by S E Holmes
Balt trotted merrily up the road, hooves clopping the staccato rhythm of Nic’s heart, oblivious to the squall of confusion and worry his rider felt. What could possibly compel his father to stay so long? He found the Arkady’s as repellent as his elder son did. It was chill in the thickly shaded avenue of trees, but clad in Levi’s, steel-caps and a ‘dress’ t-shirt, not to mention insulated by concern, the cold didn’t register.
He urged Balt to a gallop and eventually made the gates, thrown open in welcome of that morning’s convoy. Balt skittered sideways on the verge, neighing his reluctance.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Nic dug in his heels. With a giant lunge, Balt’s powerful forequarters laboured against the winding incline. Nic was free to ponder the likelihood the unsociable Jonathon Lawson had joined the party, a sudden about-face puzzle to beat them all. They’d lured Sam with the irresistible quadrella of cats, money, double-chocolate-sponge and maternal surrogates. What did the Arkady’s possess to entice Lawson Senior?
Nic dismounted on reaching the turning circle in front of the mansion, the problem of anchoring Balt solved when Kolb materialised. Truly, it was as if they anticipated his presence before he’d even made the decision to show. Numerous expensive cars rowed the drive, the vast dwelling immaculate and sparkling despite the grey weather. Elmas and Kolb certainly had their work cut out for them.
The beat-up Lawson farm-ute stuck out in their midst, sullying the refined atmosphere. The burble of many in conversation and a classical composition played on strings wafted the terrace.
“Not dressed,” Kolb tutted, appraising Nic’s clothing in disapproval.
“Hey! This is one of my best t-shirts.”
It was white and sported a large red exclamation mark on the front. Come to think of it, Nic thought it particularly appropriate.
“You tuck!” Kolb motioned pushing fabric into his pants.
For an instant, he thought the old guy mispronounced “you suck” or worse. He laughed and shook his head. Nic wasn’t overly taken with fashion, not like CJ anyway, who had a list of favoured designers, but that was a statement he’d never embrace.
“Not on your life.”
The groundsman grunted concession and extended for the reins, scrubbing Balt’s neck and murmuring encouragement in his native tongue. With the incentive of a magically produced carrot, Nic observed his disloyal horse lead placidly away without a backwards glance.
“Real cheap, Balt,” he mumbled and took the stairs two at a time.
It wasn’t until passing the threshold of concertinaed floor-to-ceiling windows, folded back to allow a seamless merging of outside with inside, that he recalled Sasha’s ban. And if he was discovered on the Arkady property? Nic frowned, chewing the consequences and failing to take much notice of his progress. A spreading absence of sound dragged him to awareness.
He stopped and squinted around the salon in dimmed light. Every set of eyes riveted upon him, their Champagne flutes hovering and faces avid. Kolb had been correct. Nic was woefully underdressed: figures adorned in crisp suits and cocktail dresses stood or perched on elegant couches, a plethora of discreet yet obviously expensive jewellery on glittering display, perfectly coiffed hair the norm, and not just on the women. Even the aproned and cummerbunded serving staff outdid him.
His skin prickled under their examination. It all seemed an overreaction to shabby dress sense. Hanna detached from her draped position by a huge ornately carved hearth. Flickering logs added to the suffocating warmth of the room and bathed them all in sinister ruby.
In shiny dove-grey, Mira’s mother slid uncomfortably close to murmur in his ear, “It is wonderful you are here, Nic.”
Enveloped in a cloud of her perfume, a deep blush crawled his cheeks. She turned to the agog crowd with a practiced smile and a small flourish of the wrist. “Allow me the privilege to introduce,” she paused for effect. “Nicholas Lawson.”
An initial smattering of applause rose quickly to tumult, those present gaining their feet enmasse for a standing ovation. Now the embarrassment was overt. Were they mocking him? Nic shuffled on the spot, stunned and dying to melt into the rug. These were the creepiest people he’d ever met.
“Er, thanks.” He swallowed awkwardly, words a vain attempt to stop the fuss.
How the hell was he going to get out of this? It was as though each new challenge topped the one before, Lily easy by comparison. A hush fell abruptly and the throng parted. Mira, looking ropable, barged their midst. They’d treated him as a treasured novelty, but their response to Mira was reverence befitting the messiah, features glassy with fanatical zeal.
In one hand, a magnum of Champagne hung loosely by her side, strappy sandals dangling about the neck of the bottle, in the other, knuckles were white on the stem of an empty glass. She dumped it on a tray held aloft by a youth regarding her with an expression of adoration, and grabbed a full replacement.
Finishing the contents in a single draught, she slammed it down, unbalanced glassware cascading to the floor with a loud crash, shards ricocheting. The horrified boy scrambled to tend the mess, the carpet fizzing soggily. Mira’s dress was crumpled and her hair had come loose about her livid, blotched face. If guests were shocked, they didn’t show it.
Hanna moved forward, arms outspread. “My darling, Mira. Please...”
Without a word, Mira brushed her mother away, gripped a fistful of Nic’s shirt and tugged him from the room through a fervent guard of honour. She released him as soon as they made the long hallway and he had no choice but to follow as she marched along, barefoot and swigging Champagne.
“Parasites!” she muttered, disappearing along a right-angled corridor and up a dark narrow stairwell.
“Mira, wait!”
She ascended the tight spiral as though he wasn’t there and his resentment mushroomed. Nic struggled to keep up, her back a flash at each twist. He swore under-breath. They finally emerged on a sunlit landing to a view of slate tiles out mullioned windows, this the highest turret. She drained the bottle and dropped it to the floorboards, unpinning her hair in a tumble of black satin.
He’d pursued her to her private space, a sprawling studio apartment with a roomy unmade bed at its centre swaddled in cherry linen. An old-fashioned bathtub on legs was visible behind a partition thrust aside. Canvases occupied scattered easels and art gear was strewn haphazardly over available surfaces. Mira was a painter. And a great one at that, of overblown flowers and foliage so life-like, yet unnaturally brightly coloured.
Nic held his surprise in check. She didn’t seem the waffly arts-and-craft type, more the undaunted huntress, rifle and filleting knife at the ready. Diverted, he wasn’t prepared when she wheeled to get in his face with a blast of wine-soaked breath.
“Why are you here?”
This was the intolerable Mira he’d come to expect. He took a pace back, answering with what he considered exceptional restraint. “It’s generally what one does when one’s family goes AWOL. Search for them.”
“Well, as you can see, your father and your brother are not in my room.”
Nic gladly exorcised the pent-up frustration of the past days, refusing to back down. “What the hell was that idiotic welcome? And I want the truth. I’m sick of the bullshit! What do they want from me?”
In answer, she went over and flopped on the bed. Her voice was soft and tone wrecked. “You want anything but the truth, Nic. I guarantee it.
***
Chapter Eighteen