by Lynn, Sophia
“Good morning,” he said. “I’d turn around, but I need to keep stirring.”
“Um, no problem. I’m just going to get a quick shower, and I’ll be right with you.”
“Take your time, I still need a little while on the butter.”
It hadn’t escaped Myriah’s notice that the sloppy jeans and T-shirt were gone, replaced with dark trousers that had probably been made for him, and a dark blue button-down shirt that had definitely been made for him.
She decided to take him at his word and luxuriate in the shower, because with three lively girls underfoot, getting more than five minutes under the hot spray was an intense luxury. She took the time to wash her hair thoroughly, to use the fancy soaps she had and never got a chance to use, and when she emerged from the shower, she felt like a snake that had shed its skin.
In her bedroom, Myriah hesitated over her closet. It was her instinct to reach for one of her sweatshirts and a pair of leggings, her usual go-to daily uniform, but that felt wrong for today.
Well, I don’t have anything that’s been made for me, but I guess I don’t have to look like a slob.
She found a lilac-colored dress that she hadn’t gotten to wear for ages, soft and sprinkled with white flowers. The dress was demure, or at least it had been before she had gotten pregnant. Now there was a slight stretch to it that clung to her rounder, lusher body, and she blinked at herself in the mirror.
Not mommy clothing and not dull professional clothing. I had almost forgotten I could look like this.
Then Myriah blushed at how silly she was being, and, chuckling, pulled her hair up in a loose bun. She was being ridiculous about what was likely just going to be a companionable breakfast.
She emerged into the kitchen to see Halil setting some plates down on the table.
“Good timing. So I’ve got . . .”
His words trailed off when he looked up at her, and to Myriah’s surprise, his eyes widened. She laughed self-consciously.
“You got really used to seeing me in a sweatshirt, didn’t you?”
“It’s not that,” he said after a moment. “I’ve always known that you are beautiful. It’s just that every now and then, I’m reminded of the degree and the depth of it.”
“Halil . . .” she said, a blush coming up to her cheeks, but just then, the kettle whistled and Halil had to turn back to the stove.
Saved by the kettle, she thought, sitting down. Who knew what would have happened if she had finished that thought? When Halil turned back to her, there was something much more normal in his gaze, something slightly shuttered away.
“All right. I decided to make us some eggs with a paprika butter sauce and I made up some rolls while I was at it . . .”
Myriah blinked.
“You . . . cooked and you baked? That’s a thing you can do?”
Halil gave her a smile that was perilously close to being a smirk.
“It is within my capabilities, yes. You would be hard-pressed to find a more traditional Ealim breakfast, and when I was on my own, I missed it and I decided that if I couldn’t find it easily where I was traveling, I might as well learn to make it myself.”
“Was it hard? You should have gotten me up to help. I could have . . . well, I supposed cracked the eggs for you?”
Myriah had to admit that beyond the basics needed to keep her girls alive, she wasn’t very good in the kitchen. Rose was a better cook than she was, but even her skills were fairly basic. Myriah watched as Halil set a plate in front of her, and she realized how graceful he was, how every movement was assured and easy. The food, set on her homey plain white plates, looked wonderful—poached eggs with a smooth red sauce poured over them and hot buttered rolls set off to one side.
“This looks amazing,” she said, and Halil chuckled.
“Good. I will warn you that if you are eating this Ealim, it is very common to get it with akali, so you know. Order with care.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Myriah said, and then she took her first bite. “Oh my god this is so good . . .”
She assumed that Halil said something in response to that, but she wasn’t paying attention as she worked on getting more of the food into her mouth. It was piping hot and the combination of salty, savory, and spicy flavors awoke something inside her.
I guess it’s been a while since I’ve had a decent hot meal, she thought with some surprise. Usually we’re so very busy with the girls that by the time we are ready to eat, the food is lukewarm . . .
She was halfway done with the food Halil had put in front of her when she looked up to see him watching her with something soft and glowing in his eyes.
“I’m making a bit of a pig of myself, aren’t I?” she asked, a little self-conscious, and Halil shook his head.
“It’s just a bit of a wonder to see you enjoying something solely for yourself for once. I think I have seen you enjoy maybe a handful of things for yourself alone since I have come here.”
“Well, that’s right, isn’t it? Our girls come first.”
“Of course they do. But you need to take care of yourself as well. Or, at least, let me do it.”
Myriah laughed a little, wondering at the strange tension in the air.
“Are you going to look after me?”
“If you let me.”
They ate in silence for a moment, and Myriah tried not to let her mind run wild over what he meant. He probably meant things like breakfast and other such things, she decided. Nothing to get crazy over or to think that he was going to threaten the peace that had hopped up between them.
When they were both done with the food, Myriah rose and started gathering the plates.
“I’ll wash these. Rose said something about not getting back until eight tonight, do you want to come over for bedtime or . . . ?”
Halil frowned, looking a little surprised. “I suppose I could go get some things taken care of, but I was thinking that we might spend the day together.”
“Why?” The word slipped past Myriah’s lips, and she winced. She supposed she could blame the babies on her being more blunt than she should have been these days, but there had always been points in her life when she opened her mouth and put her foot squarely into it. To her relief, instead of being offended, Halil only smiled.
“Because I think that while we’ve been doing very well together, we’ve mostly been taking care of the girls, and in my case, learning more about what they need and how I might fit into the picture. Right now, I want to spend more time with you because, well . . . I missed you when you were gone.”
“Well, I guess it’s pretty easy to get overwhelmed with three little girls around . . .”
“No. I meant I missed you after London. I thought about you nearly every day.”
There were a dozen questions on Myriah’s mind; so many things that she wanted to ask and simply couldn’t because it might harm the peace that had sprung up between them.
“Halil . . .”
To her surprise, he rose up and took her hands. There was something oddly old-fashioned about the gesture, something courtly, especially when he brought them to his heart.
“Come with me. Please.”
“All right,” she said, and she felt something like champagne bubbles of laughter coming up in her chest, filling her with a joy that was as light and lovely as air. “All right.”
***
Myriah wasn’t sure what to expect when Halil drove them both into Boston in his sleek black car. He handled the traditionally very aggressive traffic with an offhand skill that Myriah was startled to find very attractive, and soon enough, they ended up at a mansion in a quiet neighborhood just a little off the capitol. It was what Myriah tended to think of as a stately home, and she was surprised when Halil stopped and came around to open the door for her.
“What is this place?”
“You told me once that one reason you liked living in Boston was the history.”
She blinked. “You . . . remembered that?”
“Why do you look so surprised?”
“Because that was more than three years ago? Because most people don’t pay attention to what other people say?”
“What’s my favorite painting?”
“Klimt’s big gold painting, “The Kiss,” Myriah said promptly, and then she blinked. “Wait, how long have I been holding on to that?”
Halil laughed.
“Probably the same place I was holding on to the fact that you love women’s history? This house belonged to Madame Amelie Dufresne.”
Myriah blinked in surprise.
“Really?”
“Yes. One of Boston’s great unrecognized poets. The place is a historical museum these days, but from what I learned, it’s not on most registries for some reason.”
Myriah found herself blushing a little.
“Oh, well that may have something to do with the kind of work she was writing. It’s pretty exceptional stuff today, let alone back when she was alive.”
“I haven’t actually read any of her work . . .”
“Oh . . . it’s . . . it’s really amazing,” she said, and before he could ask her any other questions, she tugged him into the mansion.
I honestly think I might burn up with blushes if I have to explain to him what her poetry was actually about.
The only person at the desk was a bored older woman reading a rather lurid romance novel, and she gave them the information for the self-guided tour without looking up at them. She told them sternly to stay on the marked path, and that there was to be no touching of the furniture, and then she promptly got back to ignoring them.
“This is so incredible,” Myriah said, wandering through the upper floor. “This place is more than two hundred years old . . .”
Halil chuckled, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he trailed around after her.
“You know, there are places in my country where this would look brand new.”
“I’m afraid that I was mostly in the more modern parts of Ealim,” she said. “Most of what I saw was on par with what I’ve seen in the modern parts of New York and London.”
“I’ll take you to see the ancient parts sometime. We have a city in the northern part of the country that is carved into the rock, and some experts are saying that people lived there when writing was being developed.”
The breadth of the history that Halil was talking about so very casually took Myriah’s breath away. She was standing in a manor that had been built for a poet who was born before her country even was, and Halil was mentioning a civilization that was active before people ever put pen to paper.
“I’ll take you back sometime. You and Rose and the girls. It’s beautiful in a lonely kind of way out there. I’ve always felt it should be important to the entire world, but for the girls, it’s their history.”
For some reason, the considering way Halil spoke made her throat feel entirely too tight. She had to look away from Halil for a moment, pretending to be examining a little statue on the table nearby. She was nearly together enough to suggest that they continue when Halil laughed a little.
“Interesting choice of statuary,” he commented, and Myriah had a chance to really focus on what she was staring at.
The statue was only a foot high, and made of marble. There was a naked woman leaned against the tree, and from where she stood, the woman was peeping up at her, her mouth a surprised Oh. Or . . . not surprise, Myriah realized with surprise.
It took Myriah a moment to realize that there was a man standing behind her, one hand curled intimately around her hip. He was standing very close to the woman, Myriah thought, and then she saw how his expression seemed halfway between exalted and blissful.
“Oh my gosh, they’re . . . They’re really . . .”
“I mean, it’s against the rules, but we could turn them around and see?”
“No! I mean, no, we should absolutely not do that,” she said. “No. Let’s just . . . move on.”
Of course, the next room was Madame Dufresne’s bedroom, and the lewd statue was apparently just what she was comfortable leaving on display. The woman’s bed was a luxurious confection of white coverlets and silk drapes, and the enormous mirror that was tilted up to reflect the bed gave no illusions about what it was actually there for.
Halil examined a painting that was described as the Revelation of Adam and Eve, and Myriah could tell that there was really no religious thought that had gone into the two joyful figures.
“So, Myriah. Maybe it’s time you told me exactly what Madame Dufresne was famous for . . .”
“Well, she was an independently wealthy woman who came from France. She claimed to be a well-off widow, but there’s some . . . let’s say, doubt about the accuracy of that claim.”
“She had a rich lover,” Halil guessed.
“She had several rich lovers. And at least some of the money came from some very popular books that she published anonymously as well. Both because she was a woman and because of the content.”
“Can you recite any of it for me?”
Myriah felt a low heat kindle in her body. There was something heady about it, being in this historic location where one of the most exceptional women of the New World had entertained some of her distinguished guests. Had she performed her poetry for her lovers in this room as well? Had it been a prelude to the energetic and tender love-making sessions that she described so very lovingly in her secret journals, only unearthed decades after her death?
“I . . . I can; at least I remember some of a few of her poems. Just give me a moment, let me see.” Myriah cleared her throat, finding it suddenly dry.
My heart like a deep still pool in the water,
My soul as a hind waits for thee.
My lips parted like the skin of apple,
The temple below waits for thine key.
If you knew me on Sunday,
You must know me again now.
The rain falls down the window,
And to your grace I bow . . .
She didn’t have the rest of it, but it turned out that she didn’t need it. Halil came across the room toward her, but to her surprise, he didn’t take her in the arms. At some point, perhaps when she had started reciting the soft words of Madame Amelie Dufresne’s soft and seductive plea to her lover, perhaps even before that, the air had become charged with a kind of electricity that she could not quite understand, something that felt as if all it would take was a single touch to ignite the world.
“Your lips are gorgeous,” Halil said, almost to himself. “Sometimes, when you are saying the most innocent thing, when you are biting into an apple or when you are licking your lips because you are nervous, I find myself wanting to kiss you, to see if I can still your mouth and bring you some kind of peace with mine . . .”
“That’s not something I have ever thought about, with regards to my mouth, I mean.”
“You think of yourself altogether too little. Take a lesson from your friend Madame Dufresne. She thought a great deal of herself and how her body was made to please her.”
“And will you? Please yourself, I mean?” asked Myriah. He had been talking about her lips, but she could barely take her eyes off of his. It was too easy to remember how good those very lips had made her feel, to wonder what it might be like if he simply pushed her onto the pure white bed. Would he rise above her, raining kisses down on her upturned face, or would he lift her above him, holding her tight as the pleasure shook them both?
“I’ll please myself by pleasing you,” he said, his voice dropped down to a whisper. “How can I please you, Myriah?”
He was so close now that the breath from his words caressed her lips. If she just leaned forward a moment, if she were only a few inches closer, she could lean up into his kiss, and then let the fire consume them, no matter what happened afterwards.
She might have done just that if a phone hadn’t chirped. It was in appropriate in the extreme, in that moment, in that place, but it had the effect o
f pulling them apart, both of them blinking as if they were young birds taken out of the box and exposed to real sunlight for the first time in their lives. Myriah had heard before that birds exposed too quickly to light could drop dead of the shock, and now she wondered if she knew how they felt.
Myriah ignored the voice in her that clamored to feel Halil pressed against her, but instead she heroically reached for her phone.
“It could be important,” she said haplessly, and Halil, who still looked as lean and hungry as a winter wolf, nodded.
She fumbled with her phone, feeling as if she were taking forever to thumb it open to read the text. When she saw that the text was from Rose, she felt a brief moment of panic, wondering what might have gone wrong, but then she saw that the text was only a picture. She opened it, and then almost immediately, she let out a long sigh of relief and a laugh.
“What is it?” asked Halil, and silently, she passed the phone to him. He saw it, and started to laugh.
It was a picture of Leah, Mina, and Katie seated at a low table, their faces smeared with cake and expressions of gleeful delight as they waved at the person behind the camera. Sitting with them was a frazzled young lady who didn’t seem aware that she had a piece of candy stuck in her hair. There was a wild look in her eyes, and the text that came with the picture said: Meet the newest member of the chemistry department!
“Well, Rose and the girls seemed to have rescued this woman from a life path that she should not have been on. Well done,” Halil said, and Myriah giggled.
“I don’t know how proud of that we should be, but they had a good time today and yes, it’s probably best that girl found out how she feels about young children before she commits.”
There was a silence between them, and Myriah realized that in another moment, they would be kissing and touching each other, and all of the resolve that they had would go out the window.
“We can’t do this,” she said, her voice more like a sigh than anything else.
“I want to ask why not, but we know very well why not, don’t we?” asked Halil.
“We do.”
“All right. Come on. There’s still more to see.”
