renewed energy. It fed on every thought; it mutated into something so gargantuan, so excruciating, that he marveled at the love and the agony his ever-expanding heart was able to bear.
He squeezed his hands into fists—felt the scabbed palm of his left hand crack in protest. This was a pain he could endure…indeed, it was a joy to endure it.
Carefully, he lifted the gauze that wrapped his hand and began unwinding it—the wound beneath becoming less obscured with every lifting layer. The bandage slithered to the earth, forgotten, as he looked at his palm—now freshly pocked with blood—and smiled at the wound that was a tribute to his love. There, in the cup of his palm, he cradled the symbol of her—the graceful shape of a letter A.
He had carved it there the night before, so that he could wear the badge of her on his flesh as surely as he wore it on his heart.
The Lover looked up at the angel. Elizabeth’s angel, they called her, in honor of the woman who lay in eternal slumber beneath the sheltering canopy of her marble wings, but The Lover knew better, as did the angel.
It was said that she had been modeled after the beloved wife of Captain Josiah Watson in 1893. If that was the case, she had been lovely, indeed. It was also said that the captain had turned two previous statues away, saying that they couldn’t possibly compare to Elizabeth.
Josiah Watson was a man who demanded perfection, and it appeared that he’d gotten it.
In this, the good captain and The Lover were kindred spirits.
He sat on the marble bench at the foot of Elizabeth Watson’s grave, staring up at her—this monument to devotion and love—and looked at her face with a critical eye.
There was no denying it. Captain Watson’s wife had been beautiful, indeed. But not as beautiful as his love; not as beautiful as his mother or his lovely Celeste.
Now they, too, had lain their bones down to rest…had been buried far from him, far from the love they had shared.
Secretly, he had renamed the angel. Celeste, he called her. And it was her bones he imagined lying here; her bones to which he paid homage.
For years that seemed like eternity, this was as close as he’d imagined he could come to her; until he greeted her on the other side.
Until now.
Now, he believed in miracles.
The Lover looked up at her, and he saw it: that same, wondrous light he had seen so many years ago, falling across the angel’s face in wordless confirmation…the light that had brought him to her feet in the first place!
The Lover had seen that light but few times, and each time was engraved upon his heart. He had come to realize that the light was a heavenly message from his mother—her way of doing penance. His mother sent the glowing light, crowning the chosen one in ethereal gold, telling him that this was the woman he was meant to love, the woman who could heal all the wounds she, his mother, had left him with.
Once, he had seen it cast its prophetic glow upon the face of Celeste. Later, after her death, it had come to rest upon the face of Elizabeth’s angel, and he began to believe that he’d never have a flesh-and-blood woman he could adore. Most recently, he had seen the golden tracery of love’s light illuminate the face of Abrielle Lancaster.
Yes, it was a sign.
His mother had sent Celeste to him, but she had failed him. Now Celeste was on the other side along with his mother, and fully able to see the error of her ways. Celeste, too, was doing penance, and in so doing had sent her daughter to him. It was what was right, after all. A heart for a heart.
But it seemed he would be battling fate for the soul of a woman yet again.
Suddenly, he squinted his eyes shut against the burgeoning rage he felt in his belly; remembered the jolt of disbelief he’d experienced when he saw the artist’s bastard looking at his Abrielle. The Lover saw the way Ryan Brannigan’s eyes caught, how his face filled with something unutterable.
Just like so long ago, when his lovely Celeste had misguidedly loved the artist—or thought she loved him.
As he’d known it would be, after one taste of his love, she had left the artist.
That’s all it would take now. One taste of him—her heart’s destiny—and Abrielle would love him as had her mother so long ago.
The Lover dropped to his knees. Gently, he pressed his lips to the angel’s feet, stroked them with a tenderness that spoke of his broken heart, and his longing to have it mended.
No woman has ever been loved this way, he thought. Not even the beloved Elizabeth Watson.
As his mouth moved over the slick coldness of the granite angel, he thought of Abrielle, his destiny; thought how she would relish his kisses, his touch; thought how the angel was surely glowing beneath his ministrations.
He was The Lover. There was none quite like him—no man could love as deeply, as purely.
His heart squeezed in his chest, threatened to burst with the thought of what was so very near.
At last, he let go of the angel’s feet and started digging at her base, fingers raking away the grass, clawing away layers of earth, until he had scrabbled down six inches.
There, exactly where he had left it, was his offering to his angel, Celeste.
He withdrew the mud-caked box, gently brushed the earth from its surface, and looked inside. Still there.
Yes, this was the key to unlock his destiny.
Schooling his fingers against the frantic need they felt to uncover the treasure, he opened the box gently.
There, beneath the moonlight, glittered the ring.
He would give it to her, and she would love him. And he would call her “Abrielle,” her given name, not the common-sounding “Abby.” Hardly a name fitting for the child of a woman called Celeste—a woman whose only place could be among the stars.
Then, another thought struck him.
He could call her by a different name; another, more suitable name.
She was the image of her mother, was she not? She was the very incarnati
on of her. Yes! He would call her Celeste.
The moon above him shone down upon the ring, upon him, child of destiny. Celeste had come back to him, the only way she could, and she would be his again, as she was always meant to be.
Chapter Thirteen
Cora lifted the bread pudding from the oven, held the piping dish beneath her nose, and inhaled lustily.
Perfect.
She had honed the recipe over the course of countless nights as she sat awaiting her errant son, praying for his safe return…then, for the grace required to spare his life after she got her hands on the lad.
If she had a dime for every bread pudding she’d made, she’d have been rich long ago.
To say there had been many would be an understatement. After all, this was the pudding that had lured that boy of hers through a teenaged rebellion so spectacular, it had become the stuff of legends.
His shenanigans had even outshone hers, and her days of running wild and loving the artist had raised more than their share of eyebrows.
After all these years, young men still tried to equal his status on the island…none of them anticipating that without Ryan’s devastating smile, it was next to impossible to carry off mischief with any measure of panache; or that before you attempt to pull a Brannigan, you ought to at least confirm that you have the agility of a cat, the tongue of a politician, and the speed of a comet (when you’re stone-cold sober, let alone three sheets to the wind). Needless to say, none of the pretenders had yet managed to duplicate Ryan’s signature mix of brawler, Casanova and brooding rebel.
Who would have thought he’d turn out so well?
Cora shook her head in remembrance, realizing that even she had foreseen disaster in his future.
But then, it had been hard to imagine much else when all she ever saw were notes from teachers (marveling over his fine grades even as they bemoaned his inattentive nature and surliness) and seething fathers (Clark Murphy came to mind; as did his pretty young daughter, who had been escorted to the prom by Ryan and returned to her frantic parents the next day—at lunchtime).
There had been underage driving, underage smoking, and underage drinking, and always that charming smile, used most often on her, the mother with the endless patience and the best bread pudding on earth.
Now that he had grown into such a fine man, she could hardly deny a secret pride in his youth. Oh, it was good for a laugh now that it was all said and done.
If only he could get over the hurts of his youth as easily.
She shook her head and uttered a silent prayer for her son’s peace.
Ryan Brannigan was a man among men, even if she did say so herself. The type of man who never forgets.
She frowned to herself as she ran a knife around the rim of a cheese soufflé.
The shadow of resolve cast itself long across her heart. Cora stared into the foamy depths of her soufflé, knowing that in some vital way, she had failed him.
For the first time in her life, she wondered if she’d be able to win him over to the side of reason. She wondered when he had gotten as old as he had, and if, by chance, he could have developed a disturbing resistance to her cooking. She hoped not, because to come right out and demand that he desist in his vendetta against Abby would be to cause him to dig his heels ever deeper into the fertile earth of his determination.
He was a hard man. Too hard. Not even a beautiful face could sway him—and more than a few had tried.
Heaven help Abrielle Lancaster.
Cora had seen it clear enough. Seen it in his eyes the moment he heard that Abby was coming to town. He’d set his cap for the unsuspecting woman, and not in a good way.
The girl was as good as gone if something wasn’t done to derail this runaway train.
Forbidding was not the way—but, how to make the boy see reason?
It was a question that had perplexed her most of her adult life. She fussed over the table, looked at the clock, and smoothed the cotton apron that was tied around her midsection.
Well, if her son wouldn’t listen to reason, it was time to bring out the big guns. She inhaled unabashedly, feeling her mouth water.
It was time for bread pudding.
He hadn’t eaten since the previous day—when he had overheard his mother speaking with Abby about Celeste. Not surprisingly, the entire episode had made him lose his previously unconquerable appetite, but the aromas wafting throughout Cora’s house provided the cure. He was starving.
Ryan’s mouth watered as he looked at the lush array of food set out on his mother’s table for their Sunday lunch.
Starving or not, it made him nervous.
For her to slave away over a meal of this caliber could mean only one of two things: she had found yet another candidate for the position of daughter-in-law, or she was luring him in for a proper tongue-lashing.
Since there was no potential wife in sight and there were only two plates set at the table, that could only mean he was in trouble.
Well, fine. He’d choose trouble over a woman hands down. Women—one, in particular—were their own brand of trouble, and he’d had his fill of it.
Unbidden, the image of Abrielle swam into focus in his mind. He could almost hear the timbre in her voice as she spoke to Cora about her mother. It tugged at his heart…which made him even more nervous than the delectable meal set out before him. So nervous, in fact, that he started shifting on his feet.
Oh, this can’t be good.
It was time to wipe the thought of Abrielle from his mind, time to strike her name from his vocabulary. He didn’t want to even discuss that woman again.
“What have I done, Mom?” he asked, jamming his hands in his pockets and suddenly feeling all of sixteen years old.
Cora smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. “Whatever do you mean, Ryan? Come sit you down, tell me about your day.”
Hmm. That was too easy. But he allowed himself to be bustled into the dining room, smiling softly to himself as she directed him to a chair. Just as pointedly, he grasped her elbow, escorted her to her chair, and seated her.
She chuckled. “Why, thank you, sir. Sit down, help yourself.”
The table was laden with salad, rolls, a tureen of seafood casserole and Cora’s famous cheese soufflé. Ryan inhaled lustily and froze midway between sitting and standing. He smelled bread pudding.
He cringed. Bread pudding meant serious trouble, not just the garden variety, and he’d been in enough scrapes in the past to know the difference.
“Looks great, Mom,” he said, lowering himself onto the chair as cautiously as if he were about to sit on a grenade. “Now, you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Does a mother need an excuse to cook for her son?”
“I smell bread pudding,” he said warily.
Cora selected a roll, still warm from the oven, and pressed her thumbs into it, breaking it down the middle. “There’s something we need to discuss, Ryan.”
“Ah, the truth comes out at last. You know,” he said, nodding toward the lavish spread, “if you wanted to have a word with me, you only had to say so.”
She lifted a brow. “Says you.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Abrielle Lancaster.”
Ryan heaved himself out of his seat. “I’m leaving.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
With jaws clenched tight, he stared at his mother. Abby was the last person he wanted to talk about.
He’d resented Abby and Celeste for so long, it had become part of who he was, as in: Age: 35. Height: 6′2″. Occupation: businessman. Likes: hockey, German beer, and (heaven help him) bread pudding. Hates: Rutherford/Lancaster women.
What would happen to the “who” of who he was if any one of those few certainties were to crumble and fall? It was crazy, he knew, to even wonder…but somehow, he couldn’t help it. Because something inside him was changing, and had been changing since that damnable moment he’d sat outside Cora’s door and listened to Abb
y talk. It was like an internal metamorphosis over which he had no control, and above all, Ryan was always, always in control.
He regarded his mother a moment, then sat grudgingly.
Cora nodded. “It has to stop.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Ryan Brannigan. You’re hell-bent on trouncing the girl out of town, and it’s not right.”
“Says who?” he demanded.
“Says I.”
Ryan’s words caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, searched around his soul for the familiar rage that always overtook him when he thought of Celeste, Abby, his father and the suffering of his mother.
It wasn’t there.
Deliberately, he remembered the nights he’d heard his mother crying herself to sleep; forced the memories of his hungry belly and threadbare clothing to the forefront of his mind, and still, the anger slept.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, raked his hands through his hair and closed his eyes at the low rumble that vibrated in his throat. It wasn’t, in fact, far off from a growl.
Slamming his chair back on all fours, he rested his weary head in the cradle of his hands.
For the first time in his life, he was tired of it: the constant hatred he carried.
His mind spiraled back to the moment he’d overheard Abby’s admissions—admissions that had made her human. Admissions that made it clear to him she hadn’t come to destroy his peace. She had come to find her own.
Why did he so begrudge her that? Why couldn’t he let it go?
In the heart of him, he wanted to, but he didn’t know how to admit the fact that he knew there was something deep and seething and black within him—wasn’t even sure if he was ready to. “I can’t talk about this right now, Mom.”
“Well, you’re going to have to!” Cora said, hitting the table with her palm. “Enough is enough, Ryan. Can’t you leave the past where it belongs? Both Celeste and Douglas are dead, son. Won’t you let them go? Won’t you let Abby find what she’s looking for? Your choice to remain wounded by your history shouldn’t prevent her from being healed!”