A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  Brady squinted. Michael was a good-looking man, he supposed, but the thought shocked him in terms of himself, the spitting image of his brother. He had never considered himself handsome, although people had often told him so. But then his mind hadn’t focused on what he saw in the mirror. Only what he saw in his soul.

  They’d actually spent the first few hours talking about their childhood—summer vacations in the Hamptons and treks to Europe. Idle chitchat that had escalated into a near argument when Michael had broached the forbidden subject. At the time, his glance had been casual but his tone subdued, veering from one conversation to the other as smoothly as the Packard changed lanes.

  “Yeah, those were good times,” he had said, his gaze flicking to Brady. “Unfortunately overshadowed by bad.” He paused. “What happened that night anyway, John? The night you went away. I never really knew.”

  The question, spoken so quietly, so innocently, had sucked the air from Brady’s lungs. Every muscle in his body tensed, sending his heart rate accelerating. He looked away, his eyes riveted on the passing scenery. “I don’t remember.”

  “It altered your life, and you don’t remember?”

  His hand fisted on the seat. “That’s right.”

  “I always thought lying was a sin.”

  Brady spun to face him, his eyes itching with fury. “Go to the devil, Michael! I told you I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t get riled, I just think you need to get it out, that’s all. Talk about it.”

  Brady glared, his tone less than kind. “With you?”

  “Yeah, with me. Who else but your own flesh and blood, the brother who knows your past but loves you anyway. ”

  “I told you. I don’t remember.”

  “Selective memory, I suppose.”

  Brady stared straight ahead, his tone hard. “No, blind drunk. Are you satisfied?”

  Michael gave him a sideways glance. “You were drunk? You really don’t remember?”

  Brady closed his eyes, remembering certain details with perfect clarity—the scent of Lucille’s perfume, the burn of whiskey on his tongue, the sinful touch of rumpled silk sheets. He could remember it all, painful memories cloaked in shame. A boy defiled, a woman scorned, the pelting rain on the roof overhead. Guilt whirling and walls spinning as he’d stumbled to his room. Lightning and thunder . . . and Lucille in a rage. While Helena wept in her arms.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, the air thin in his lungs. The memories stopped there, drowned like his innocence in a sea of cheap bourbon and costly regret.

  Michael’s voice was quiet. “John, I can see you don’t want to talk about this now, but sometime soon, we need to—you, me, and Helena. For your sake and for hers. So we can be a family again. Like old times.”

  Old times. A shiver traveled Brady’s spine. They had never been a family. Not since Lucille had come to call. Acid churned in his stomach as he stared out his side window, barely seeing the West Side Tennis Club as it zipped by in a blur.

  Lucille had applied for a nanny position the summer of their tenth year, a mere six months after their mother had passed away, but Brady was certain her credentials had been better suited to landing a wealthy husband. Although his parents’ marriage had never seemed particularly close, his father had been devastated when he lost his wife, burying himself in the management of his thriving printing companies.

  Over the years, he and Michael had had their fair share of nannies, but none had prepared them for Lucille. Barely out of high school, she’d come across much older than she was, with an air of sophistication honed, they learned much later, from a questionable lifestyle rather than a respectable upbringing. She had been a beautiful woman, with hair the color of sunlight gleaming on a field of wheat. Deep blue eyes that always shone with a glint of tease, as if she had a secret she wanted to share. It only took one brief interview for their father to hire her, despite baggage that included a four-year-old daughter. And so they’d become a family—little Helena, Michael, and him—nurtured by a woman who had captured his father’s heart. And his. Shame burned in his cheeks.

  He closed his eyes. He knew now that he had been little more than a victim of circumstance. But no more so than Lucille. After his father’s death, her drinking had escalated, along with her need for comfort. And so the bond they shared had deepened through endless conversations that revealed the tragic little girl behind the lost woman. Orphaned at ten years of age, she had been foisted on an alcoholic aunt with little use for a niece who exuded the strong promise of beauty. Most nights Aunt Lena had passed out long before her husband made his way to Lucille’s room. A faint shiver traveled Brady’s spine. A commonality he and Lucille had shared—the disruption of innocence at too early an age.

  He drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes, totally oblivious to the passing scenery. The only image he saw was Lucille’s tragic face, blue eyes washed in tears and chin raised in defiance as she’d confided in her seventeen-year-old stepson. Her confession had sealed his sympathy . . . and his fate. His heart had gone out to her as a thirteen-year-old runaway who’d been desperate to escape. But she’d taken a job as a scullery maid in a mansion where escape was not to be. Nobly robed by day, her magistrate employer would disrobe at night, seeking unholy pleasures in the still of the evening. At the first hint of pregnancy, he had turned her out on the streets, forcing her to seek refuge with her aunt—a perverted refuge that set the course for her life.

  The Packard slowed as it veered through open wrought-iron gates hinged to towering stone pillars. Brady jolted from his reverie with air thick in his throat. His gaze slowly traveled up the meticulous lawn with its sculpted gardens and marble terraces flanking a Norman-style stone mansion. His eyes lifted to the second story where his room had once been, and sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

  “I spoke to Helena last night. She’s nervous as a cat.”

  Brady whirled to face him with shock glazing his eyes. “What?”

  Michael blinked, then eased into an awkward grin. “Naw, John, I just meant she’s nervous because she’s anxious to see you again. Wonders what you’ll think of her all grown up. She’s missed you. We both have.”

  His breath seeped slowly through lips still parted in distress. He nodded dumbly and turned back to the house, girding himself for what lay ahead. God help me.

  The Packard heaved to a stop—as did his heart—in front of a cascade of marble stairs. The portico was besieged by his stepmother’s pillar roses, now wintering and awaiting spring’s pruning. In the summer, they coiled and tangled about the columns like a verdant serpent dominating its prey, the dark green canes deeply rooted in the earth. Bloom stems, thick with thorns and purpose, always smothered the lower half of the posts, obscuring them with jagged leaves and blooms so potent, their musky scent invaded the foyer. They had been Lucille’s favorite, creamy blossoms with a trace of pink at the heart. The faintest of colors—like the watery stain of sin on a child’s soul.

  Michael jerked the advance lever up and switched the ignition off. “Home, sweet home.” He opened his door and glanced at his watch. “A little past two—not too bad. We made pretty good time, but I’ll bet you’re starved. Don’t worry about the bags, Hugh’ll take care of them. Helena’s waiting lunch.”

  Brady didn’t move, fused to his seat as firmly as the piping stitched to the red leather cushion. He stared straight ahead, his breathing ragged.

  Michael turned on the steps. “John, the sooner you face this, the sooner you’ll be free. Helena needs to see you . . . as much as you need to see her. What happened a long time ago is over, done. Put it behind and let’s start again.”

  Brady nodded slowly and grasped the handle with bloodless fingers. He stepped from the vehicle and slammed the door shut, flexing his hand as he drew in a deep breath.

  Michael touched his shoulder. “There’s healing inside, John. For all of us.” He squeezed his shoulder and led him up the stairs.

  The entryway wasn’t as caverno
us as he remembered. As a boy, it had seemed as grand as the ballroom in the east wing of the house. Its gleaming mahogany balustrade curved around two-thirds of the second-floor landing before sweeping down the far side of the room. Color-rich oil paintings graced the walls, staggered as the steps declined, reflecting stern faces from a heritage he’d rather forget. The smell of his past invaded his senses—the fresh scent of lemon oil and flowers no matter the season, all mingling with the faint whiff of a wood fire burning in the parlor. He closed his eyes and could almost detect the sweet aroma of his father’s cigars, distinct and robust, like the man who’d enjoyed them.

  Michael tossed his cap, and it landed on a burlwood table graced with a crystal vase of fresh flowers. He ran a hand over his head and glanced around. “Helena?”

  Brady tensed as marble, wood, and rich-hued Persian rugs blurred before him. Somewhere upstairs he heard a door slam, followed by the faint patter of feet. His hands were sweating, and he rubbed them against his tweed waistcoat, heat radiating from his bulky knitted sweater beneath. He quickly unbuttoned his jacket and took it off.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Brady. My apologies for not greeting you at the door, but I didn’t hear you arrive.” A tall gentleman in a black suit hurried in from the back of the foyer, his expression as starched and crisp as his impeccable white shirt. He stood before Michael with a quiet click of his heels, offering a stiff smile that indicated he didn’t relish being caught off guard.

  “Not a problem, Hugh, my brother and I just arrived. Is Helena in the kitchen?”

  “No, sir. I believe the young miss is upstairs putting the finishing touches on your brother’s room.”

  Michael lifted the coat hanging limp in Brady’s hands and handed it to Hugh. “Good, good. Hugh, this is my brother John from Boston. Would you tell Mrs. Briggs we’re ready for lunch?”

  “Very good, sir.” Hugh glanced at Brady and nodded, his eyes guarded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brady. It’s good to make your acquaintance. Your brother has spoken highly of you.”

  Brady forced a smile. “Thank you, Hugh. I wouldn’t believe everything he says.”

  The corners of the butler’s mouth flickered. “Yes, sir.”

  “Michael!”

  All eyes riveted on the second-floor landing where a petite girl hovered over the railing, hands clutched to the banister. A shaft of refracted light from an etched-glass window overhead illuminated soft wisps of her golden hair, and her face was so radiant, she reminded Brady of an angel smiling down from above.

  “Helena!”

  One word from Michael and she flew down the stairs, cheeks pink with excitement. She was a woman of twenty-one, but seemed little more than a girl of sixteen as she threw herself into her brother’s arms with a squeal. “Oh, I’ve missed you something fierce! I’m so glad you’re home.”

  Michael chuckled and kissed her on the head. He gave her a squeeze, then looped an arm around her waist. “Helena, say hello to your brother, John.”

  The exuberance in her eyes faded into a shyness he remembered all too well from their youth. She looked up at him beneath a fringe of sooty lashes, her cupid-bow mouth forming the barest of smiles.

  “Hello, John,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”

  He nodded, his throat working as he extended his hand. “Hello, Helena. It’s been a long time.” She smiled and gently shook it, her touch searing him like a jolt of electricity. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Too long. Do I look like you expected?”

  He studied her, taking in the contour of a face that was more heart-shaped than her mother’s, with a chin less defined, and realized the resemblance was actually minimal except for the eyes. They stared back with the same sapphire-blue as Lucille’s, sending a chill down his spine. “A little.”

  She grinned and winked at Michael, dispelling Brady’s thoughts. “Well, you look exactly like I expected,” she said with a chuckle. She squeezed Michael’s upper arm with a twinkle in her eyes. “Although a bit more muscular, perhaps.”

  Michael appeared hurt. “Hey, John does hard labor in a small print shop, what do you expect? And I’ve been away from my conditioning while in Boston.”

  She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Well, you’re still two of the most handsome men I know. I’m proud to be your stepsister.” She latched an arm through Michael’s and shot Brady a shy smile. “Shall we go in to lunch? I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing these last eleven years, John. We have a lot to catch up on, and I’ll bet you’re starving too. A little sustenance is just what we need.”

  “Sounds great,” he said, his smile shaky at best. He drew in a deep breath and followed them into the dining room. He needed sustenance, all right. The spiritual kind. His eyes fixed on his stepsister from the back, marveling at the woman she’d become. When he had seen her last, she had been a scrawny ten-year-old who had been as shy as her mother had been flirtatious. A gentle child who had dogged his and Michael’s every step. He studied her now, noting the teasing tilt of her head as she smiled up at Michael with adoring eyes. He surmised she’d inherited Lucille’s skill with men, albeit decidedly more innocent. Without question, his stepsister had grown into a beauty, just like her mother. Brady hoped and prayed the similarities ended there.

  A strange sensation came over him as he entered the dining room. It felt odd being here, where so many meals had been shared in happier times. Brady pulled out Helena’s chair, then sat across the way, while Michael seated himself at the head where their father once presided.

  Unlike the rest of the house, the family’s private dining area was an intimate room. It had a stone fireplace on one side and an expansive bay window on the other, offering a peaceful view of rolling terrain edged by gardens. This room had afforded Brady some of the few fond memories in this house. It had been Lucille who’d coaxed their father into buying one of the first homes in the exclusive Forest Hills Gardens community. Its grand scale and lavishness reflected her fondness for pretense. But it had been their father who’d insisted on one room where simplicity and warmth could prevail, choosing to make the dining room one of the few havens in an otherwise cold stone mansion. Upon their father’s request, Mrs. Briggs served the meals rather than the butler, the housekeeper’s warm and motherly manner a welcome touch in their extravagant lives. Brady glanced at the warm, honey-colored walls hung with gilded oil paintings of pastoral scenes. He could almost hear the excitement in Pop’s baritone voice as he’d planned hunting excursions with his sons or a family outing by the sea.

  The wonderful smell of pot roast watered his mouth, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The kitchen door swung open and their beloved housekeeper, one of the bright spots of his youth, stepped through the door toting a tray of hand-carved beef and roasted potatoes. Her face was moist from the savory steam billowing into the air.

  Brady shot to his feet and took the tray from her hands. “Mrs. Briggs! How are you?”

  “John Brady, as I live and breathe, where have you been keeping yourself? Don’t you know there are people here who missed you?” She pulled at a handkerchief tucked in her sleeve and mopped her round cheeks with a chubby hand that had once shooed him away from her coveted cookie dough. Several strands of snow-white hair fluttered about her face as she patted.

  He laughed, the first ease of tension he’d experienced since he’d entered the house. “I live in Boston, Mrs. Briggs, part owner of a small but promising printing business. I landed there because of a buddy from the war.”

  “Goodness’ sakes, John, you were in that dreadful war?” Her piercing gray eyes perused him head to toe, stubby arms perched on ample hips. “Well, it certainly looks as if the good Lord took care of you.”

  He smiled, the memory of her not-so-subtle references to “the good Lord” no longer an irritant. “Yes, ma’am, he did. You might say my Bible was the most powerful weapon I had. Thanks for praying for me all those years.”

  Her face
flushed pink against the white lacy collar of her uniform. “My pleasure, John. I always knew you would grow into a fine man. Now you dig into that roast, do you hear? I’ve got vegetables and biscuits to fetch from the kitchen.” She bustled back through the door, allowing a mouthwatering whiff of fresh-baked apple pie to escape into the room.

  Brady shook his head and set the platter in front of Helena. “I can’t believe she’s still working. She must be near seventy.”

  Michael chuckled. “Seventy-three, but still going strong. Although she did retire a few years back, when Helga took over. But I’ll have you know that when Helga told her you were coming home for a visit, Mrs. Briggs insisted on being here today to serve the homecoming lunch.” Michael gave him a lazy smile. “She always did like you better, you know. You care to say grace, John?”

  Brady paused, a napkin dangling in his hand as he stared at Michael. He glanced at Helena, whose surprise appeared to be equal to his, then back at his brother. “Grace?”

  Michael’s lips quirked. He shook his napkin out and placed it in his lap. “Must I remind you I’ve been dining at the O’Connors’?”

  An uncommon mix of irritation and humor twitched on Brady’s lips. “No reminder necessary. Glad to see they’ve been a good influence on you.”

  Michael winked at Helena, then grinned at Brady. “They have. But not as good as you’re likely to be, little brother. Shall we thank God for our food . . . and our good fortune?”

  Brady jerked awake, his mind in a momentary fog as he blinked at the crystal chandelier overhead. Realization struck, and the muscles in his stomach instantly knotted. He sat up on the bed and stared, his breathing shallow and his pulse racing. Despite the fact he’d been here for almost a week, he still awakened with a jolt every time. Only one more night, he thought to himself with relief. The nights had been the worst, full of strange dreams and sick feelings, a stark contrast to the days he shared with his brother and stepsister.

  He actually enjoyed spending time with Helena, who had taken him shopping several times, her favorite thing to do, while Michael attended to business. Midweek they had met with Lucille’s attorney, finalizing the disbursement of inheritance with a sweep of Brady’s hand. Michael had been right. Lucille had left the house to Brady, stipulating that both Helena and Michael could live there as long as they liked. She compensated Michael with the printing company and Helena with an obscene art and jewelry collection. The balance of the estate was divided into equal thirds.