Love, Lust, and The Lassiters

by Merrill, McKenna

  * *

  Simon sat in his room, rubbing his temples. He needed a break, just a quick break before he faced Veronica, her pinched white face and the fear she was trying so hard to suppress for him, for her family, for Lilah.

  Things had been good, so damn good. Lilah back with him, maybe to stay. Veronica in his life, bringing hope and love to what had been, admittedly, a rather defeated Simon Lassiter. Her beauty, her love, her kisses, her sweet yielding to him had made him think that nothing could go wrong again.

  Now, now, his daughter had come within inches of being abducted, and at this moment was closeted in his office with the police. He sighed, stood up and went to find some aspirin. He needed to be strong, not hiding in here because he feared to see the pain his women were suffering. He needed to be a rock for them, to be a good father, a true lover.

  When Lilah was born, everyone told Simon what an amazing father he was. He hadn’t minded late nights, diapers, crying, or teething. Every moment with his daughter had been a privilege, and he’d never given it a second thought. As she’d grown, he looked forward to getting out of bed just to earn one of her sweet smiles, to see her standing in her crib and reaching for him. He would pick her up eagerly, clutch her warm little body, smell that indefinable fragrance of a baby’s head, that sweet and beautiful smell that lingered sometimes in his dreams.

  The idea of Lilah in danger had never occurred to him until Veronica had called him and told him Lilah had boarded a plane alone. He hadn’t quite recovered from that shock—a few years had been peeled off of his life, he was sure—and then there was today. That moment of seeing his baby, his angel, with those wide eyes, that hesitant look, and that dreaded note in her hand.

  He swallowed the pills he’d found and splashed cold water on his face.

  He felt better. He was a winner now, he reminded himself. His girls were with him, his father and his friends were with him. He was going to find that man, that sick, pathetic man, and he was going to teach him what it meant to meddle with the loved ones of a Lassiter.

  * *

  Lilah sat on her father’s lap and looked around the room. Veronica was there, smiling at her, but it was sort of a brave smile, Lilah thought, like the kind she herself forced out when someone had hurt her feelings but she didn’t want them to know. Veronica’s pretty sister was holding her hand; Lilah wished she had a sister. Veronica’s mother, who had told Lilah she could call her Suzie, was sitting in a corner, looking at her shoes. She seemed to be thinking, or praying maybe. Lilah didn’t know too many people who prayed, but she always equated it with peacefulness. Her grandpa was near Suzie, but he didn’t touch her or lean into her the way Lilah had seen him doing the day before. He seemed kind of quiet today, like he was thinking about things.

  Daria spoke to the group. Lilah liked her. She’d been very nice, and she’d done a quick sketch of Lilah that was very good. Lilah was going to hang it in her room. “Lilah and I have come up with a picture that Lilah is happy with. She thinks this face is very close to the one she saw this morning, the face of the man who spoke to her. If any of you recognize something about this picture, let us know.” She opened a folder and held up a sketch done in pencil and chalk. It showed a man, youngish, heavyset, dark-haired, wearing glasses. “The hair may be dyed,” Daria warned. “So you’ll have to picture him with other colors, possibly other styles. I’ll sketch those, too, when I have a chance.”

  John O’Malley stepped forward, putting a gentle hand on Veronica’s arm. “What do you think?” he asked. “Does he look familiar?”

  Veronica shook her head. “I don’t know. He might, he might, but I have to think. No names are leaping into my head, but I have to think—”

  “Take your time.” But they were all looking at her, Veronica realized, wanting this to be over, wanting her to solve this puzzle. It was true, there was something familiar about the face, but she couldn’t place it; she couldn’t see.

  “Mom?” she asked. “Do you recognize him?”

  Her mother looked at her with that face of endless compassion, the face that had awaited her every time she’d run up with a skinned knee or a sad story or hurt feelings. She’d always been folded into a warm embrace and it had always, always been better. Now was no different. Her mother stood up, crossed to her and took her hands.

  “My daughter needs some time to think. There’s too much pressure, with all of you looking at her. She needs to lounge around, have some coffee and cookies, talk about other things, and then it will come to her.” She pulled Veronica out of her chair and hugged her. Veronica felt it, the rush of warmth that only a mother’s love and protection could bring. God, she’d missed her Mom.

  “She’s right,” she heard Simon say. “John, we’re going to have to get back to you on this. Lilah, honey, is there anything else about him that you noted? A hunch back? Really big feet?” he joked.

  Lilah laughed, and then remembered. “He did have a crooked walk,” she said.

  “Crooked?” Simon asked.

  “Yeah. Like this.” Veronica turned from her mother’s embrace to see Lilah walking, leaning slightly to the left, as though one leg were shorter than the other.

  “Oh—” Veronica cried. She saw him in a flash, in her mind’s eye: You have a nice day now, Veronica. Veronica, is that a new dress? You look so pretty today. Oh, Veronica, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to wish you Happy Holidays. Don’t you go changing your address, now. I’ve gotten used to you!

  At the time, all the words had seemed just friendly, sometimes humorously flirtatious. And then he’d walked away down the street, his bag slung over his arm, his body leaning dramatically to the other side to compensate. He’d told her once: My chiropractor says the heavy bag has actually made one leg shorter than the other. Can you believe it? He’d laughed, and so had she.

  She knew they were all staring at her now; they were all seeing it come back to her. She was frozen and she couldn’t speak; she couldn’t even feel her mother’s arms any more. She sought out Simon, met his eyes, pleaded wordlessly for comfort.

  “Veronica,” he said softly. “Do you remember him?”

  She started to cry. Her mother, ever understanding, pushed her gently into Simon’s arms and he held her, whispered in her ear, kissed her hair, told her everything was all right. She hated her foolish behavior, hated the fact that she couldn’t stop the tears, hated the sympathy she saw in everyone’s eyes, even little Lilah’s.

  “Beauty,” Simon said softly. “It’s all right. Tell us. It’s all right, I promise, it will be all right.” He stroked her back, and she closed her eyes briefly, enjoying the sensation as a cat does. It relaxed her, and she was able to quell her stress-induced tears.

  “His name is Nelson Henry,” she said, speaking into Simon’s neck. “He’s my mailman.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The word was out. John O’Malley actually looked happy; he had much to do, and much to work with. He’d promised her quick results. “Don’t hurt him,” Veronica had said. “He—he’s a nice guy; he’s just sort of—different.”

  The men had looked at her blankly, then gone to do their various errands. O’Malley wanted to see what flight Henry had taken and where he had stayed while in Clearview; from that information he’d figure out where he might be now.

  Simon had kissed her, placed her safely with her mother and sister, and taken Lilah away to dinner. “I owe her, Beauty. That guy touched her, he threatened her, and I let it happen.”

  “She doesn’t blame you, Simon.”

  “No. I do.” He kissed her hand, lingeringly. “I’ll see you in an hour,” he said, and he left the room.

  Juliana and her mother had wanted to know more about Nelson, but she found herself strangely reluctant to talk or think about him. They opted to distract her instead, and began a game of charades, which Veronica played half-heartedly until Juliana decided she
was hungry, and they all went down to the café. Veronica picked at a chicken pot pie and stirred her coffee instead of drinking it.

  When Suzie left for a moment to use the washroom, Juliana said, “Ronnie, you need to have sex. It’s a great release, and it will kill some tension, and you’ll be relaxed and feel better. Do it. I’m locking you out of your room tonight; you’ll have to sleep in his.”

  Veronica smiled wearily. “Okay. I think I’ll just fall asleep, though. I feel like I haven’t slept in a hundred years.”

  Juliana took her hand. “Listen, added to all this, Rick is coming tomorrow. Are you okay with that? I can call him up, tell him to forget it—”

  Veronica sat up. “Don’t you dare. I need to apologize to him, too. I haven’t even acknowledged him as my brother-in-law. I won’t feel right until we’re all comfortable together, and besides, don’t forget that he and I used to be good friends. I hope we will be again, soon. I need all the friends I can get,” she said.

  Suzie returned and sat down with them. Juliana looked at her sister. “Your boyfriend just got back. Remember what I said,” she said in a warning tone.

  Veronica looked behind her and saw Simon coming to meet her. Her heart raced, and her mood brightened.

  “Mom,” she heard Juliana say, “how about you and me go see a movie?”

  * *

  Veronica lay on her back on Simon’s bed, talking. Simon sat in a chair across from her, listening with a quiet expression. “He was my mail carrier for the two years I was in Chicago. He delivered to our block in the afternoon, so I’d usually see him just as I was getting home from school. At first we’d just say hello, then he started calling me Miss James. He saw my name on my mail, of course, so eventually he just graduated to Veronica. I don’t know how it happened. I mean, we weren’t—friends. We were friendly acquaintances. Do you talk to your mailman?” she asked, rolling onto her stomach and looking at him.

  “It’s mail carrier, and her name is Debbie. I know what you mean. We chat often, and we give her a Christmas bonus because she’s so friendly.”

  “There, you see? Everyone talks to the mailman. I wouldn’t have thought of him in a million years. I had no idea. Simon, you just don’t know how this makes me feel—”

  “Tell me, Beauty.” He might have been her psychiatrist, she thought, sitting quietly in his chair, hands folded, watching her with a sweet, concerned expression. The more he did this—purposely stayed away from her because he felt she needed to talk—the sexier he appeared to her. Never had she met such a thoughtful man, such a handsome man, such a desirable man.

  “I was going to say that I feel cold inside. I do, when I think of him. But when I look at you, it’s just the opposite,” she said.

  “Beauty, I don’t know if tonight is such a good idea.” She saw that he meant it, but that it was costing him something.

  “Why is that?”

  “You—you’ve had a shock.”

  “Yes, I have, and I need my lover to hold me and make it better,” she said softly, sitting up and peeling off her shirt. “I’ve never felt more like having two strong arms around me. What’s wrong?”

  Simon was staring at her, open-mouthed. “I’m still amazed by how beautiful you are. Veronica. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m not doing it as some kind of favor, Simon. I love you and I want to be with you.” She wiggled out of her pants. “In fact, I don’t ever want you to let go of me again, all right? Is that clear?” She jumped off the bed and stood with her back to him. “Unhook me, would you?”

  “Beauty,” he said thickly, unhooking her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, and putting his hands where the lace had been seconds before. He buried his lips in the flesh of her shoulder, working toward her neck. “God, Babe,” he murmured, squeezing her ample breasts. “You know I want you.” Veronica sighed at the feeling of his strong fingers on her flesh.

  She turned to him, found his mouth with hers. The kiss was hot, burning, scalding away the cold ball of fright that had sat in her stomach all day. Now she was being cleansed by the heat of desire, as Simon’s tongue probed her mouth, his lips pressed against hers with unwavering possession, his hands stroked her body familiarly. The rough texture of his flannel shirt and his blue jeans rubbing against her naked skin excited her, and she moaned softly as she felt his body hardening.

  His fingers slipped inside her panties and clutched at the soft flesh of her bottom. He growled into her throat and she giggled back at him, just fearful enough to be excited. He pushed at the flimsy material, then broke away to pull it off of her legs. She stepped out of them and faced him, naked, needy, and he crushed her against him, his hands roving over her back.

  “Simon,” she whispered, slipping her hands inside his shirt and feeling the flesh of the chest beneath, the rapid beating of his heart. “I want you so much. Please love me. Take me to bed and love me all night.” She worked at his buttons while she talked, then slipped his shirt off of his brown shoulders. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck, his chest, flicked a tongue over one nipple.

  “Beauty, Beauty,” he said, trying to be patient. “God, I love what you do to me.” He broke away, went to the bed, and sat down.

  “Come to the bed, come here; I was about to faint where I was standing. Oh, Baby,” he said softly as she sat on his lap. His mouth went over the breast just in front of his face, and his hands roamed down her satiny legs, rubbed them up and down until a corresponding chill was running through Veronica. By the time he slipped a hand between her legs her eyes were already closed, her head thrown back in a luxury of pleasure. What this man did to her went beyond sex; every touch struck a chord of love; every night with him became a symphony.

  “Simon, yes,” she said, ending on a sigh. “I want those pants off you, I want to feel you on me,” she said, feverishly pulling at his belt. Through the ringing in her ears she thought she heard him laughing; she was beyond hearing. She was hot, faint, and almost desperate with a need for skin on skin.

  When he lay down on top of her, she nearly cried out from sheer joy. His mouth on her mouth, his hands on her body, his lips moving down, down, kissing her everywhere, loving her, pleasuring her. “Now, Babe,” she said, low and soft.

  They had made love enough times now to better know each other’s needs, the ebb and flow of desires, the feelings that needed no words to be expressed. She looked at Simon, at his flushed, handsome face, his rumpled hair, the utter devotion and desire on his face. He nodded at her, pulled a condom from somewhere near the bed and quickly rolled it on. He caressed her hips with loving hands and slipped inside her.

  Her moan, soft and slow and heartfelt, seemed to quicken his own ardor. He pushed into her, rapid, hard thrusts that would have seemed a punishment if they hadn’t been so mutually enjoyed. She closed her eyes and gave in to pleasure in a way she hadn’t known she could; she rode a wave until it crested, high, high up, the giddy feeling of a carnival ride, a bicycle flying downhill, the spins after too much wine. She smiled as she came, called his name, watched him stiffen in that way she loved, poised above her like a bird about to fly, and then swooping down on her, spent, happy, in love with her, as she was with him.

  “Marry me,” he said, his green eyes almost black with intensity in the dim room.

  “Yes,” she said, and she lost herself in his look of pure happiness.

  * *

  Nelson Henry sat, contemplating the bare walls of his new accommodations. He had never intended for things to go this way, and now he had to re-think his plan. He had expected Veronica to come willingly, after his first note. He expected she would know it was him—who else would it be?—and come to find him. He would have taken her home.

  Then, though, he had seen that Veronica was a whore, a temptress. He’d seen her throw herself at the man, the one from the Inn, and had seen the man weakly give in. Veronica was too beautiful
to be resisted, Nelson understood that, but the man from the Inn would have to be punished anyway. No one had touched Veronica before, Nelson was sure of that, because he’d gotten enough out of her to know that some fool had broken her heart. Nelson had been ready, waiting for her to realize they belonged together, waiting for her to get over that loser who rejected her. And then, one day, she was gone.

  She’d left no letter for Nelson, nothing to acknowledge what they’d been to each other, nothing to say she’d enjoyed all their conversations, all those hopes and dreams they’d shared together. She had left, and Nelson had figured it out quickly enough—she’d been afraid. Afraid to commit to him, afraid to love again. He’d come for her almost immediately, called the Inn and left his message, but things had gone wrong. He’d followed her and seen her kissing the man, and then Nelson felt angry.

  He had read Romeo and Juliet in high school, and though he’d scoffed at it with the other boys, he’d been secretly touched by the story: their love at first sight, their night of passion, their tragic misunderstandings. That’s what he now faced with Veronica, a tragic misunderstanding that he had to address before things got too crazy.

  Nelson adjusted himself on his little cot. The old lady had been accommodating enough, after she saw the good job he’d done repairing her sink and painting her shutters. He’d always been good with his hands; he had offered to fix things for Veronica on several occasions, but she’d invariably opted to have her landlord do it. Now Nelson found that his talent as a handyman had earned him a room.

  He sighed and looked out the window. Today, he knew, was the day. Today was Act V, the one that brought the climax, just like in Shakespeare. His Act V would not have a sad ending, though. Things would work out, he would make her see; he would prove that he loved her. Just like Romeo, he thought; and Romeo, Nelson reminded himself as he contemplated the knife he’d stolen from the old lady’s kitchen, had not been afraid to kill.