Raphaela's Gift

by Sydney Allan

  "So, would you like to take a few days to settle in before you start full time? I could pay a temp to stay here until Friday. Would that be enough time?"

  He was persistent. She'd give him that. But she still was not convinced his proposal was the best thing for any of them. How would they balance the business and personal relationships? "I don't know." She'd never lived with a man. And there was Raphaela to consider too.

  "You need more time? Did I tell you the apartment's furnished?"

  She chuckled and, squinting, glanced at him. He was looking at her, that dashing smile still in place. She looked away, shrouded herself in the safe blackness behind her eyelids once more. "I mean, I don't think I can live here. How could we possibly be both employer-employee and lovers at the same time?"

  "Who said we're going to be lovers?"

  She looked at him.

  He shot her a playful smirk.

  "What happened in the pool said it," she muttered, more for her own ears than his.

  He turned his head, staring up at the cloudless sky. "Okay, okay. We definitely have chemistry, but that doesn't mean the other arrangement couldn't work."

  "I don't think it's a good idea."

  "Okay." He stood, and she watched him walk toward the house, then closed her eyes and floated in the red and gold world that enveloped her.

  Moments later, a shot of icy cold slammed her, wracking her in shivers once again. She leapt from her seat, bewildered and angry and…wet. "What the hell?"

  Garret stood before her, grinning and holding an empty pitcher.

  "You shit." She growled.

  "I figured I'd make the rest of your body the same temperature as your feet."

  She guessed she must have looked pathetic standing there blue and shivering, because within a few seconds, he pulled his other hand from behind his back and held it out to her. "Come here. Let me make it up to you."

  She hesitantly took his hand as she tried not to smile. What would he do next? This playful side of him was so new and refreshing, even if it involved ice cubes.

  He led her back into the chill of the house and, dripping ice water, she followed him up the stairs and down the hall to the last door. He opened it with a flourish. "My suite."

  She hesitated. Had he changed his mind about…? Her body heated instantly, and where his fingers had last delved before they'd left the pool tingled with anticipation.

  He tugged her through the massive room with the stately cherry wood four-poster bed, matching dressers and an enormous window spilling the last of the evening sun onto the white-carpeted floor. The room even smelled good, clean and fresh. Lavender?

  He led her toward a door at the other end of the room and into the biggest bathroom she'd ever seen. All natural stone and marble, a massive sunken jet tub sat at its rear, surrounded by windows and live plants like a jungle oasis. The scent of lavender blossomed, filling the air, along with the sound of the jets. The tub practically spilled over with bubbles.

  And then, before she could stop him, Garret swept her off her feet and carried her to the tub, lowering her, shorts, sodden towel and all, into the warm, fragrant tub.

  "Ahhh…" she sighed.

  "I thought you would like it," he said, slipping into the water next to her. He reached to a bottle of champagne sitting nestled within the palms and ferns.

  "You're a regular Don Juan, aren't you? Bubble bath and champagne. Do you do this for all the girls?" She unwrapped the sodden towel and rung it out before tossing it at him.

  He grinned. "Actually, this Don Juan has been out of commission for some time. You're the first woman I've had in the house since my divorce."

  He was either lying or too good to be true. In three years he hadn't had a single woman in his home? Maybe he'd taken them to hotels, or went to their homes? He couldn't have remained celibate all that time.

  "You expect me to believe that?" she asked, hoping her smile would ease the sting of her words.

  "Is it that hard to believe?" He popped the champagne cork and the frothing, sparkling liquid spilled into the tub to mingle with the dancing bubbles. He poured champagne into a crystal flute and handed it to her, and then poured some for himself. Holding his glass up to her, he said, "To new beginnings."

  "To new beginnings," she repeated and sipped the cold, crisp wine. The bubbles danced in her mouth and throat as she swallowed. She wasn't much for champagne, wasn't much for alcohol period, but she liked the way this one tasted. She took another swallow, and then fearing she would get tipsy since she normally didn't drink, she set the glass on the side of the tub.

  "Don't you like it?"

  "I do, but I'm not much of a drinker. Or maybe you want to get me drunk?"

  "Nah. Besides, I'm not much of a drinker either." He set his full glass next to hers. "I just thought we should have a toast. Now, where were we?" He asked, sliding deeper into the bubbles.

  "You were telling me how you haven't had a woman in your house since your divorce, and I was doubting you," she said with a smile. She didn't know if it was the intimacy of the tub or the champagne that was making her so fearless, since normally she would have let that subject drop.

  "It's true, whether you believe it or not."

  She studied him, his cheekbones, the dark shadow of stubble lining his jaw, the line of his nose and chin. How could a man who looked like that isolate himself from women for years? Frankie had nearly fallen over herself when she'd first seen him.

  Was he a player? Funny, she hadn't gotten that impression, before now…

  He flashed a smile, his straight white teeth gleaming in the weakening sunlight sprinkling between the heavy foliage around the windows. "Why is it so hard for you to believe?"

  Take this one slow. He's dangerous. "Why? Because a guy like you has to have women trailing behind you like the Pied Piper had rats."

  He chuckled. "Rats, eh? A good description of the women I've met. He dropped his head until it was immersed in the water and slicked back the curls that had started to dry haphazardly over his head. "Actually, they weren't all that bad, but they weren't my type either."

  "So what is your type?" She held her breath, waiting for his answer as though her life depended upon it. Why should it be so important? Wouldn't she want to know now if she wasn't right for him? Would she try to force herself into the mold he described like she had with Steven, and every guy she'd dated before him, only to find herself miserable again?

  For the first time she didn't want to. He would either accept her as she was, or to hell with him. She'd learned her lesson. At last.

  He leaned closer, until she could smell the champagne on his breath, until her body tingled from head to toe in anticipation of his touch. She leaned back, her body opening to him of its own accord. How it would feel to have his weight pressed upon her, his pelvis nestled between her legs.

  Garret closed his eyes to the sight of Faith and pulled back again, more frustrated with himself than he would ever let on. She was so beautiful, so intelligent, so giving. Why couldn't he let himself go--envelop himself in her, both mind and body, and enjoy what she was?

  What was holding him back now?

  They'd conquered so many obstacles to get to this point, Marian, Faith's work, his own defensiveness and sarcasm, and now he found himself cowering away. Why, why, why?

  She stared at him, her eyes wide in question, her cheeks flushed. "What's wrong, Garret?"

  "I don't know."

  She waited for a minute, then stood, rivulets of sudsy white water slithering down her body, and walked from the bathroom after swiping a white towel from the towel bar. "When you're ready to be honest, call me." Pain, embarrassment and confusion reflected in her eyes.

  Dumbfounded by his weakness, confused by his own behavior, he sat in the tub and watched her leave, and an hour later, he still sat there and wondered how she'd gotten home. He supposed Marge had called a cab. He was miserable company as he sat and picked at his dinner, then retreated once more to his be
droom, to the giant empty bed, and to the memories of how it felt to have Faith in that very room.

  Somehow, the room had grown cold again, returned to its usual lonely gloom. He'd come so close. So close to loving her, so close to admitting his feelings to her. Was that it, or was it something else? Something he still hadn't faced yet.

  Why would he run from the one thing--the one person--he wanted so badly he swore he'd die if he couldn't see her again? The night hours dragged by, dreams and thoughts converged into a confusing mass of images. Memories of his marriage to Marian, his most recent relationships, if they could be called that, danced through his mind, playing like a film. He watched, looking for the key, much like he'd searched for the key to Raphaela.

  Raphaela.

  He needed to see her. He needed to reach her.

  Perhaps when he did, he would finally understand himself.

  * * *

  The morning sun hung low in the eastern sky, blinding him as he pulled up Marian's driveway. It was early--too damn early, he realized as he glanced at the clock, but for some reason, he couldn't wait another minute to see Raphaela and get the answers that had eluded him for the past three years.

  He'd thought he'd conquered whatever it had been, whatever had kept him from Faith. No, all he'd managed to do was distract himself with a bunch of trumped up excuses and complications. His work, his daughter, and his ex. Then her work, her boss, and his daughter.

  What was he hiding from?

  How the hell would a six-year-old autistic child show him?

  He was losing it. No doubt about it, his tenuous grip on sanity was failing. That had to be it. All these years he'd assumed it was Marian who would break, would be the first to succumb to the misery of loneliness and regret. Now he could see that he'd been wrong. Oh so wrong.

  At least Marian had loved another man. At least Marian didn't run from intimacy. At least Marian had the nerve to acknowledge what she needed and try to get it.

  Why couldn't he do the same?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Garret raised his hand, ready to knock on the deep crimson door and then hesitated. Would Marian still be asleep? He glanced at his watch again. Seven thirty. Not likely. Raphaela was usually up by six thirty, quarter to seven at the latest.

  Before he struck the door, it opened, and Marian greeted him, her expression a mixture of alarm and bewilderment, "Garret, what are you doing here?"

  "I need to see Ella."

  "Is everything all right?" she asked as she stepped to the side to let him into the foyer of her contemporary loft. His footsteps echoed through the cavernous space, sparsely filled with concrete, brick and pine. The furnishings were just as urbane and industrial as the neighborhood the building inhabited. Everything was steel, sharp with slick, hard surfaces. Nothing about the place welcomed him. Still he didn't hesitate to enter. He thought of nothing but seeing his daughter. Reaching her, and himself.

  "Garret?" Marian searched his face with a worried gaze. "What's happened?"

  * * *

  Faith stared at the help-wanted ads, but saw only black blurs. The same words sounded in her head, over and over. What had gotten into Garret last night?

  What had gotten into her? She'd never been so…so forward. So eager. Had she scared him away?

  Would he call her?

  A part of her doubted it. She'd acted like a common tramp, stirring up his lust, teasing him, encouraging him. God, all she hadn't done was actually sleep with him.

  No wonder he'd shooed her off. Thank God he'd stopped her before things had gone too far. No doubt he'd lost all respect for her.

  She sighed. How had things gone so wrong, again? She'd thought she finally had herself all figured out, knew she'd spent her whole life bending to everyone around her--readily acquiesced her needs to every boss, every friend, and every man she'd dated. A people pleaser, to the extreme.

  She sipped her hot chocolate, the house so cold it felt like winter. Grandpa had the air cranked up again, said it worked better that way. If it cooled the house early, it wouldn't have to work as hard later, when the air outside heated to scorching temperatures. She inhaled the sweet cocoa. The memory of childhood mornings drifted through her mind.

  "Find anything yet?" Grandpa asked from his battered recliner in the family room.

  Sitting at the glass-topped dinette table in the nook between the kitchen and family room, she lifted her head from the paper. "No, not yet."

  "Don't worry. You'll find something soon. You can stay here as long as you like. You know me, I like the company."

  "Yeah, I know, Grandpa. Thanks." Sure, there was no hurry for her to find another job. And Monday she would go to the headhunter who'd helped her find Mountain Rise to see what she had open. But all of that paled in comparison to what truly troubled her. "Grandpa, can I ask you something?"

  "Sure." He looked at her with kind eyes. She could see why her grandmother had loved him all those years. He was such a gentle soul, so easy to love.

  "How did you know Grandma was the one? I've dated so many, and I'm not some young kid. Still I can't figure it out."

  "I don't know. I wanted to be with her all the time, couldn't think about anything or anyone else, I guess. And I did things I wouldn't do for anyone else." He smiled, his expression wistful, and then he picked up his mug from the table next to him and slurped his coffee.

  She smiled at the sound, remembering how her grandmother used to scold him for slurping. Fifty years. They'd lived together, shared fifty years of life. That was amazing. She wanted that some day--a love that would endure fifty years.

  Of course, things hadn't always gone smooth for them. At times they bickered, and she recalled her grandmother telling her about when they'd nearly divorced. Faith knew their love had lasted not because they rode upon it and let it carry them, like a current in the ocean, but because they tended it, fed it, nourished it.

  She thought about her relationship with Garret. Something was missing. Together, their music was discordant, as though they played in different keys. "Do you think a person could find the right person but at the wrong time?"

  "I suppose," he answered between sips, his mug still at his mouth. With his free hand, he reached to the table and plucked a sugar cookie from a dish and slipped it into his mouth.

  She watched him and wished her grandmother were still alive, not only for his sake, since he was so lonely, but for hers as well. Grandma would have wrapped her arms around her, held her tightly, stroked her hair--even as an adult--and whispered encouraging words into her ear. Grandma had been the one person who'd understood her, had encouraged her through every hardship, no matter how bad it was. Damn, she missed her.

  "Have you told him how you feel?" Grandpa asked. "I always did that with your grandma."

  "Not exactly."

  "Then maybe you should," he said, as though it was as easy as buttering toast.

  And buttering toast it wouldn't be. Yet, she couldn't deny its logic.

  She sat back and stared out the window, across the green of the cornfield. But it wasn't cornstalks she saw. Instead, she watched scene after scene of her life, as though it played before her on a movie screen. She'd never been able to be honest about her feelings. She'd never sat down and told anyone exactly how she felt about anything, not her mother, father, brothers, boyfriends, friends.

  She remembered when her best friend had spread vicious rumors about her, and her brothers had called her names that had cut her to the quick, trampled upon her self-esteem as an awkward adolescent struggling to like herself. And then she recalled how her mother had repeatedly criticized her artwork, until she had quit, having lost confidence in her talent.

  Every one of those memories stung, the pain dulled by lapsed years, but still there. She'd skirted those issues and dozens more, all her life. And for what? To avoid angering or upsetting the people around her? And at what cost?

  What a fool I've been. She hadn't avoided angering anyone, hadn't avoided difficulty
, heartache or conflict. By not speaking her mind and asserting herself, she'd made things worse. Not only for herself but also for everyone around her.

  Even if she hadn't actually confronted them, she'd acted upon her feelings. And she'd hurt them all, done things out of anger and resentment. Purposefully ignored her mother's birthday, conveniently forgot to deliver important phone messages to her brothers, ignored pleas to return phone calls from desperate friends.

  And she would do the same to Garret if she wasn't honest with him.

  "You're right. I should go tell him how I feel," she said. Her stomach tangled, tying itself into a knot. She planted a kiss on her grandfather's wispy white hair on top of his head and walked to the door. "I'll be back later this afternoon. Wish me luck."

  * * *

  Garret sat on the floor, staring at his daughter as if the answers to the greatest mysteries of the world lay in her eyes. Raphaela sat on the floor, toys scattered around her. Yet, she stared straight ahead, more interested in a shifting shadow on the wall, formed by a tree limb outside blown by the rising winds.

  "Ella, if only you could speak," he whispered.

  A distant crack of thunder cut through the silence that lay between them and electrified Garret's nerves. The light from the window dimmed as a heavy cloud snuffed out the sun, and an equally heavy gloom settled over Garret. Would he ever reach his daughter?

  And would he ever find the answers within himself? The reason for his fears?

  "I don't know what I'm doing here." He scoured his face with his palms and stood, walking toward the window. As he reached it, a vivid bolt of bluish white jutted from the cloud to the ground a distance away, and thunder shook the building.

  He turned to see if Raphaela was shaken. Nothing. She continued to stare at the wall, although the shadow was gone.

  "When I was a boy, I was scared to death of thunderstorms. Can't say I like them much now, if I had to be honest." He smiled and cringed as another bolt shot from the roiling clouds. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"