by Tara Brown
I open my eyes to see Ramón. He looks the same as he did when he left, like himself.
“Ramón, you made it,” I whisper.
His hands turn cold as ice when he leans in and whispers cold breath on my lips, “Danger, Lorelei. He's coming. They coming for you, Lorelei. It's her, sugar bear. It's her. Find the magic. Go to Grandmamma.”
I freeze and pull my fingers from the grip of his icy hands. He doesn’t move from my bedside.
“Ramón?” Tears have finally found their way to my eyes.
He nods.
“Are you—did you—where did you go?” My lips tremble. Tears flow down my cheeks. I can't fear this man. Not this man. I know what he is, and yet I can't fear him. I need him. I need him more than anything.
He looks broken, like he has failed me. He shakes his head and points to the clock on the wall: 2:47. It's the same time, every time. It's the hour I always wake with the icy breath upon me. I snap my fingers but the spark is gone.
When I look back at him, he smiles and then is gone. I'm alone with the time and a broken heart.
Chapter 3
I get up from the bed and tiptoe into the bathroom. I've got a storage of sandwiches Emily has snuck in for me. Peanut butter and jelly. I'm never allowed to eat them but I'm starved. Momma has them making me eat only from the IV and the soft foods. I'm allowed diet pudding and the odd lemonade.
I sit on the toilet and bite into the sandwich. My body trembles from the chill of the cold bathroom floor. The peanut butter tastes divine. I close my eyes and try to forget everything that’s happened. I don’t know how to move past it or deal with it. I need to pretend it didn’t happen. I flush the toilet for good measure and leave the bathroom, peeking around for Momma. She ain't there but the food tray is. The lemonade and pudding make me gag a bit.
I climb onto the bed and pick up the bowl. Thank heavens for the sandwiches. I gaze at my sleeping sister and smile. God, I do love her more than anything in the world.
I take my first bite of pudding and try to force it down. The pudding slides down my thick throat. I can't taste it nor enjoy it. Diet food doesn’t actually have taste.
The lack of taste makes me think of the sandwich Ramón brought me.
Promptly the feelings return. I'm not great at blocking them out. No matter what I do or what I pretend, Ramón is dead and all the joy in the world is gone. Forever. I can't change nothing.
I don't exactly cry but tears slip from my eyes all the same.
The pudding makes me retch. It's like a slug slipping into my belly. If I don’t eat, they will never let me go home. My arm moves on autopilot, shoving it into me. I wish I could tell the nurses about the sandwiches, but I don’t trust anybody. My momma has a method to make people see things her way.
She ain't come back to see me since the first night. Only my sister Emily has been here. She’s sleeping in the chair beside the bed peacefully as if we're at home and she's fallen asleep on the couch.
I turn to the door when I see movement.
“You're awake?” Mr. Whitlock stands in the entrance of the room, smiling. His face makes my heart skip a beat. He is far better looking than the image I have of him in my mind. My memory doesn’t do him justice. He is a tall drink of water.
I force myself to smile. “I am. Thank you for everything and I'm terribly sorry for getting sick on you.”
He laughs. “May I come in?”
“Oh yes, please. Please do. Please have a seat.” I frown at my many pleases. He makes me nervous. Or the throwing up makes me nervous. “Sorry, I’m such a mess.”
His lazy grin returns and makes me think about something other than myself. “Don’t be sorry, Lorelei. You have been through a tragedy and I'm grateful I was there to help you.” His voice is soothing and suddenly I don’t feel so sorry. I remember a conversation I had with Ramón about men like him. Charming men. You always had to worry about who else they were charming.
He sounds like all the guys who turn out to be slicker than owl shit. He is just like them slick Yankees with their highfalutin clothes and fancy way of talking. He is beautiful and overly sweet and makes me sad. Ramón would have tried to save me from him.
Ramón.
The sadness rushes back in.
The tears don’t stop streaming from my eyes. I must look like death warmed over. The tears just slip down my cheeks and soak my hospital gown. I try to wipe them away, but I drop my pudding bowl on the pale-blue floor. The dark chocolate pudding spills out.
“Oh no. I'm sorry. I'm still a bit shaky. Silly me.”
“Are you not feeling better?” His eyes narrow.
I sniffle. “My best friend died.”
He seems confused.
I correct myself. “My driver.”
“Yes, the tragedy of your driver. I was sorry to hear that.”
I continue to fight the tears that pour from my eyes. “He was my best friend. The only person in the world who understood me, besides Em.” My lips tremble and I can only imagine how the pudding looks lingering on them, mixing with the tears. I am destined to always be a mess around him.
I push the nurses’ call button. Mrs. Kirsch comes running in. When she sees him there, she stands straighter and holds her stomach in. I wipe my face and try not to bawl like the baby I have been all week long.
“Sorry, Mrs. Kirsch. It was an accident,” I mutter through the sniffles.
She sees the pudding and pulls a rag from a drawer. “Don’t be silly, Lorelei. Everyone spills, ain't no real thing. Would you like another? Are you feeling okay, baby girl?” I have never been doted on this way before. I bet her house is cozy and warm. I wish she was my momma.
I shake my head, but Mr. Whitlock does something I've seen my daddy do. “She would love another one, Mrs. Kirsch. She is still weak. She needs sustenance.” He discounts my headshake and speaks for me. I blush and wipe my face dry.
Mrs. Kirsch smiles at him. She hangs off his words like a tick hangs off a deer. She likes him. I remember the way Momma liked him. I bet all women like him. At least that guarantees Emily will hate him. She hates men who presume to speak for women. She hates men with slick manners and perfectly coiffed hair. She hates our daddy, but not as much as she hates our momma.
He turns to me as Mrs. Kirsch leaves and smiles. “Wow, you get excellent service here.”
“Uh-huh.” He thinks I don't see it but I do; he's fake. He's like me, and all my friends. We’re all the same. People whose only genteel trait is the fake manners we have when others are present. I need to remember Martin and his sweet ways ain't got nothing to do with the fakeness I'm always surrounded by.
Mr. Whitlock's voice is soothing like he’s trying too hard. “I'm more than sorry about your driver friend.” He sits in the chair at the side of my bed, the other side of Emily who will wake any moment and hate him. I just wait for the show. “He must have been an amazing man for you to love him as you do—did.” He just won't stop talking about Ramón.
“Yes.” A rogue tear escapes and trails down my cheek. “Thank you.” I can't hate on him for his gentleman's manners.
“How is it you were so close to him? He was your driver.” His tone remains soothing, but I know he can't understand a wealthy person befriending the help.
“Just were. Like soul mates I guess.”
His eyes widen.
“N-not like th-that,” I sputter. “I wasn’t his type, if you get my drift,” I mumble under my breath.
He’s confused for a moment and then nods with a growing smile. “I see.” Then he does something else I don’t expect. He gets up and brushes away my tear. It's an intimate gesture. No one ever touches me. “Don’t be sad. I don’t think I can bear you crying.” His words are whispers. They're not fake. They're filled with emotions. I never hear that from a man, except Ramón.
I don’t know what to say. It's completely inappropriate and exactly what I woulda wanted him to do, which I suspect he already knows.
“Thank y
ou, Mr. Whitlock,” I whisper back.
His lips curl. “Call me Whit.”
“Whit?” I'm pulled from the magic of his stare. “Whit?”
What a ridiculous name.
I'm positive I can't call him that.
He's beautiful and reminds me of a man from a storybook. I like Mr. Whitlock better than Whit.
“You don't approve?” He laughs at my grimace.
“What's your first name?” I refuse to answer the question.
“Jameson. My mother was cruel and named me after a dead grandfather. Everyone calls me Whit.”
I laugh. Jameson's an old man's name. He doesn’t suit his name. Not in the least.
“Jameson.” I say it like I can't believe it, because I can't. “Do you have a middle name?”
He laughs. “Andrew.”
I nod and process this catastrophe. “None of your names suit you. I'm sorry, but I'll have to call you Mr. Whitlock. I knew a James. He was sort of a cocky jerk. He could talk the hair off a dog.”
He laughs but blushes and something inside me trembles like I may come back to life again just watching him.
His flushed cheeks and the way he glances up at me through his lashes when I say his name, are killing me.
“You say the oddest things.” He smiles a genuine smile. It's not controlled or planned. In fact, it ain't perfect. It's a lazy grin I find sexy. He’s letting me see him for who he is. We don't do that, not even after decades of marriage. Even Martin will never let me see this side of him.
It makes me feel funny, good funny. It's exactly what I want in the man I love. Maybe not the man I marry, but undoubtedly, the man I love. I have always suspected they will be different men. “My mom—Mother is always trying to get me to sound more refined.”
“I know that feeling. Do you go to finishing school?”
“I do. Hateful.”
He chuckles and my stomach twirls. “I can only imagine.” His lips twist into a grin. “I do like those finishing schools though, all those rules to break.” His eyes flash with humor.
I cross my arms. “Yeah, well, it's all part of the act. Part of the life we all live. Enough about me though. Jameson Andrew Whitlock? Did your momma hate you?”
He laughs. “No, but you forgot the ’my lord’ that belongs at the beginning of that name.” His accent is thicker, English maybe or Irish. I don’t ever hear people with accents much, except on TV.
I laugh. “My, my, someone is full of himself.”
He shakes his red face and looks down. “No, I'm a duke. My title is lord. Or well, most noble lord. You can choose whichever one you like the most.”
“You are pulling my leg.” I laugh at him, not with him.
“No.” His cheeks flush. He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. “I could have you executed for behavior like this, mocking me and all.” His eyes shine with humor and something else. He cocks his head and grins. “I can't imagine laughing at a duke. You are a brave girl.”
“Lord Whitlock?” I feel silly but he seems serious that he’s a lord or a duke. “Sounds stuffy and stodgy. I didn’t know there were lords and dukes here.” My mocking tone is not missed.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think he is about to reveal something to me. Something very secret. He sighs and his face relaxes. “I'm from Scotland.”
His accent that I think he’s been trying to hide is much stronger when he says Scotland.
“Really?” I cross my arms and forget to cry or be sad. “A Scottish lord? I never knew those existed anymore. Well, beyond the ladies’ romance novels my grandmother liked to pretend she didn’t read. She had a secret cupboard she stashed them in. The covers were all men with kilts and such.”
His eyes light up for a moment. “We exist. Very common back home, in fact.” His lazy grin grows devilish. “We also favor appearing in the odd romance novel. Got to keep appearances up. I try not to wear the kilt unless I absolutely have to. Bit breezy, if you get my drift.”
“Gross.”
He laughs harder but then leans in and smirks. “Tell me, Lorelei, did you enjoy those romance novels you read in secret?”
His bold question seizes up my chest and throat. I stifle a giggle as Mrs. Kirsch returns with my pudding. I can't believe my sister is still asleep and missing the intensely interesting conversation. I can't believe how much I like him or how bold he is with me but I don’t mind. It’s almost as if I relax around him. Like I would with Angie.
“Here you go, dear girl. Want a little more water or tea?” I nod but my eyes don’t leave his. Again, he has my gaze hostage. His last statement has me captive.
She clears her throat and leaves the room. I realize how rude I was to her and blush. I grimace down at my pudding.
He slides the chair closer. It's right up against my bed.
“Allow me. It's my fault you're here.”
I frown. “Your fault?” I'm pulled out of the feelings of safety and comfort when his eyes leave mine. Instantly, I'm uncomfortable with how familiar he is to me. He is bold. I'm being bold back. Something isn’t right with it. My stomach is going off but then I look into his eyes and I see it again.
He smiles and pulls me back in. “I should have found you sooner. I should have left the house earlier. I might have spared you this stay, had I not been delayed.” He pushes the spoon in and makes a face. “Awfully thick, is it not?”
I laugh awkwardly. “It's how they inspire you to get better in America. If the food scares you, you're more inclined to want out. But I've seen the cook's food for the nurses. She puts her foot in the food for them. We get the slop.”
He cringes. “She puts her foot in the food?”
“No, like she does a good job for them all and for us she does the bare minimum. What's the matter with you? Of course she ain't putting her feet in the food.”
“You use strange phrases.” He shakes his head and scoops a bite, holding it up for me. The act is simple and sweet and I am falling for it again.
I don't leave his stare. “I can't eat that. I might die.”
His eyes flash. “You might die without it too. You're weak. I can tell.” He's right, but I'm still not eating it.
“If I bring games, will you play?” he asks me like he's nervous suddenly.
I nod.
He puts it down on the tray and stands. “I will be right back.” He leaves the room. I shudder at the congealed mess of chocolate pudding.
Lying back on the bed, I replay every instant he was in the room. My heart flutters with delight and fear. I don't fear him, not the way I should. He is bold, and yet I find myself imagining the possibilities. I like the way I can't guess how he’ll act between the seconds where we don’t say anything. He's inconsistent and fun and some small part of me knows he's dangerous.
A voice interrupts my daydreams, “Lorelei.” Angie runs to my side. “Are you all right?”
Her hands squeeze mine and her eyes water. “I'm sorry about Ramón.”
My eyes fill with tears as well. “Me too. I miss him. I wish I coulda talked him into staying and waiting with me. I don’t even understand why he went into the woods.”
“His grandmamma is gonna be so sad.”
“I know. I'll need to go see her right away.”
She wipes her face. “He really was the best.”
“Yup.”
“Want me to get you anything?” she asks.
“No. I'm not hungry. I'm still so tired.”
She peers around suddenly. “Where is he?”
I frown. “Who?”
“Why Mr. Whitlock, of course. Mrs. Kirsch hasn’t shut up about him since the moment he found you.”
“He was just here. He said he would be right back. Something about games.”
Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “The nurses was saying he's handsome.”
“Handsome doesn’t describe him.” I sigh. “He's perfect. In every way. Except his name. Lord Jameson Andrew Whitlock. Gross. He's from
Scotland.”
She squeezes my hand and contains a squeal. “He's a lord?”
“A Scottish lord. It's weird. I think he's lying maybe. He tried to feed me pudding. Can you imagine a lord feeding you pudding? Diet pudding at that. He's erratic. One minute he's sweet and blushing and the next he's asking me questions and I swear I'm naked and vulnerable, the way he's looking at me. He has no proper manners. He just does what he wants, when he wants to. Like rules and good society don’t apply to him.”
She raises her eyebrows like she is wagging them. “Maybe that could be fun. Lord Whitlock who doesn’t take no for an answer and takes what he wants.”
I snort and swat at her. “You are positively vile.”
She shrugs. “Has Martin come to see you?”
“Once, a couple of days ago. I was sleeping, I guess. Mrs. Kirsch said he stayed for a few minutes but refused to wake me.”
She raises an eyebrow and nods once. “Well, that’s convenient for him that you was sleeping.”
I swat her again. “He was being a gentleman.”
“He was probably late for a date with some harlot.” Her tone is bitter. I don't get her hatred for him or her jealousy. She has never been this way before.
I laugh through the sting of the words. Deep down, I must admit Mr. Whitlock has kept my mind busy. I haven’t had much time to think on Martin.
She sighs. “So if you are still bent on marrying Martin, and you don’t like Mr. Whitlock, then you don’t mind if I make a play for him?”
My face reddens. “I never said any of that. I just said I didn’t think the great lord was telling the truth. There's a difference. And Martin and me isn't finalized yet either. Nothing is set in stone. Besides, what about Marcello?”
She shrugs again. “I let him touch me again yesterday. It was fun but he's going so slowly. I tried to undo his pants and he started backing away and saying no and blah, blah, blah. He's a square. I think I need a lord to straighten me out. Maybe Lord Whitlock has some friends.”
I roll my eyes and turn toward Emily and frown. “Check her temperature. I seriously think she's dead over there.”
Angie steps close and puts a hand to Emily who instantly stirs and stretches. “What time is it?” she asks, making sleepy sounds.