“Is this really the best place to talk about this?” I answer. She hugs me and rests my head in her breast. “Really? That just not fair. My head is on your…and my hands are on your.” I grab her inner thigh to further make my point.
“Stop it,” she giggles. “There will never be a perfect place or time for this conversation, Marcus. Not in this house.”
She’s right; there will never be a right time unless I make it. She’s playfully sponging my chest and lightly kisses my neck for encouragement. “What do you want to know? Ask me anything,” I finally let out.
“Tell me about her; she must be quite a woman,” she says.
“From the first day John and I met her, she has been the most controlling person I’ve ever encountered. Back then I really thought that she was just passionate. She knew – sorry, knows – how to get what she wants out of anyone and just goes for it,” I tell her. I stay quiet a bit and wait for a reaction – nothing, just more scrubbing. “I found that passion inspiring. So I took a ride on it and pretty much lived carelessly through her for years,” I continue.
“What happened?” she asks me. There’s no animosity in her voice, just simple inquiry. She gently pulls my head back and starts to wash my hair.
“That feels nice…we can talk about that later,” I say and my eyes close, but she gently pulls my hair.
“What happened, Marcus?” she repeats.
“I don’t know and I have been trying to figure it out for the past five years. She just gave me the ring back and told me that she will see me in the recording studio,” I tell her, still not opening my eyes. Talk about the naked truth.
She combs my washed hair. “I’m sorry. I really am, Marcus. Why was this not…anywhere?”
“Mary valued her private life, at least that’s what she’d been telling me all these years. But she wasn’t so keen on it when it was the other ones,” I tell her. It’s her turn to be quiet. I think I put my foot in my mouth again.
“Do you still love her?” she asks, almost as a whisper.
I turn around to face her. No more hiding now. “No. I do not her love her anymore, Luce. I’m not a masochist,” I tell her before kissing her. She has been putting her feelings out there for the past three days and I’ve been selfishly taken them from granted. I’m no better than Mary right now.
“You pretty much did this whole house for her. You have a music room for Christ sake! After this pool that you call a bathtub and your amazing kitchen, that’s the coolest thing in the house,” she says, getting out of the tub. She puts on her robe and hands me mine then leaves the room.
“I did,” I tell her. I find her still in her robe, putting lotion on, her hair still in a bun. “I bought this rundown townhouse and remodeled it for us.” I put some pants on. “She hated it – not her style. We never lived here.”
“What?” she say when I give her the green and grey boxer shorts and camisole. “You want me to wear this?”
“Please. I’ve been living in St John’s Wood by all myself, Luce. Mary doesn’t like it here, not even the music room,” I tell her now that she is fully dressed. I put an undershirt on.
“You never jammed?” she asks me.
“Mary is not the jamming type,” I admit.
She comes over and hugs and kisses me. “Baby…let’s go jam then.” She takes my arm and leads me downstairs. “So what do you want to play?” She looks completely serious.
“You’re serious?” I say, all excited. I’ve never jammed in this room before. I know exactly which song will be great for us to play but hand her the stack sheets. She looks through and chooses one, the perfect one.
“Santana… I’ll do the guitar and the singing,” she says, taking one of my guitars. “It was one of Belinda and Lucita’s best performances.”
I just knew it! I set the mics for this, all happy, and take my place in front of my keyboard. I hope we’re not going to wake up the neighbors; I did sound-proof the room a little during the renovation. Luce starts to play the opening guitar solo and I follow her lead. When she starts to sing Rob Thomas’ lyrics, so intense and to the point, I realize how much she was telling the truth; she has done that song before. By the end of the song her hair is completely untied and flowing around her face; Lucia in her boxer shorts playing Santana…it’s too sexy for words.
“By the way, you’re the smooth one.” she hands me the stack. “Another one,” she says.
“You were fantastic!” I tell her and take the guitar away, “Thank you.” I lead her to the piano with me and sit her on me. Time to fess up. “The week I met you Mary slept here but in the guestroom…by herself,” I tell her. She says nothing, so I keep going. “I haven’t…with Mary in almost two years. She fell in love with this writer and they moved to Spain,” I continue.
“I know. He’s been cheating on her. I know the man; I met him years ago. She’s definitely getting too old for him,” she says, caressing my cheek.
“How do you…? Anyway, she was really drunk so I brought her here to avoid a scandal. I’ve never seen here caring about anyone like this, Luce, not even me. So I ran away to Toronto as fast as I could and –”
“Declared a war on Lucia Mpobo-Riddell. What has she ever done to you?” She’s gently stroking my hair.
“What hasn’t she done to me? She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. She has a passion about other people’s happiness that is simply inspiring. She rose from her own ashes and became an even better person when most would have stayed in the dark,” I tell her, looking straight into her eyes. “And when she dances, sings or plays an instrument…she’s a completely out of this world artist and I can’t take my eyes…and hands off her,” I add before kissing her. A kiss that she is responding to with so much passion we’re now on the floor. “You’re healing me, Luce.”
“I love you, Marcus,” she simply responds; the first time she’s said it loud and clear. It’s usually a whisper in the middle of the night and sometimes I think I just imagined it. I wipe the tears from her face.
“Let’s go back in there.” I lead her back to the living room and turn the music on to “No Me Ames”.
“Really? That is so smooth,” she tells me and wraps her arms around my neck.
“I feel like a few cookies in …three hours or so,” I murmur in her ear and we start moving to the music.
“Midnight cooking it is then,” she says and puts her head on my chest.
We decided that driving to Manchester wouldn’t be a good idea even before pulling an all-nighter. I look at her asleep in my arms; the poor lass is completely exhausted. Nigel called her – not me – yesterday morning to invite her – not us – to a new club opening. We were supposed to stay for a couple of hours, but one thing led to another and the next thing we knew, we were watching a London sunrise over leftovers in the kitchen.
I have to kiss her; I just can’t help it. She’s so darn cute with her knit turban hat hiding all her hair. I kiss her nose and try not to wake her up.
“Are we there yet?” she mumbles.
“Not yet. You can go back to sleep, Luce,” I tell her. And I didn’t need to tell her twice. I make her more comfortable in my arms and lean toward the train window to give her more space. Business class is not bad at all; we have more space to relax and stretch our legs. And Luce’s need a rest; they were dancing all night and fending off various admirers – a typical Mpobo-Riddell Friday night. I almost choked on my beer when I saw her coming down the stairs. Her slightly wavy hair was completely down and she was wearing a tight, dark-red, mini dress with matching lipstick.
“We really don’t have to go out you know. Nigel will get over it,” I told her while watching her put her small leather jacket on. I couldn’t stop drooling over her bare legs, her cleavage, her curves, even her smug smile. She looked incredible.
“But it’s Friday night and we’re only going to be there for a few hours. We barely left the house on Thursday,” she pouted. We only went to Ju
bilee Market in the afternoon.
“Alright, but we’re not staying.” I put my coat on before opening the door. “You look incredible by the way.” I kissed her neck. “I’m going to have to be very careful not to lose you there.”
I lost her many times there. Alex Sanders made an appearance and pretty much kidnapped her for a whole hour. Then her lovely cousins, Teddy and Terry, showed up and snatched her for another one. But she was mine most of the night; I made sure of it. We didn’t go to bed until 7.00 a.m. and had to wake up five hours later to make the 2.00 p.m. train.
“Manchester…” Lucia says, yawning. She sits up, drinks her coffee and we pass the “Welcome to Manchester” sign. “How bad do I look right now?” she asks me.
Her usually big, grey eyes are a little glossy and have dark circle below them. “You look lovely,” I tell her. And she does; she’s just tired and so am I.
“Liar!” She starts putting makeup on. “Can you believe it?” she asks.
“What?”
“I’m going to meet Patrick’s parents!” she teases. She gets up and adjusts her shirt, cardigan and skinny jeans. “It’s an important step, you know,” she adds.
“Yes it is,” I say, taking her hand and kissing it. Yes it is…
“Lucia, you look even more beautiful than I remember,” Patrick says, opening the car door to her.
“Patrick, you’re such a charmer,” she answers, blushing. She looks back at the station one last time before getting into the car next to him. “There’s still time for me to take the next train back to London and leave you guys with your parents for the weekend,” she says. She seems very nervous. Surely, she must have met the parents before.
“Don’t you worry, love. You look adorable and they can’t wait to meet you.” Patrick looks at Alfie next to me in the back seat “And your furry pet too.”
“Thanks, Patrick,” she murmurs, relaxing a little. She stares out of the window, taking the scenery in. It’s her first time in Manchester.
“Luce, you have nothing to worry about. Not that my opinion counts,” I tell her.
“How far are we?” she asks me as Patrick takes the A56.
“About ten to fifteen minutes; Whitefield is not far at all. But Patrick decided to take the longer road” I say.
“Did not! The A56 is the fast way, mate,” he tells me, his eyes still on the road.
“Please don’t play daft because I brought Luce; the A665 would have been faster.” He thinks that because he still lives in Manchester, he knows the roads better. But we have been living in the same house for the past thirty years, bottom line – the road is the same. “The A665 is close to the house; the A56 is not, Patrick.”
“And I’m driving and you’re not,” Patrick nags back.
“Suddenly, I miss Axelle and Noor,” Lucia laughs.
“I’m sure you do,” Patrick laughs back and turns onto…the A665! “Has my handsome bugger of a brother been treating you right?” he asks.
“What kind of question is that, Patrick! Of course I have.” I turn to Luce. “Right?” I say with the best smile I’ve got.
“He was…okay,” she tells Patrick.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Don’t mention it,” she says as we get into my parents’ driveway. “Really don’t.”
Home Sweet Home! I’ve missed this place, my Georgian-style, brick home. And here’s my lovely, elegant Mum waltzing out of her Regency-style entrance doors. I take a quick peek at Lucia before getting out of the car with Alfie.
“Hi, Cushion. You look tired,” Mum says with a quick kiss.
“Thanks, Mum. Not as good-looking as your first born,” I tell her while kissing her back. I open the front passenger door. “Mum, this is Lucia Mpobo-Riddell.”
Lucia slowly gets out of the car but gets snatched up by Mum for a big, surprising hug. “Bloody hell! You look just like Eleanor!”
“So I’ve been told,” Lucia shyly says. “How do you do, Mrs Grant.”
“Welcome to our home, Lucia.” She releases her and they start walking toward the doors. “Boys, make yourself useful and bring the bags and the teddy inside,” she adds before closing the door on us.
Patrick and I quietly do as we’re told and meet them in the foyer. “So, where should we put Lucia’s bag and Alfie?” Patrick playfully asks Mum.
“Marcus’ room; where else? They’ve been shaking up for a week. Why separate them now?” she says, completely serious. “Unless you’re cross with him right now?” she asks her. I’ve never seen Lucia blushing this bad. She turns so red, it looks like a fever. “I see…”
“Mum, you’re embarrassing her,” I tell her.
“I know. But she looks like a good sport,” she says, laughing, and leaves the room.
“What the hell was –” Lucia whispers.
“Welcome my world, Luce,” I whisper back and guide her to the stairs. “Let me show you our room.”
The kitchen smells amazing; Mum is cooking her signature dish, lasagne. But not just any lasagne; she makes hers with a large dish where she’s able to have almost ten layers of wonderful, flavorsome lasagne. I find her hard at work with Dad in her modern kitchen. He’s playing with his new toy, an iPad. He’s more fascinated by this than anything else going on in the room. Closely behind me, Lucia enters room. After a quick shower, she’s traded her jeans for black cargo pants with a black tank top and has two French braids. She looks like Lara Croft. Dad turns off his toy and walks up to us with a little bit of a blush.
“Hello, love; I’m Stanford Grant.” He gallantly takes her hand to kiss it. “Lady Croft, what are going to save the world from today?” he wickedly asks, releasing her hand.
Luce laughs. She didn’t when I called her that upstairs – something about “no role play”.
“I’m honestly thinking about wiping out all Grant men for their teasing ways but it would be a very sad loss as they are so dashingly handsome,” she says, not skipping a beat. Good job Luce! “How do you do, Stanford? Please call me Luce; there’s no need for title usage here,” she says.
“It’s certainly nice to meet you, Luce,” he tells her.
“You really are Patrick’s father. It’s like looking in the mirror but with Marcus’ eyes and hair color. That’s wicked!” she tells Dad then walks toward Mum. She heard everything and I saw her smiling a couple of times. “It smells fantastic, Mrs Grant. Could I help you with anything?”
“Please call me Doddy; it’s short for Doranda,” she says, giving her an apron. Sally never got to call Mum Doddy, only Doranda. “My husband refuses to be called Stan. Stanford is such an old-lad name,” she tells her.
“I don’t know about that.” She’s cleaning and cutting the vegetable like a chef. My parents are staring at her skilled hands, completely amazed. “When my sister Axelle was pregnant with her son, I put Stanford in the suggestion box. Mitch would have made a handsome Stanford but I lost to Noor.”
“You did good, son,” Dad whispers to me.
“I haven’t done anything yet, Dad,” I whisper back. I’ll be in Paris next week and she will be on her way home to Canada.
“Interesting! You named your nephew?” Patrick asks, sitting at the kitchen table. When did he get here? “I live here, mate,” he simply answers to my inquisitive look.
“Thank you for the vegetables. You cut them in five minutes. It would have taken a good twenty and they wouldn’t have looked nearly this nice,” Mum says.
Lucia is blushing again. “Thank you, Doddy. I love cooking. I completely took over Marcus’ kitchen this week, not that he’s complaining…too much about it,” she tells her. Patrick is not the star of the show anymore. Doddy is…
“Doddy…” Patrick whispers my way.
“My sister raised me well enough to know that you should never come to someone’ home empty handed but” – she looks at me as I look at Mum’s emotional response to “sister” – “someone didn’t want to stop to buy anything. So, could I contribute to
the dessert?”
“If Marcus’ tales of your desserts are true, please take a look in the fridge and pantry for whatever you need, Luce,” she tells her and goes back to the stove. Patrick shows Lucia the pantry and I go to Mum. “Cushion, she’s a lovely girl,” she says, looking at me. I know that look – the “mother-knows-best” one.
“I know that,” I tell her, giving her a nice kiss.
“To stay on your Italian theme, I can make a four-berries tiramisu. You have a lot in there,” Lucia says, all excited. Nothing gets her juices going like cooking desserts. “And a batch of biscotti to savor with your coffee or espresso.” She’s pointing at the machine, now completely beaming.
“You can do all this?” Dad asks and she nods with a large smile. “Forget Lara Croft. Lovely Italian chef, Giada De Laurentiis, welcome to my home,” he teases.
“È bello essere qui[11],” she responds.
“It’s really nice to have you here, dear,” Mum tells her.
How many languages does she speak? I come close to her and display our first family PDA when I kiss her neck. “Thanks for being a good sport,” I murmur.
“Mi piace tuo papà[12],” she murmurs back. “I like your dad,” she says to my blank stare. “Really? Your Korean experience left you speaking the language but your many scappatelle italiane [13]left you with nothing?”
“What can I say –”
`She puts a cookie in my mouth. “Don’t answer that. I would then have to tell you how I’ve picked up Italian,” she winks then walks away to the fridge.
The tiramisu is delicious but unlike the rest of my family, I wasn’t surprised. I’ve eaten enough of Lucia’s wonderful cooking to know that she can nail a tiramisu in her sleep. The family is unusually chatty tonight and Lucia’s life is one of their favorite subjects. Patrick’s and my childhood adventures have come a close second.
“Doddy, if you don’t mind, I would really like to have your wonderful lasagne recipe,” Lucia says while helping her clear the plates. “I rarely eat someone else’s cooking. No one in my family can cook a decent anything; not my mother, not Axelle, not Noor, only Papa.”
This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad Page 22