Gilding Lillian

by DawnMarie Richards

  The dark otherness, the unnamed, ancient force lurking in the recesses of her psyche wrenched free, twisting and twirling through her with gleeful abandon, unrestrained and unafraid. It filled her, making her skin feel too tight for her organs and her heart compress painfully in her chest. She was transforming, becoming something she could not identify, something she was terrified she would be unable to recognize. And she had no way to stop it from happening.

  A particularly sharp strike, the aftershock rocketed through her. There was no room in her beleaguered lunges for her sharp intake of breath. Powerless and overwhelmed, Lillian Gustave Milton Bennett—for the first time in her life—heard herself whimper.

  The ensuing silence was deafening.

  “Goddamn you.” Even though he cursed her, his touch was tender as grasped her by the shoulders. “Not like this. I don’t want it like this.”

  He pulled her to standing and then turned her into his arms. She pressed her cheek to the pulse at the base of his neck, her hands over the galloping beat of his heart.

  “Look at me.”

  By degrees, she faced him.

  Pain intensified the color of his eyes, making them an impossibly deep sapphire-gray. Her culpability became wrenchingly clear. Despite never wanting it and trying to refuse it at every turn, Griffin had given her a terrible power, the ability to inflict or ease his agony. And no matter how much she might want to ease it, she couldn’t. She didn’t know how.

  She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, with shaking hands, she reached for the top button of his dress shirt. After a moment, she felt his hands behind her, unzipping her dress. She paused as he slipped it over her body, the silky fabric sweeping her skin before being dropped to the ground beside them. She finished unbuttoning him as he unclasped her bra. They shrugged the barriers off in tandem.

  He reached for her, lifting her by the waist and perching her on the edge of the countertop, the chilled surface a welcome relief to her aching flesh. He reached between their bodies, undoing his belt, and lowering his fly. Her eyes fluttered closed as he entered her.

  “No, Lillian,” he whispered against her lips. “I need you to look at me.”

  Setting her jaw, she opened her eyes. His gaze locked on hers making it impossible to look away.

  “I love you.” The bold declaration stole her breath. “I love you.”

  She brought her hands to his face and held tight as he continued to slide in and out of her with methodical precision.

  “I love you.” His eyes were bright with emotion.

  “Stop,” she rasped. “Please, stop.”

  “I can’t. I won’t. It’s the truth, the only truth that matters.” He thrust deep making her gasp. “I love you, Lillian.” His lashes were wet with tears. “I love you.”

  She looked at him in wonder. She wanted his certainty, but there was only doubt. Love flew in the face of her understanding of the true nature of relationships and life. How could she accept it, even from him?

  Griffin continued to move in measured, penetrating strokes bringing her to the brink far too quickly. She tightened her hold on him touching her forehead to his. He pulled her tight along the strength of his chest and abdomen.

  “I love you,” he declared, fearless and unashamed. “I love you. I love you. I love you…” He repeated it like a mantra as he brought her to completion and beyond.

  She heard the conviction in his impassioned iterations. Lillian heard but could not believe.

  Chapter 21

  “Nice shot.”

  “Thanks.”

  Griffin balanced on his club to bend forward and slip his tee from the earth. He had no idea what he was doing here beyond being so desperate for some connection to Lillian he had agreed to a round of golf with her former lover.

  She’d been gone for almost two weeks, and Griffin had no idea how he had made it through each day or how he would make it through the endless days stretching in front of him. He’d known he’d be wrecked when she left, but he hadn’t expected the unrelenting physical pain. It made it near impossible to get out of bed in the morning and equally difficult to get back in it in the evening to lay alone in the dark and interminable quiet.

  Dylan Drumlin amiably clapped him on the shoulder as the two arrived at the back of the cart, making Griffin falter in his attempt to slide his driver back into his bag.

  “Sorry.”

  His apologetic, lopsided grin made Griffin want to hit him—hard. Shaking off the impulse, he righted the club and then climbed in behind the wheel. Once Dylan was in the seat next to him, he took off toward their fairway shots.

  “Well, this is the eighteenth hole. Don’t you think it’s about time you tell me what we’re doing out here?”

  Dylan turned to him with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Playing a round of golf?”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “My wife thought you might appreciate a break from the pressures of your new job.”

  “Ah.” Griffin nodded. “Morgan. I should have known.”

  He spotted Dylan’s ball, coming to a stop at the side of the cart path. He turned in his seat and fixed Dylan with a pointed stare.

  “And what else did your charming wife think?”

  “Um,” the other man stalled, obviously embarrassed, “that I should use the opportunity to pump you for information about what happened between you and Lillian and see if I could offer you any insights into her behavior and encourage you not to give up on her.” He finished in a rush, leaning back against the cart’s seat and putting a hand to his forehead. “Jesus! That’s a relief.”

  Griffin considered his companion in stunned silence before bursting out in laughter. After a brief look of surprise, Dylan joined him.

  “Was any of that yours?”

  “Hell, no.” Dylan chuckled. “I feel for you, even more for Lillian. But there’s no goddamn way I’d be here if there weren’t a gun to my head.”

  “More like a threat to other parts of your body, no doubt.”

  Dylan stepped out of the cart and, after selecting his three-wood, stepped around to Griffin.

  “You get the picture.” He went to his ball to line up his shot.

  Griffin watched as Dylan sent his ball high into the air. It arced impressively before landing, with a cheery splunk in the water hazard in front of the green.

  “Shit!” Dylan spun around and stalked toward him. “I really hate golf.”

  Griffin coughed discretely into his shoulder to camouflage his involuntary laugh.

  “You could have just invited me to lunch.”

  “Now you tell me.” He speared his club into his bag before getting into the cart. “Morgan thought this would be less obvious. You know, guys just naturally open up to each other over shanked shots and missed putts,” he explained as they bumped along the path.

  “She doesn’t know too much about men, huh?”

  “Or golf,” he agreed with a grin. “So…what did happen?”

  Griffin killed the engine and stepped out of the cart. Dylan followed him, moving to lean casually against the cart with his arms folded across his chest.

  “We wanted different things.”

  Dylan grunted. “I can imagine.”

  Griffin’s hand tightened compulsively around the shaft of his five-iron as he pulled it out of his bag with excessive force.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” Dylan waved him off. “Lillian has, ah, particular ideas about life.”

  “And love,” Griffin muttered as he made his way to his ball.

  Even with the disturbing turn of their conversation, he managed to hit a pretty shot which dropped dutifully about ten feet from the pin.

  “Damn. All of a sudden, you can’t hit a bad shot.”

  “Great. I play best pissed off.”

  They headed toward the other side of the pond where Dylan’s ball lay in its watery grave. After t
aking a drop, he made a nice shot with his pitching wedge. Once at the green, both men grabbed their putters.

  “You’re away.”

  “Yes.” Dylan was already lining up his shot.

  After a good deal of squatting and eyeballing, debris clearing, and grass fluffing, and two practice swings, he sent his ball left and long. Griffin tried hard not to smirk. If he could sink his putt, the round would be his. He suddenly wanted very much to win.

  Hunkering down behind his ball, he got a sense of the slope of the green and imagined a path to the hole. He stood and confidently aligned the head of his putter. He was just about to begin his swing when he heard Dylan’s voice from behind him.

  “So, the two of you actually discussed love?”

  Griffin stepped out of his stance and approached Dylan.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said steadily, “but, yes. We discussed it at length and, despite her strongly held but decidedly twisted view on the topic, I declared my love for her…repeatedly. And then she fucking left me, presumably for husband number four. Can I take my shot, now?”

  “Sure. Sure. Sorry, I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Yeah, well, knock it off.”

  It took a number of deep breaths before Griffin calmed enough to readdress his ball. He swiveled his shoulders, committing to his swing.

  “She’s still in town,” Dylan stated quietly.

  “What!” Griffin turned to look at Dylan as the club made contact.

  The added motion translated to the ball carrying it to the edge of the sloping hill at the face of the green. Gravity did the rest. Griffin’s Pinnacle rolled down the rough and into the water, joining Dylan’s drowned Titleist.

  “What do you say we call this round a tie?” Dylan offered, placing a consoling hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “Now how about that lunch?”

  Chapter 22

  “This is delicious, Sorella.” Lillian complimented her friend around the bit of spice bread she had in her mouth. “You have become quite the accomplished homemaker.”

  “Have I?” Morgan laughed as she rose from the table, scooping Lydia out of her high chair before propping the baby on her hip. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Dylan.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because the last thing my husband needs is any encouragement to keep me barefoot and pregnant and churning out baked goods for his pleasure,” she quipped as she went to the kitchen sink.

  It was Lillian’s turn to laugh.

  She continued to chuckle as she watched her young friend dampen a face cloth and attempt to clean Lydia’s face and hands while the baby swiped at her mother’s dangling earrings. After rinsing the small towel, Morgan turned her attention to the crumb-covered face of her son, Aaron.

  “Momma!” he objected.

  “All right, then. You do it, big boy.”

  The child bunched the cloth into his chubby fists then frowned as he scrubbed at his cheeks under his mother’s watchful gaze.

  The sweet domestic scene touched Lillian. She wondered what it would be like…a traditional marriage, children, a husband who not only respected and valued her but also, irrationally and unconditionally, loved her. Just then, Morgan paused in assisting Aaron to look over her shoulder. Whatever she saw on Lillian’s face made her brows crowd over her eyes.

  “I’m going to put the troops down for a nap,” she explained, taking Aaron by the hand and helping him to his feet from the green plastic chair at the child-size table where he had been eating his snack. “I’ll be right back. And we can talk. Say goodbye to Zia Lillian, Aaron.”

  “Bye-bye Ya-Lil,” he repeated in three-year-old fashion.

  “Dolci sogni, little ones,” Lillian called after them as Morgan herded her children from the room.

  With her head tilted to one side, she followed the cadence of the trio’s footfalls as they made their way upstairs. She picked up her tea and sighed quietly before taking a sip. She knew her sensitive friend would return bursting with questions. And having caught Lillian uncharacteristically daydreaming, Morgan’s inquisition was sure to be even more intense.

  But Lillian had failed to find any explanations to soothe her own psyche. How could she hope to satisfy anyone else’s curiosity?

  Leaving the house on Beacon Hill had cast her into a perverted form of withdrawal, as if Griffin had been a powerful drug she had taken for far too long. It paralyzed her, making her doubt her thoughts, her reason, her very sanity. She still suffered from the after effects.

  Her desertion succeeded in alleviating only one symptom, the incomprehensible rush of feelings she suffered in Griffin’s presence. Unfortunately, the ache of desire and the entirely foreign wish to be able to respond to him in some other way continued to plague her. Peace, as well as a plan of action, eluded her.

  “Wasn’t it crazy we ran into each other like that?”

  A tender smile tugged at Lillian’s lips as Morgan’s words preceded her into the kitchen. It had been startling, indeed, to have been discovered two days ago as she’d been browsing the stores on Newbury Street, Lillian experiencing a peculiar impulse to duck into an alley. It would have been an inelegant escape considering the heels she’d been wearing and the half dozen shopping bags she’d clutched in each hand. But it may have been worth the effort if it had averted her current situation, being in the unfamiliar and awkward position of having to explain herself. As sweet and kind as her sorella might be, Lillian had known the invitation to tea had carried a cost. There would be a reckoning.

  “I did not think you shopped the boutiques.”

  “I don’t, normally. I was looking for a little something special for the firm’s holiday party,” Morgan explained as she retook her seat across the table.

  Lillian nodded as Morgan wrapped her mug with her fingers, pulling it close and looking into its steaming contents. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

  “Did you find a dress?” Lillian dipped her head in an unsuccessful attempt to get her friend’s attention.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Morgan whispered without lifting her head.

  “Tell you?”

  Morgan looked up; hurt plain in her clear amber gaze. “That you were in town. It’s been two weeks. Have you been here the whole time?”

  “I…” Lillian swallowed the defensive answer which sprang to her lips. This woman had become her closest friend. If she had no right to the truth, then no one did. “Yes. I did not go. I am so sorry, Sorella.”

  The endearment garnered a shy grin. “These last couple of days, I’ve been thinking I haven’t been much of a sister to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you realize in all the time we’ve known each other, I’ve never asked you about your past, your family, your former husbands. How can that be?”

  “You respect my privacy.”

  “The line between respect and neglect seems very fine to me right now.”

  “Please, don’t talk like that. You have been wonderful to me.”

  “How, exactly?” Morgan’s eyes flashed with angry regret. “What have I done for you that’s been so wonderful? You’ve always been the one offering your support, checking on me.” A wry smile flashed at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve been my greatest champion, even when I didn’t know I needed one. But you’ve been hiding from me, from everyone, and I never suspected for a single moment.”

  “But why would you? I meant for you not to know.” She reached across the table to place her hand over Morgan’s. “Please. Don’t make more of this than it is. I needed time to myself. Nothing more.”

  “Do you remember?” Morgan asked after a brief pause. “Just after Aaron died, you came to the Foundation to see me.”

  “Of course, to invite you to my anniversary party.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But you didn’t really come for that, did you?”

  “Perhaps not entirely,” Lillian admitted haltingly, unsure of her friend’s purpose. />
  “No, you mostly came because you knew I needed a friend, someone to talk to…there wasn’t much you could do to help me with Dylan either. But you listened until I talked. Remember? That’s what I’m going to do for you.”

  Her young friend waited, an expression of earnest, generosity settling over her lovely features. And Lillian suddenly saw her deception for what it was—an act of cowardice. Shame made her draw her hand away from Morgan’s. She didn’t deserve the comfort. Places, people, obligations, she had run away from them rather than chance having to acknowledge her divergent behavior and, ultimately, its cause.

  She looked at Morgan. Both English and Italian failed her.

  “More tea?”

  The nonsequitur disoriented Lillian for a moment before she realized Morgan actually offered her a reprieve.

  “That would be lovely.”

  Taking the pot sitting between the two women into her hands, Morgan got up from the table. She headed toward the stove where a kettle sat warming over a low flame.

  “Was there a man in Italy?” she asked over her shoulder as she refilled the teapot with hot water.

  Her tone was a bit too casual, but as a penance for her deception, Lillian decided she would answer Morgan’s questions without censure.

  “There was.”

  Morgan returned to the table holding the pot by the handle. Steam swirled out of the spout.

  “Does he know you’re not coming?”

  “Yes.” Lillian had to smile at the concern for a man her dear friend would never meet. “I wrote him a letter weeks ago.”

  Morgan nodded, placing the fat, cheery teapot back onto its trivet before retaking her seat.

  “So you knew weeks ago.”

  It was not a question. Lillian opened her mouth to deny it but, realizing it would be a lie, pressed her lips back together.

  Unable to hold Morgan’s direct gaze, she dropped hers to her empty cup. She spooned in sugar before reaching for the steeping pot. Peach and ginger scented the air as she poured, making her think of Griffin and his heightened sense of smell. Would he appreciate the combination? The traitorous trail of her thoughts set off a tremor, causing her to resettle the pot with a jarring clatter of ceramic on cast-iron. She picked up her mug, cradling it in both hands as she examined its Harvard Law School crest. The warmth of the tea against her palms soothed her, and she closed her eyes.