“Let me do the honors,” I say, reaching into the bag and randomly choosing the bottle of red. The cork comes out easily and I pour everyone a glass. Clinking our goblets, we toast to Sofi’s father.
“Hmm, this is really nice,” comments Paul after taking a sip.
“It is!” agrees Jan. “I’ve never seen it at Trader Joe’s.”
“It’s French. A Louis Latour Côte de Rhone. One of my favorites.” I’m sure neither of Sofi’s parents have ever drunk a hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Let alone a fifty-dollar one. Or fifteen-dollar one.
While they help themselves to some cheese and crackers, I imbibe my wine and take in my surroundings. The room is comfortably furnished with lots of brown furniture, including an upright piano and a large oak bookcase stocked with classic CDs and old tomes. Blue dominates the floral print on the cushions and matching curtains. Scattered on the walls are several of Sofi’s paintings—different butterflies that blend in well with the floral décor. Framed family photos are everywhere, but I note in some another little girl who looks a lot like Sofi’s mom with chubby cheeks and big brown eyes. Most are baby and toddler pictures, a few where she looks to be Mari’s age. While there are numerous snapshots of her with Sofi’s parents, there’s not one taken with Sofi.
“So, Roman, tell us more about what you do,” says Sofi’s mother, recapturing my attention.
“I’m a fashion designer.”
“Oh, you mean like Michael Kors on that Lifetime show?”
Sofi cringes. “No, Mom. Roman designs haute couture.”
Another throwaway oh. Glancing at the magazines strewn around the room—Ladies Home Journal, McCall’s, Women’s Day—I doubt she has any clue what that is. Judging by her attire, a non-designer frock that likely comes from Target or Sears, she’s no fashionista. Truth—I’m finding this unpretentious woman charming. The warmth of her middle-class home inviting. Her hospitality refreshing. I now know where Sofi’s down-to-earth personality comes from.
Sofi’s father joins the conversation, his voice distrustful. “So, Sofi, what exactly do you do for Mr. Hurst?”
Stuffing a celery stick into her mouth, she hesitates. I jump in.
“She inspires me. And challenges me. She’s my muse.”
“I see,” he says suspiciously as Sofi fills in the blanks. Elaborates.
“Roman is helping me with my painting career. I’m hand-painting butterflies on the fabric he’s using for his new collection.”
“Hmm.” He nods, his tone still distrustful.
“That’s wonderful,” chirps her mother. “Sofi is so talented.”
“Does she get her creative genes from you?” I ask.
“I actually get them from her.” She reaches down into a tote bag by the side of the couch and rummages through it until she finally finds what she’s looking for.
“Oh, Mom!” squeals Sofi. “That’s beautiful!”
It’s a twelve-by-twelve, almost finished needlepoint tapestry of a butterfly I readily recognize. A darning needle with some blue thread is woven into the stitches.
“Wow! You designed that?” I ask, setting down my wineglass.
Jan laughs a hearty laugh. “No. I can barely draw a straight line. Sofi drew the butterfly pattern and laid out all the colors. All I had to do was buy yarns to match them.”
“Can I take a closer look?” She happily hands me the tapestry, and as I study the intricate stitchery, my creative mind starts spinning. Perhaps I can put Sofi’s talented mother to work and include beaded needlepoint clutches in my upcoming collection. How divine would they be!
“It’s a Blue Morpho,” I say, handing her back the tapestry.
“I’m impressed you know what kind of species it is,” comments her husband.
“My butterfly has taught me a thing or two.” While Sofi flushes, her father raises an eyebrow. Jan chimes in again before he can say something.
“It’s going to be a pillow for my husband.” She folds the tapestry back into the bag. “It should have been ready for his birthday, but I have a tad more to go.”
A buzzer sounds.
Sofi’s mom’s roast is done.
It’s time for dinner.
Dinner is delicious. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a home-cooked meal. And I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be with everyday people. A family. When I was growing up, it was just my mother and me. And for the last decade of my life, I’ve dined alone, surviving on takeout.
The rich red wine flowing, I learn a lot about my butterfly from her parents. How when she was a toddler her father read her The Hungry Caterpillar and she became obsessed with butterflies.
“You should see her room later, Roman,” gushes her mother. “It’s got butterflies everywhere. On the walls. On the bedding. There are even butterfly-shaped pillows.”
“Please, Mom, no!” My adorable butterfly blushes.
“Sofi, I think he’ll get a kick out of it.”
A rise is more like it. My dick flexes under the table and I shift in my chair.
Her father again fires me a suspicious look. Knowing may be more like it. He clears his throat. “Dear, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Unfazed, Sofi’s mother rambles on; like her daughter, she’s bubbly and talkative. “When Sofi was seven, she found a caterpillar in our yard and put it in a jar where it formed a cocoon. A month later, it hatched into a beautiful Monarch. Buddy the Butterfly became her pet and flew around the house freely, a vase of flowers at his disposal.”
I glance at Sofi, who’s sitting across from me. She looks like she wants to crawl under the table. Her mother continues.
“One day, Buddy got trapped behind the furnace. Sofi was beside herself!”
“Oh, Mom! Don’t tell that story!” Making a don’t-go-there face, she turns a deeper shade of red. She looks so damn cute. My thoughts fly to her butterfly bedroom. I’m definitely going to pass on seeing it later. I don’t trust myself.
“What happened?” I ask, back in the moment and genuinely curious.
“We had to call the gas company. It took hours for them to move the furnace.”
“Was Buddy okay?”
“Yes, but we decided it was time to set Buddy free. I’ll never forget how much Sofi cried when he flew out the screen door.”
“I still miss him,” interjects Sofi, her tone wistful.
“Sofi painted a picture of him. It’s hanging in our kitchen. I’ll show it to you.” Jan leaps up from her seat and returns quickly with the framed painting. Embarrassment again washes over my butterfly.
Jan holds up the painting and I admire it. How talented Sofi was from an early age! Gifted!
“How did Sofi learn how to paint?”
Her father responds. “My father was an artist. He gave Sofi painting lessons as soon as she could hold a paintbrush in her hand.”
“Grandpa was amazing,” adds Sofi, her tone brightening. “I should say is. He’s still alive and painting. He’s ninety-five!”
“Wow!” I’m happy longevity runs in the Lockhart family. “I’d love to meet him sometime.”
Sofi’s eyes glisten. “He’s in an assisted-living facility not far from here.”
Jan sets the painting on the credenza and returns to her seat. “Maybe we can all go together. Clarence is a hoot and he loves company.” She glances at Sofi. “By the way, dear, I love that scarf you’re wearing. Where did you get it?”
Again, Sofi blushes. “Roman bought it for me at the Museum of Natural History.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says while Paul shoots me another suspicious look. “And I’m glad you’re taking advantage of your membership.” Her attention shifts to her husband. “Darling, you haven’t eaten much.”
I glance at his plate. He’s eaten only half of his slab of meat, and hardly touched the sides.
“I’m not feeling a hundred percent. Maybe I’ve got a touch of a bug.”
Jan: “Oh, dear!”
Concern washes over Sofi’s face. It’
s obvious how much she loves her father. “Dad, you look like you’ve lost weight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I flash back to the photo on Sofi’s phone of her parents celebrating a birthday, and she’s right. Her father does look thinner.
Paul gives us a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing to worry about. The rest of you enjoy your dinner. It’s not every day my wife makes a pot roast.”
The wine gone, our plates scraped clean, Sofi offers to help her mother clean up. Jan protests. “But, honey, what about your foot?”
“It’s fine, Mom. I have two legs and two hands.”
While they clear the table, Sofi’s dad and I retreat to the living room. He offers me some vintage port. The sweet, syrupy wine warms my blood.
Fumbling for conversation, I examine the bottle, hoping he won’t ask about my eye patch. “1996. The year Sofi was born.”
He responds with a silent nod and then looks at me pointedly. “So what’s really going on between you and my daughter, Roman?”
I gulp down another mouthful of the port. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. I see the way you look at her. The way she looks at you. The way she lights up every time you call her your butterfly.”
I stiffen. “It’s just a nickname. There’s nothing between us. Our relationship is professional. Strictly platonic.”
“It won’t stay that way. I know that.” He pauses to pour some port. “I’m a well-read man and versed in history. Most muses I’ve read about have had sexual relations with their masters.”
I grow defensive. “She’s an adult. She can make her own choices.” My voice softens. “Just know, sir, I’ll never pressure her. Or hurt her.”
He imbibes the port. “Roman, I’ll level with you. Butterflies are fragile. Her mother and I lost one daughter. We couldn’t bear to lose another.”
I stare at a photo on the fireplace mantle. Of the little girl that looks just like his wife. As he follows my gaze, a woeful expression falls over his face. Deep in my heart, I feel his sorrow.
“Yes, that was her. Flora. Our little flower.”
Before I can ask about her, Sofi and her mother waltz into the room, one of them holding the lit-up birthday cake, the other paper plates, napkins, and utensils. They’re singing “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. To my amusement, both totally off key.
“Make a wish, sweetheart,” says Sofi’s bubbly mom after she sets the cake down on the coffee table. “And then blow out the candles.”
Closing his eyes, Paul does as he’s asked, and when he reopens them, he blows out the candles. It takes him two tries; his faint grimace doesn’t escape my eagle eye. I try to read into it, but his expression is inscrutable. Does it pain him to be getting older? Or is it something that has to do with Sofi and me?
Cheers and applause all around. Then, a grimace of my own.
The last time I celebrated a birthday was with Ava. A few weeks before our fatal excursion. Her thirtieth and last. Though she was two years older than me, most people thought she was no older than twenty-one. Her free spirit imbued her with youthfulness and beauty.
The spa weekend at the Connecticut inn where I planned to propose to her was one of her many presents. One she never got . . . along with the sapphire engagement ring that disappeared in the car crash.
Cutting into the painful memory, Jan takes a knife to the whipped cream cake, which I learn is an old family recipe, and serves us each a generous slice. As I dig into mine, Sofi retrieves the present she bought for her dad. It’s a first edition of Agatha Christie’s Appointment with Death—an apropos gift given what I learned on the drive here: her bibliophile father owns a local bookstore and collects first editions. The title rattles me and her father seems a little taken aback too. Sofi picks up on her father’s unease.
“Dad, if you don’t like it, I can exchange it for something else.”
Picking at his cake, Paul puts on a smile. “No, baby girl. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Though his smile looks fake to me, Sofi’s face brightens, and they exchange a hug while Jan ambles over to an old-fashioned stereo system. She drops an album onto the turntable.
“Paul and I have a tradition. We celebrate every monumental occasion with our wedding song—‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’”
As she drops the needle, a wistful smile forms on Paul’s face and his eyes grow misty. Slowly, he rises and as Ella Fitzgerald starts singing the Cole Porter classic, he strolls over to his wife and takes her in his arms. They begin to dance, attuned to each other’s steps, still totally in love. I glance at Sofi, who’s tearing up as she watches her parents. My throat constricting, I stand up and take her hand. A few breaths later, I’m swaying my butterfly to Ella’s velvety voice.
As I hold her close to me, the lyrics stream into my ears.
I couldn’t watch over Ava. My firebird.
But I vow to watch over Sofi. My butterfly.
And to celebrate many birthdays with her.
For as long as we both shall live.
CHAPTER 39
Sofi
The next jam-packed week is interrupted by an unexpected meeting. Kendra has arranged for Roman to meet with fashion industry mogul, Bernard Altman, who’s back in New York and staying at the Plaza Hotel. Despite my protests, Roman insists I come along with him. There are no ifs or buts. Mr. Bossy gets his way.
“I’m nervous,” I whisper to Roman as a uniformed butler shows us into Bernard’s penthouse suite.
“Don’t be, Butterfly.” His voice exudes confidence and power. “I don’t think we’ll be here long.” He squeezes my hand. “Just listen and observe. Be my antennae.”
“Mr. Altman would like to meet with you in the dining room,” drawls the butler, his lockjaw voice as uptight as his stance. “Please come this way.”
With Roman’s hand splayed on my lower back, we follow the stiff, ramrod-straight man.
As we pass through the penthouse suite, my jaw drops. It’s bigger than my parents’ house. In fact, bigger than most houses I’ve ever stepped into, except for Harper’s and Derek’s parents’ estates and Roman’s downtown abode. Aptly named the Royal Suite, the palatial accommodation is fit for a king with its sumptuous French furnishings, lavish rugs, crystal chandeliers, and damask curtains. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer spectacular views of both verdant Central Park and the breathtaking Manhattan skyline. I’m in awe.
Upon entering the massive dining room, I get a shock. Seated at a table that can accommodate twenty, Bernard leaps to his feet. But it’s not Bernard my eyes are drawn to. Rather, it’s Kendra, seated next to him. I thought she was still out of town. And so did Roman, who’s equally surprised.
Daggers shoot out of her acid blue eyes. Aimed straight at me.
“What the hell is she doing here?” she bites out, directing the question at Roman.
“What are you doing here?” he retorts. “I thought you were out of town for another week.”
“I decided to fly back with Bernard. This meeting was far too important to miss.”
Roman’s attention shifts to our host, who totters over to us. “Bernard, at last we meet.” The tone of his voice is aloof and cold, his demeanor standoffish.
“Enfin! Better late than never.” The Frenchman, in contrast, sounds jovial and eager. As they shake hands, I study him.
The squat, balding, fifty-something man is a dead ringer for Danny DeVito and they seriously could have been separated at birth. Not much taller than five feet, he barely comes up to Roman’s chest. Wearing a bottle-green turtleneck under his jacket, I swear he looks like a tortoise.
He eyes me lasciviously, his gaze roaming up and down my body. My skin bristles.
“And who eez your beautiful companion?” he asks Roman.
Kendra turns livid. “She’s his personal cock—”
Roman cuts her off. “This is Sofi. My muse. My butterfly.”
While Kendra cringes, all of Bernard’s attention conver
ges on me.
“Enchanté, mon petit papillon.” Clasping my right hand with both of his, he lifts it to his slimy lips and kisses the back of it. His middle fingers are webbed, making him even more turtle-like. And repulsive. I inwardly shudder when his lips linger on my flesh longer than necessary.
“Let’s get down to business,” grits out Roman, the sharp tone of his voice making it loud and clear he’s not happy with Bernard’s actions. “I don’t have all day.”
“Bien sûr.” Turtleman drops my hand. “I’ve ordered a light buffet,” he says in his gravelly nasal voice, pointing to the gleaming rosewood credenza. Scattered atop it are platters of hors d’oeuvres as well as a self-serve bar. “Help yourself. Je vous en prie.”
Roman grabs a Perrier. I do the same. Kendra pours herself a shot of vodka while Bernard fills his tumbler with some bronze liquor and makes himself a plate of assorted meats, cheeses, and pastry puffs.
“What? No one eez hungry?”
“We didn’t come here to eat,” replies Roman, impatience rising in his voice.
“As you Americans say, whatever!” Bernard shrugs a shoulder before leading us back to the table. “So, let’s talk,” Bernard begins, taking a seat at the head, with Kendra next to him and Roman and me across from her.
Roman takes a swig of his sparkling water while Bernard shoves a crabmeat-stuffed mushroom into his mouth and washes it down with a gulp of his drink.
“So, Roman, as you know, BALE—Bernard Altman Luxury Enterprises—eez very interested in acquiring your company. We think the House of Hurst eez a good fit with our other brands.”
“I see,” says Roman, stone-faced. “What are you offering?”
“Fifty million dollars.”
Yikes! My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. Kendra’s reaction shocks me.
“Bernard, darling. That’s a little low.”
Low? Is she kidding? It’s like winning the lottery!
Kendra’s eyes dart from Roman to Bernard. Her gaze stays fixed on the pudgy Frenchman.
“Seriously, Bernard, Roman’s talent is unparalleled. He’s not another one of your ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ designers. He’s already a legend.”
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 17