“Sorry, babe,” Ethan said, getting up and walking out of the library, “I’ve got to take this. That was some great singing.”
Helen was breathing heavily and deeply flushed, and she stared at the door Ethan had just exited.
Cyrus had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths to control his fury. He would have followed Ethan and had a few words with him, but he was pretty sure Helen would have stopped him.
The happy mood her performances had generated had been totally snuffed, and Helen just stood there, as if she had no idea what to do.
Since someone needed to say something, Cyrus asked in as casual a tone as he could muster, “How do you know all these old songs?”
She gave a half-shrug, but managed to smile at him. “Mac used to love old musicals. He watched the movies over and over again. I guess I just started to like them.”
She cleared her throat and looked kind of self-conscious, still holding the pool cue.
Cyrus felt rather stupid himself, since he’d stood up but hadn’t actually gone anywhere.
“That last one was a giveaway,” his father murmured smoothly, breaking the awkwardness in his typical cool manner. “You made it too easy on her. Try to choose one now that isn't known to the world at large.”
Cyrus was ridiculously grateful for his father, who had not only dispelled the lingering awkwardness but had also made Helen feel better.
She flushed, looking at Drake in surprise and pleasure, as if she hadn’t expected him to want to hear another of her songs.
“You ready?” Cyrus asked, sitting back down at the piano.
“I guess. Just one more.”
Cyrus vamped a little while he tried to think of something Helen could really ham up. “How’s your Bing Crosby?”
“Okay,” she said slowly, suspiciously. “It’s not "White Christmas", is it, because that’s a little—“
“Give me some credit for creativity,” he interrupted, trilling up a scale until he’d found the right key. “What about Frank Sinatra?”
“Either one is fine. Which one…”
She trailed off as Cyrus picked out the melody and she obviously recognized it.
She clapped her hands. “Perfect! But it’s a duet, so you have to sing it with me.”
Cyrus blinked, halting briefly.
“You have to,” she said. She’d put her cue down and picked up her empty glass of Scotch, evidently for a prop. “I can’t do this one on my own.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, and he didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. So, when she pointed at him with her glass rather drunkenly as was appropriate for her part and began with the first lines of “What a Swell Party This Is,” he was ready.
Cyrus had always liked the song—not just because it was noteworthy as a Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra duet—but because it aptly, ironically captured his feelings about every single empty high-class party he’d ever intended. At first he just sang to humor Helen, but he soon got into it. Helen had Sinatra’s tipsy part pitch-perfect, even down to the shuffling dance moves. And there was something deeply enjoyable about being so perfectly in sync with her as they hit every note, word, beat together.
By the end of the song, they were both singing uninhibitedly—with more enthusiasm than real talent, although he was happy to say they were both on key. Helen had come over to the piano and was smiling into his eyes with pure joy as they held the last note. And when he raised his fingers from the final chord, she threw her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug.
He hugged her back, laughing and thinking he’d never been able to have silly fun like that before she had entered his life.
It wasn’t until she pulled away that he remembered his father was still in the room.
One glance over proved that his dad had been watching them with a thoughtful kind of scrutiny. Cyrus couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking.
“Well, I have to give you credit,” Drake said to Helen with a small, pleased smile. “Not only have I seen tonight a side of you I’ve never seen before, but I’ve also gotten to see a side of my son I wasn’t aware of.”
Cyrus sucked in his breath, suddenly afraid of what his father would say.
But he finished innocuously, “I never knew you could sing.”
“Only when pressed.” Cyrus gave Helen a gentle punch on the arm, the way he used to when she was a little girl. “Thanks, kid. That was a lot of fun.”
“Yeah,” she said, looking down, almost shyly. Then her expression changed as she looked over at the other side of the library. “I wonder where Ethan got to.”
* * *
Cyrus ran into Ethan on the landing of the stairs as he was heading down to the media room. It was almost eleven-thirty. Helen was already in bed, and Cyrus had thought Ethan was too. But evidently he’d gone downstairs for some reason, since he was coming back up now wearing just a pair of sweats with no shirt or shoes.
Cyrus felt faintly disgusted by the sight of the other man’s bare chest, but he managed to smile politely.
“You’re a little old to be sneaking out at night, aren’t you?” Ethan asked. It was the kind of question that was supposed to be teasing but came across as rather snide.
Cyrus ignored it completely, as was the only way to deal with such things. “Did you need anything?” Ethan wasn’t holding a glass of water or anything from the kitchen, so Cyrus didn’t know why he would have been downstairs.
“Just taking a call,” Ethan explained.
He frowned. “I hope nothing is wrong. You seem to have a lot of important calls this evening, which seems strange for Christmas Eve.”
“Personal issues.” Ethan put his hands on his hips in a gesture that was probably supposed to highlight his biceps.
“Okay,” Cyrus said, raising his eyebrows but suppressing any other comment he might want to make.
“If you have something to say, then just say it.”
Cyrus’s eyebrows arched even higher. “When you get older, you’ll learn that is not a wise challenge to issue. Often, what goes unsaid should remain unsaid.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you should be very careful about pushing me too far.” Cyrus kept his voice low but allowed it to convey a hint of danger he knew would be effective against someone like Ethan.
“I know you’ve never liked me. That doesn’t bother me. Helen is mine.”
Cyrus briefly clenched his fist but managed not to let his anger reflect on his face. He gave a dry, amused huff. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I know. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like me. She’s my girlfriend, and she’s going to be my wife, and you can’t do anything about that.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that. There are always things I can do. I haven’t done so yet because I care about Helen. But the moment I’m convinced she’ll be less hurt by what I can do to you than by staying with you, then I will do it. With no qualms. And no hesitation.”
Ethan seemed startled by the coldness of his voice, and he must have understood the underlying threat. He sneered but didn’t respond. Then he walked away, back up the stairs to his room, which was next to Helen’s.
He assumed she and Ethan were having sex, although he had no actual proof of that. His father, however, always gave them separate rooms.
He hated the idea of Helen having sex with Ethan. Hated it so much it made him want to claw his eyes out.
If he were honest, he had to admit that he hated the idea of her having sex with anyone.
For the most part, he did just fine in thinking about Helen in the right away—as his little friend, as almost family. But ever since last year when he’d given into some sort of twisted urge and kissed her, he had to be on guard against any flickering of inappropriate thoughts.
Six months ago, he’d come out to the house for the Fourth of July weekend, mostly to get away from the holiday mess in D.C. He’d been surprised on his arrival
when the housekeeper told him that Helen had come out too.
On discovering that she was in the pool, he’d immediately headed outside to say hello.
It had been a mistake.
He’d watched her climb out of the pool, soaking wet, wearing nothing but a tiny blue bikini, all lush curves and bare skin and slick hair, and he hadn’t had enough preparation to handle the sight.
He’d gotten suddenly, painfully aroused by her gorgeous, wet body and wide smile. And it had gotten worse when she’d run over to give him a hug.
He still tortured himself occasionally at night with memories of how she’d looked, of how he knew she would look naked, in his bed, in his arms. He did his best to keep tight control over his mind, since he knew thinking about her like that was wrong, but occasionally the thoughts snuck up on him anyway.
And it seemed to get harder every time he saw her.
Cyrus continued to the media room, wiping such thoughts out of his brain. It was getting close to midnight on Christmas Eve, and he hadn’t watched White Christmas. While Helen obviously wasn’t going to join him this year, it just seemed wrong not to be there.
He lowered himself onto the couch and flipped on the television, turning it to a cable news channel since he didn’t really care what he watched.
He’d had a good time watching Helen sing, but he still would have liked to continue their normal tradition. Christmas just seemed incomplete without it.
But she was grown up now. She wasn’t the girl who had transformed his world all those years ago.
“Hey,” a voice came from the doorway.
He turned toward it with a jerk. Helen walked toward him, wearing silk pajamas covered by a thick, white, belted sweater.
“Hey,” he said, his eyes widening in surprise. ”I thought you were in bed.”
“I was. But it just didn’t seem like Christmas without Bing Crosby.” She sat down beside him on the couch and nodded toward the television.
Cyrus cued the movie up without speaking.
When the music started, he slanted a covert look at her. She’d plaited her hair into two long braids, he assumed to keep it out of her face as she slept. And her face was scrubbed free of make-up. She looked very young. Innocent. Like she’d been crying.
“Are you all right?” he asked, before he could think through whether the question was wise.
“Yeah,” she said, the one word wobbling a little. She gave a sniff and swallowed visibly.
“Helen?” Cyrus prompted.
Her face crumpled. “I think Ethan’s cheating on me.”
Cyrus’s jaw dropped open momentarily and something started to twist in his gut, but he managed to keep his voice mild as he asked, “Why do you think that?”
“He’s hiding something from me. I know he is.” She brushed away a stray tear impatiently, fighting for control of her emotions.
“Do you have any evidence?” He’d had the best investigators he could find looking into Ethan for the last year, but they hadn’t turned up any proof that hinted at an affair.
She shook her head. “It’s just…he’s hiding something.”
Cyrus took a slow breath. Then decided to take the risk. “Would you like for me to help find out if he is or not?”
She shook her head again, wiping away another tear.
“Helen,” he said with a frown, “If you suspect—“
“It’s not that,” she interrupted, straightening up and trying to keep the sob out of her words, “It’s just that it doesn’t matter. Whether he’s cheating on me or not, this just isn’t working.”
A spark of hope ignited in the back of his mind, but he tried to force it back. Helen was hurting, and he shouldn’t be exulting that she was finally going to dump Ethan at long last. He bit back a response, since nothing he said would be the right thing.
Instead, he reached out and pulled her into a hug. She sobbed into his chest as he held her, and he was hopelessly torn between aching sympathy and relief. She was small and warm and shaking in his arms, and he held her as tightly as he could, offering whatever comfort was in his power.
When she finally pulled away, she wiped at her tear-streaked face and looked up at him through red eyes. “You always thought Ethan was just with me for the money, didn’t you?”
Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath. “Helen, I never would have—“
“I know you’d never say so,” she cut in. “But you thought so, didn’t you?”
He hesitated a long time before he admitted, “I thought it was a possibility.”
“I think he was. I mean, maybe he liked me, but I don’t think he ever really loved me. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it. I was so stupid. But I thought he was so attractive and exciting and he made me feel like I was…I was desirable. And I thought I was grown up, so I could do what I wanted. And since you didn’t…”
When she didn’t finish, he prompted, “I didn’t what?” He was concerned he'd somehow figured into her decision to get together with Ethan.
She shook her head, dismissing the question. “I was so stupid—at first, I think I was just trying to prove something, but then I really fell for him. But I should have known it was a mistake as soon as he started to try to turn me against you and your dad.”
Cyrus blinked. “When did that happen?”
“Earlier this year. But I didn’t want to give up on the relationship, so I tried. And I tried. But I can’t try anymore. It’s just over.”
“Then it’s probably for the best,” Cyrus said. When her face twisted again, he added, “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I’ve been through it, remember? But it gets better. And then you’ll just be…”
She looked up, as if waiting for the word.
“Relieved,” he concluded.
“I hope so.” She rubbed her face with both hands. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
“You won’t.”
That seemed to be all that needed to be said. The movie was still playing so they focused on the television again. Helen stayed curled up at his side. She seemed to want to get closer and closer, so he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against him. She snuggled up, yanking a throw over her to get warm. It wasn’t long before she was stretched out on the couch with her head in his lap.
He didn’t mind. He liked the weight of her head on his lap, even though it made his stomach clench strangely. She felt like his—his responsibility, his burden, his blessing. He gently stroked her hair as they watched the movie they’d watched every Christmas Eve for the last nine years.
By the time it finished, Helen was almost asleep, and Cyrus was allowing himself to feel a hope that wouldn’t be denied.
Maybe Helen—and he and his father—could be free of Ethan at last.
That would be a good thing. A very good thing. Then things could go back to the way they were before. He and Helen could be comfortable with each other, like friends, like family, with nothing tense or weird or inappropriate coming between them.
Cyrus was sure it could happen, if she could just be rid of Ethan.
And that thought ended up giving him a pretty good Christmas Eve after all.
Seventh Christmas Eve
last year
Helen was in such a rush that she had to try three times to unlock the front door to her apartment.
When she finally got it open, she stepped into the entry hall and dropped her stuff on the floor. Her keys ended up on the floor too, since she flung them onto the console table and they kept sliding off the edge.
She didn’t bother to pick them up. She just took five hurried steps into the main room and stared in defeated horror at the messy living area.
Messy was a generous term. The room was an absolute disaster, and Cyrus would be here any minute.
She fought through her glum stupor and raced through the room, collecting dishes from the last several days that were scattered on the coffee table, side tables, leather chair, and floor. She’d managed to balance them all in one
armful when the phone rang.
With a groan, she dumped the dishes in the general vicinity of the sink and snatched up the phone.
The doorman very politely informed her that Mr. Owen had arrived.
“Shit,” she muttered, “I’m not ready. Can you stall him?”
“Stall him?” the doorman repeated, exactly as she should have expected.
“Don’t say it out loud,” she groaned, “He’ll hear and—“
“He said he’s coming up.”
Helen groaned again and had a brief moment of panic as she stared around at everything that needed doing in the forty-five seconds it would take Cyrus to ride the elevator up to her top-floor apartment.
Deciding to use her time wisely, she ran back into the entry hall and picked up her keys, putting them neatly on the tray where they belonged.
Cyrus knocked on the door. “Helen? Are you all right?” he asked through the door. “Why did you need to stall me?”
She resigned herself to the inevitable and went to open the door.
He stood in her doorway, looking as cool and professional as always in black trousers and a thin charcoal gray sweater mostly covered by a black overcoat. He'd lowered his eyebrows and was frowning at her.
She scowled at him. “I wasn’t ready.”
He studied her closely, from her hair, which was messily falling out of the twist that had looked sleek and sophisticated that morning, to her pink top, gray pencil skirt, and expensive high heels. She was obviously still dressed for work, rather than for a leisurely ride to Clarksburg on Christmas Eve day.
“Why were you working today?” he asked. “I thought you had the day off.”
She’d recently won another internship with the same magazine she’d interned for the year before, but this internship was paid and had more responsibility. “There was a last-minute crisis with the issue that goes to press tonight. Since I’m low man on the totem pole, I got the privilege of showing up to fix it.”
“Did you get everything done?”
“Sure.” She glanced back at her apartment. “But I didn’t get anything else done.”
The question on Cyrus’s face transformed to enlightenment as he came into sight of her living area. “So this is why you didn't want me to come up. What happened?”
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