A Rush of Wings (38 page)

“Was the rest of Europe more pleasant?”

She raised her brows. “How do you know there was more?”

“Just a hunch.”

She dabbed her mouth. “If we hadn't gone to Paris first, it would have been better. But all through the trip, I'd catch Daddy looking at me as though I were . . . someone else. As though I should have been my mother.”

“You look like her.”

“How do you know?”

Morgan spooned the last of his consommé. “I waited in the library while you dressed.”

“Oh. You saw her portrait. It's the only picture of her in the house.”

Morgan cocked a brow. “Why?”

She set her finished bowl aside. “Daddy has the others stowed away somewhere. He goes to the library when he wants to think of her. Otherwise he doesn't want to be reminded.”

Morgan's eyes deepened, as though what she'd said struck a nerve. “Does it work? Out of sight; out of mind?”

Noelle shook her head. “I don't know. Daddy's singularly focused. Maybe it does.”

The waiter brought her
fricassee de poulet au Chablis
and Morgan's lobster
Parisienne
. She raised a bite to her mouth and thought of Rick blessing the food at Antonio's.
“Everything I have is a gift.”
She took a tender forkful, but it was less savory than she'd expected.

“Tell me about you, Morgan. Still saving people's fortunes?”

It was safer to turn the conversation over to him. Morgan talked. He poked fun at the sort of people Noelle knew all too well. She laughed. “What if they don't follow your recommendations?”

He shrugged. “Then I move on. I don't waste my time with unteachables.”

“And you're always right?”

He shrugged. “It's not a matter of right so much as a feel for what needs to be done. No two solutions are exactly the same, but I tend to find the right one for the situation.”

Noelle toyed with her chicken, recalling the conversation with Celia.
“He wants to make things right. That's his genius and his cross. He sees what others miss, whether he wants to or not.”

What was he seeing now? Did he think because he fixed struggling corporations, he could fix her? She shook her head. Morgan expected too much. Besides, everyone she trusted had hurt her. But then, she'd never trusted Morgan.

“Hello . . .”

She looked up.

“Where'd you go?”

She set her fork down and used her napkin. “You're on a project now?”

“You could say that.”

“Someone in New York needs saving?” No, that didn't come out right. She could see his mind turning.

“That's one way to put it.” His eyes deepened.

She poked the cherry-tomato rosette with her fork but didn't eat it. “So is it a family corporation or publicly held?”

“Oh, definitely family.” He sipped his champagne.

Except for the first sip, she hadn't drunk hers. “And you walk in and tell them how to reconstruct their lives.”

“Something like that.”

She wished he wouldn't look at her that way. What did he want?
What he always wanted—to break through, find the real Noelle . . . or force
her
to. But she'd found her now, and it was darker and more depressing than she'd imagined. Still, she appreciated his effort.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She sighed. “This is nice, Morgan. I haven't been out much.”

“Whose fault is that?”

She laid down her fork. “No one's. Just . . . the way it is.”

“So why did you come tonight?” He finished the champagne in his flute. “I'd like to think it's my charm and charisma.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

“Oh, you can be patronizing.”

She pushed her plate aside. “Why do you think I don't mean it?”

“Do you?” He'd caught her.

She bought time with her napkin, dabbing her lips and carefully folding it alongside her hardly touched plate. What did he want from her? She couldn't . . . But she did feel something. She cared for him—not his flair and charisma, but . . . She looked up into his eyes. “You are charming, Morgan.”

“And you are beautiful.” His gaze liquefied. “I thought so the first time I saw you. Do you remember that day?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and took her hands. His warmth penetrated, sent a quiver up her arms. Same old Morgan, making her feel what she didn't want to feel. “Dresden china on Rick's front porch, like a rare shipment to the wrong address. But even here, you're too fine. Everything else looks plain.”

The blush burned her cheeks, startling yet another response she'd thought dead.

“Rick, now, he looks like hell, all bearded and skeletal.”

Heart lurching, she yanked, but he didn't let go.

“Sorry.” He sighed. “I had to see if you still loved him.”

Something tore inside her. “What I feel for Rick is none of your business.”

“What do you feel?” Again he resisted her attempt to free her hands without making a scene.

“Nothing! Stop it! Why are you doing this?”

He stroked her fingers with his thumb. “Because I'm fool enough to want you and Rick reconciled.”

Her pulse throbbed. Morgan wanted them reconciled? “Then why are you holding my hands?”

“Just wretch enough to enjoy the process.”

It wasn't true. She saw his hurt. If she had reacted differently . . . but then, maybe not. Morgan had given her up before . . . to Rick. She didn't want to think about Rick, picture him hurting. She had enough guilt over Michael. Rick was better off without her. But bearded and skeletal? “Does he really look bad?”

“A regular desert hermit. Except he's lost his faith.”

“He can't have. It was more to him than anything.”

Morgan didn't answer. She wanted him to tell her it wasn't true. She pictured Celia's frank face.
“Because of you, Rick is at odds with his brother. I don't want him at odds with God.”
Because of her. What if she'd accepted his faith, shared it? But what did it matter now?

She closed her eyes. “It's no use, Morgan.”

“Why? You love him.”

No. Yes. How could Morgan tell?

“And he loves you. This is tearing him apart.”

Tears stung behind her lids. “Do you think I want to hurt him?”

“No. But that doesn't change the fact. And for what? You both want to be together. You have something special.”

“That's not the issue.”

“What is it, then? Sex?”

Her eyes flew open. No one had laid it bare like that. But how could she marry Rick when the very thought of intimacy terrified her? And then there was what she'd done to Michael, the images, the dissociation. How would it come out next?

She forced a level tone. “Why would you think that?”

His mouth pulled to the side. “Partly my ego. How else could you resist me?”

Where it should have annoyed, instead it broke her tension. “And partly?”

“I know what rape does. Rick told me about Michael once I loosened his tongue with enough cheap whiskey.”

Whiskey? Rick? But he could only have told what he thought they knew, not the truth she now lived with.

“It wasn't Michael.” She rolled her lips in, fighting the nausea from just the thought of speaking the rest aloud.

“What do you mean?”

“It was and it wasn't. He was violent. But Michael didn't rape me. His battering triggered something else.” She couldn't do it. She'd kept it in too long.

Morgan folded both her hands together in his and leaned close. “Tell me.”

She whispered, “I can't.”
Please don't let him push
. She didn't want to shatter. “It happened a long time ago. I didn't remember until Michael hit me. Pieces kept breaking through, but I thought they were about him.” She drew a jagged breath. “He died because of that.”

“You can't really think that.”

She pressed a hand over her eyes. “I accused him, and he killed himself.”

Morgan slowly shook his head. “He made his own mistakes. But you have the chance to stop making yours.”

She shook her head. “I can't—”

“Noelle, Rick loves you. He'd live celibate if that's what it took.”

Tears started in her eyes. She blinked them back furiously.

“Let them come, Noelle,” Morgan murmured. “It's been long enough.”

But she fought to maintain control. She couldn't face the grief. It would wash her away.

Morgan stood and tossed cash on the table, though their bill had not been delivered. Probably the waiter had hesitated to interrupt. She felt transparent. Morgan wrapped her in her fur and led her out to one of the cabs waiting at the door. He gave the driver directions, then climbed in beside her, slid his arm around her shoulders.

He was breaking her, crushing her defenses, and it would hurt too much. She sat stiffly against him, looked out the black, light-spattered window, and saw with relief he'd brought her home.

“This the place?” The cabby stopped outside the gate.

“Yes. Keep the meter running.” Morgan climbed out and drew her out with him, keeping his hand on her elbow as he walked her to the gate.

Noelle pressed the combination to admit them. She wanted to go in, to forget this night had happened. But then she didn't. She was torn in two.

Morgan walked her halfway up the drive, then stopped and took her in his arms. “I'm going to kiss you, Noelle. And then you're going to tell me again how much you love Rick.”

She shook her head to protest, but he stilled her motion with his hands on her cheeks. His lips were tender, and she felt no revulsion, no panic, and no flapping of wings. Yet also none of what she had felt once with Rick. There was no sense of belonging, no sharing her innermost self.

“Now.” Morgan drew back without releasing her. “Break my heart again.”

She smiled through the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, Morgan . . .”

He held her close. “I'm not leaving until you say it . . . but you can take as long as you like.” He stroked her back.

She laughed, sniffed the tears, and swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. Then she gathered her voice. “I love Rick. And I love you, too, Morgan, only not the same way.”

“Story of my life.” He chuckled. “What are you going to do about it?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. But I'll think about it.”

“Well, that's a start.”

“Thank you, Morgan.”

He cradled her head a long moment, then sighed. “If I hold you any longer I'll forget everything I said about Rick. Come on.” He walked her the rest of the way to the house, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and left.

She climbed the stairs to her room and went straight to her dresser. She opened the lid of the jewelry box and lifted out the ring. She stared at it a long moment, then clasping it tightly in her hand, she held it against her heart and wept deep, painful, aching tears. When she had no more left in her, she replaced the ring in the box and closed the lid.

The house was silent. It was late and she needed to sleep, but she couldn't. She felt empty. It wasn't the absence of feeling she had grown accustomed to, it was a void that wanted filling. She crept down to the library and lit the recessed spotlight over her mother's portrait.

She'd done that with increasing regularity, trying to understand. How had Mama let her be taken? And so shortly after, she'd left her forever. It wasn't rational. Her mother had had no control of either, certainly not her own death. Noelle looked at her now, her mother's eyes so happy, so filled with love. It contrasted with her foggy memories of a dying woman wasted by disease.

Daddy had kept them apart at the end. He'd filled her days with
magic, and like the selfish creature she was, she had run off to enjoy herself. How could she know what death was? How could she know it would be too late?

Noelle stooped down and searched the cabinets for the wooden box carved in Oberammergau. Her mother's treasures. She worked the box free and sat on the floor with it as she had when she was small. With both hands she opened the lid and let her eyes trail over the contents, the bundle of letters and cards from Daddy, some of her own first drawings, the jar of antique jewelry.

The jewelry had been the big attraction when she was little. She lifted the jar and held it to the light. Then she took out the packet of letters. She'd never read them. They were tied in a blue ribbon, her father's words of love. Had he any? He must have once, though he'd lost them along the way.

As she put them back, her fingers touched a book. She brushed aside the photographs. A Bible. She remembered the feel of Rick's worn leather binding. She closed her eyes and pictured him sitting in the corner, reading.

“He's lost his faith.”
Morgan's words gave her a pang. What had it been now? Four months since Rick called? She should have taken his call. It was unkind to refuse it. But how could she stand hearing his voice? What could she say?

She took out her mother's Bible. The pages were gold-edged. She had a flash of memory, light glinting off the golden pages. She was on the floor playing with the buttons and the sunlight danced off the book in Mama's hands. Where did that memory come from?

Her fingers trembled as she opened the Bible. A lavender ribbon marked a page, and she slid it open there. The top of the page said Psalms, and there was a note and a date in the margin beside number 121. She held it up to read.
For Noelle, November 12, 1984
. Four days before Mama died.

The underlined section read,
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills . . .”
She pictured Rick's meadow, the slope up the craggy mountain.
“ . . . from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”
Noelle closed her eyes.
Oh, Mama
. Tears blurred her eyes, and she blinked them away to read the other underlined verses.