The Henson Brothers: Two Complete Novels (20 page)

Tomorrow she would return home, Thursday she would go out with Glen, and then she would put her life back into perspective. She was vulnerable now and that's how Timothy had been able to catch her. She would not allow Drake to do the same.

She heard the chair in front of her scrape across the floor as it was pulled back, but she didn't look up to see its occupant.

Drake's voice cut into the black silence. "Do you like sitting in the dark?"

"Yes, on some level it makes everything clear." She let her hand fall to her lap.

"Hmm." He lit a cigarette. Cassie watched the end glow orange and burn its way to the center as he inhaled. "I became an orphan at sixteen," he said suddenly in a bored tone that gave no allowance for sympathy. Cassie opened her mouth to stop him, already feeling the tugs of understanding and sympathy wrap around her heart, but no words came out. "My parents came here for a better life and died instead. Mum worked in a factory and Dad on a boat. She got sick first; then he did. Our drafty apartment, filled with extra nightly companions, didn't help our hygiene situation." He tapped the ashes of the cigarette into the tray he'd brought with him. "When they were gone, I was left with a younger brother and sister to take care of. Eric was thirteen and Jackie seven. The courts wanted to split us up, but I wouldn't let them. I used someone as a bogus guardian, then disappeared out of the government's radar. I worked several jobs, making sure they were okay. I made sure they had sturdy clothes so that when they went to school, they didn't draw any attention. The housing wasn't the best and food was scarce, but I didn't want anyone to break us up."

"Of course. You didn't have a choice."

He nodded, glad that she could clarify what he had always felt. "Some called me a saint; others called me a fool."

"A fool?"

She heard the chair creak as he leaned back. "They thought that Eric and Jackie would be better in the care of the state where they would have a good home and meals."

Cassie sniffed, knowing that was luck of the draw. "So did they turn into juvenile delinquents?"

"No." She heard the pride in his voice. "Eric's a financial advisor and Jackie works at a not-for-profit organization, which I contribute to, and is also going to school."

"How did you come to own restaurants?"

Drake took a long drag of his cigarette. In the quiet she could hear the sibilant hiss of the flame eating the tobacco. "One night I was looking for leftovers behind a restaurant and a woman caught me. She was a small Swedish woman—Mrs. Larsen—with a loud voice and sharp green eyes. She asked me what I was doing and I said I was applying for a job. She asked me what I could do. I said anything. And that's what she hired me to do— anything. She and her husband owned the place and I was lucky because it was an upscale restaurant and I got to see how it was run from the inside out. I started in the back of the house and moved to the front. It was a new experience for me, the hustle of the kitchen, creating order out of chaos. I was able to taste new food. I'd never heard of
lokdolmar
or a breaker. Their son, Sveen, worked there and was perfect with the customers. I watched and imitated. They saw I had a knack for presentation, got on well with the customers, and had a head for business. I helped them run another restaurant and in turn they helped me get a degree in restaurant management. Finally Mr. Larsen helped me with the capital to open my own restaurant and here I am."

Yes. Here he was. The product of his own determination and tenacity, a man who had not asked for sympathy, but rather opportunity, and grasped whatever had come his way. His simple tale revealed more about him than many years of idle conversation could have. It wasn't what he said, but what he didn't say that exposed his character. He didn't talk about handling work and school, where he lived, or if there had been any family to turn to. He was a man who knew hunger, who spent his career feeding others; a man who knew poverty, who shared his wealth. They were alike in many ways. They had both overcome shyness to survive.

He was someone she could admire and love. And there again lay the danger that continued to lick at her heels. Her fists tightened, at the thought of loving him. She knew she could not bend to his will, he would be all-consuming if she showed a little weakness. A survivor like him knew nothing about love, only possession, and she didn't want to be another trophy on his journey to a complete conquest of a world that had been harsh. He had given her what she had asked for and now she didn't know what to say.

He stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet "I'm going to bed." It wasn't an invitation, just a statement.

Cassie sat still in the darkness until she heard the bedroom door close.

* * *

After a few moments of mindless typing, Cassie squeezed her eyes shut and resisted the urge to scream. She wondered if her publisher would let her out of the contract if she checked herself into an insane asylum. Her career hinged on this book and she couldn't even complete a solid first chapter. She stared at the notepad next to her, which was filled with doodles, then the paragraph on the screen and laughed at what she had typed. Why couldn't she focus?

She sighed fiercely, knowing the reason was sleeping in the other room. Drake was a definite problem. He was no longer a sorcerer she could relegate to her fantasies. He was a real man who had a past, who smoked when he was upset and made love when he wasn't. He had seen her at her worst and didn't care, but he wasn't safe. She knew that loving him would involve more than her heart; it would involve her soul, her mind, and before she could think, she would find herself married again. Feeling all the sensations a new marriage could offer before the novelty wore off and he discovered what marriage was about. That she wasn't always funny, that she could eat an entire pie without thinking. No, she didn't want to be present to see his illusion shattered as Timothy's had.

At first Timothy had been her perfect husband, her romantic ideal, but quickly all that charm had soured and she discovered the true man behind the extravagant gestures—impulsive trips to Europe, Asia, and the Caribbean. Gifts that made her head spin and events that were attended by notable personalities. In the beginning, he made her feel like a queen; by the end she felt like a servant. All that he had proposed to love before soon revolted him: her choice in clothes, her hair, the way the house was decorated, but most important the way she ate. He said he couldn't stand to watch her eat no matter how small the portions. After discovering his affair with Debra—casually discarded gift receipts and hotel reservations, seeing them in bed together—she knew her marriage was over. He had pursued her, then rejected her, and now he suddenly wanted her back. Was his ego so large that he hadn't expected his chubby little wife to really leave him and make it on her own?

She turned off the computer, dismissing the idea. Knowing Timothy, it wouldn't be something that deep. He was probably just bored.

This isn't wise,
she thought, staring at Drake's dark shape in the bed, but right now she didn't want to be wise. She wanted to be held and enjoyed and desired. She changed into her peach satin and lace nightgown (no doubt Drake had scrounged through her cotton pajamas to find this one), crawled under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling waiting for sleep to come. Drake gently tugged her toward him until her head rested on his chest. She lifted her head and kissed him.

She felt him smile. "What was that for?" he asked.

"Acknowledging your roots."

"What about you?"

She rested her head, melting into his warmth as he stroked her back. "What about me?"

"Tell me about yourself."

"I was born on the banks of the Mississippi to a Pentecostal preacher and his wife—"

"The real version."

She lifted her head. "But this one is much more interesting. I haven't even told you how many siblings I have."

"I don't care. I want the truth."

Cassie crossed her arms on his chest. "Okay, I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The middle child to Angela and Oscar Graham."

"How could you be the middle child when there were four of you?"

She paused, trying to understand who he was referring to. Then she remembered he'd seen her album. "Clarence, the eldest, was from another mother. He stayed to himself a lot." She didn't feel the need to mention how he used to walk them to school and help prepare their lunches or how much it hurt when he left at sixteen. "My father was a university professor, my mother a dress consultant. My older sister was homecoming queen three times in a row and graduated from Penn State with an attractive but useless degree in philosophy and is now married to a stockbroker. My younger brother made it into Texas AMU on a football scholarship and is now a sports commentator. He has yet to settle down. That's it."

"No, it's not."

"What do you mean?"

He yawned. "You have yet to tell me anything about yourself."

"I had the typical middle-class childhood and typical middle-child upbringing. Nothing in my life stood out except me of course. Isn't that enough?"

His reply was a soft snore.

"I told you it would bore you," she muttered. She closed her eyes and tried to push away any worrisome thoughts. His warmth and steady breathing combined with the comforting sound of his heartbeat finally lulled her to sleep.

* * *

She was floating on a wave of syrup, rolling with butter on hot French toast, until she approached a waterfall of strawberries and melon balls. Cassie sighed, waking from her dream with disappointment. She stretched and smelled the air that greeted her with scents that made her stomach growl. She grabbed her robe and ran to the kitchen.

Drake was at the stove, wearing worn jeans and an apron, happily whistling to the rhythm of a xylophone that came from the speaker, and the sound of something sizzling filled the air. She watched him check the oven, add lemon to a pan, then toss something in the air and catch it in the pan. It all looked like a dance. Not wanting to startle him, she knocked on the wall.

He grinned as she approached. "Sleeping Beauty has awakened. Are you ready to eat?"

"You never have to ask me that."

He pointed his spatula to the set table. "Sit down."

"Oh, this is wonderful," she said, admiring the fan-shaped yellow napkin that lay on the plate.

"You deserve it."

He placed in front of her toasted bagels with tomatoes and ricotta cheese, seasoned scrambled eggs, sable with dill sauce, sliced honeydew, and mangoes. The smell of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee complemented the air.

She opened her mouth to tell him how wonderful it was, but he held up his hand and shook his head.

"Do not speak, madam," he said in the tone of a stuffy waiter. "Merely enjoy. That will be thanks enough."

Drake untied his apron and joined her at the table. Together they ate, listening to the light pelting of rain, the soothing sound of a flute over the loudspeaker, while a watery sunlight slipped through the windows.

* * *

He didn't allow her to thank him as she finished the meal or as he drove her home. She was glad to be completely better and now there was no other reason to stay with him. Although in her imagination she could think of a million reasons to. She watched Drake's car disappear into traffic as he rushed to get some errands done, then turned and stared at the dull red of her building. Their good-bye had been quick, almost anticlimactic. He had given her a brief kiss on the forehead, 'Whatever that meant,' smiled, and left. No "Good luck," no "Take care," not even "I'll call you." Not that she expected him to. She was glad to be back to get on with her life. Glad that he finally recognized that it was best to leave things as they were and not expect more. Her mind was keen on the idea. Her heart, however, was heavy.

She stepped into the elevator, determined to get hold of her mixed emotions, and saw Glen buried in a book:
Finding Love after Divorce
.

"Good book?" she asked.

He hastily closed it and moved it out of view. "Not really, I was just curious. Perhaps I'll write a book of my own someday." He tapped the cover. "Doesn't seem hard."

"Famous last words. What's that on your wrist?" she asked, noticing a purple rash.

"Food allergy."

She made a face. "Ugh. Food can really be a nasty beast, it either makes you fat or gives you a rash. I hope the meal was worth it."

"Unfortunately, I'll probably do it again. So where have you been? I've missed you at aerobics." He flexed a muscle.

Cassie gave it an appreciative squeeze. "Very nice. I was at a friend's place."

"And from that vague reply, I'd say it was a male friend." He quirked a brow, looking very much like a professor. "Sounds serious."

"It's not. I wasn't feeling well."

"Sorry to hear that. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Are we still on for the poetry reading?" he asked as the elevator doors opened on her floor.

She smiled at him as she stepped out. "Definitely."

At least she had something to look forward to. Something else to occupy her mind. She turned the corner and saw Timothy about to knock on her door. Her good mood left. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I need to talk to you."

She heard the door creak open next door.

"Hi, Mr. Gianolo," she called. "I'm fine."

There was a grunt and then the door closed.

She pushed Timothy aside and opened her apartment door. She held out her hand when he began to follow her inside. "You can't come in."

He frowned, confused. "Why?"

She placed her bags down. "Because this is a Timothy-free zone."

His handsome face creased with worry. "Cassie, I really need to talk to you."

She folded her arms, unmoved by his expression. "To put me down or ask me back?"

"I'm sorry about the other day. You looked so good, I was jealous. You know I say horrible things when I'm jealous."

"Or upset, or hurt, or annoyed, or confused, or—"