He stretched out. Instead of leaving him, she got beneath the quilt alongside him, back turned, and pulled his arm beneath her own, clasping his hand against the soft rise of her breasts.
During the week that followed, the makeshift Ellsworth-Rease family established a comfortable pattern. Every morning, Brenna sat with Daniel for breakfast, which she insisted on preparing for him before he left home. Mostly, breakfast consisted of her pouring something into a glass or bowl. Midweek, she made him toast so desiccated it shattered when he bit into it. He didn’t care. She was seeing him off for his day. He crunched his way through it, and when he got to work, he bought a take-away sandwich and ate at his desk as he wrote.
At midnight, after eighteen-hour office days, he trudged up his back steps. His heart flipped happily each time he saw her curled up in the glow of the lamplight, waiting for him. She looked a bit gray on the days she had physiotherapy, but every night she was devotedly there, smiling, holding out her arms for an embrace.
By tacit agreement, they slept on the couch, neutral turf, not private enough to give in to the temptation of intercourse, not imposing on each other’s private space.
Gary tracked down psychologists. He contacted eight PTSD specialists and personally interviewed four, without revealing who the patient was. Only one candidate looked like a potential match for Brenna, but she had no openings for six months—too long a wait. His search continued.
James took Brenna to physiotherapy, coordinated home visits with the wound care nurse, and arranged her medication refills—all the while he fielded phone calls from his clinic in New York City, trying to keep things running from afar.
Daniel knew James was watching Brenna carefully, deciding whether he felt comfortable leaving her ‘alone’ with him. He overheard Brenna protest to James that she could take care of herself, but James was worried she would feel stuck without him. “You have to stay because you want to, not because you’re trapped.”
“For god’s sakes, James. I can take a taxi. I live on 34th Street.”
“Yeah? And then what?”
She was silent, then muttered. “I’ll be all right.”
Daniel’s script for the documentary took on a life of its own. Writing in journal style liberated him in a way he hadn’t felt in over a decade. He had left his creative side behind for so many years at EBS, as he took on more and more management responsibilities. The script was nowhere finished. There were core gaps he found difficult to address: The gang rape. His terror during the market massacre. The loss of the children. But he was able to complete enough to assign the video editor the task of finding and starting to assemble footage that would visually convey his meaning. As Brenna promised, the images were there.
Thursday night, he came home early, before James and Gary retired for the night, so they could make plans. His parents were due the next day.
Brenna was in her usual spot in the family room when he arrived. James and Gary were sitting in the armchairs, reading. A large cardboard box sat open on the coffee table in front of her. “Look,” she said, smiling when she saw him, holding out her hand to draw him over. “Father sent me Mom’s cookbooks.”
As the Envoy had said, the books were worn, dusty with flour, smudged with butter.
“Of course,” she said, picking up a stack of hand-written index cards and flipping through them, “I have no clue what any of it means.”
He thought of her toast, knew she had a long way to go before she could interpret family recipes. “Let’s see,” he said, sitting beside her.
She handed him the cards. The ink was faded, the handwriting the European style with the long stems and curlicues.
“That’s my mom’s writing. And this must be my grandmother’s, or even my great-grandmother’s.”
“Why don’t you pick out something you remember her cooking, and we can make it together?”
“I vote Boxty,” James said.
Daniel had no idea how to prepare Boxty.
Brenna shuffled through the cards, held one up. “Here it is.”
Daniel took the card, read the ingredients. “I’ll shop.”
She took the sides of his face in her hands and planted a kiss on his mouth. “Deal.”
He hesitated. “I have note cards if you want to send your Dad a thank you.”
Her brow rose. “Crafty, Ellsworth.”
He shrugged. “I think it would mean a lot to him.” He dropped the subject. Later, he’d set a blank card and a pen down beside her and see what she did with it.
At seven o’clock the next morning, Friday, Brenna was eating breakfast with Daniel, but he wasn’t suited up, just in jeans and a shirt. He would be working from home today. Already, he’d called his office phone and forwarded it to his house. If needed, he could remotely login to the EBS server. James and Gary were heading back to New York at noon. Daniel’s parents expected to arrive around four.
Every time Brenna thought about their arrival, she felt disquieted. She had never done the Meet the Parents thing—Ari had been an orphan.
James clumped down the stairs, dressed in dry-cleaned chinos and a button-down shirt. “Before I forget,” he told her without preamble, holding out the first of several objects in his hands, “here’s your credit card and the checkbook from your bank here in D.C.” He handed her a sealed plastic bag with loose, blood-stained papers. “The ID, passport, and travel docs that were in the pants they cut off you in Weisbaden. Worse for wear. And five hundred bucks cash from your bank account so you can chip in on groceries. Or whatever.”
Independence money, he didn’t say. The means to leave Daniel’s home if she desired.
“Now—” He pulled out his wallet and plucked out two of his business cards, handing one to her and the other to Daniel. “These are the back numbers at the clinic, as well as the number on my desk, so you can call me directly if anything arises. When I get there, I’ll instruct everyone to put either of you through immediately. I can be here in a few hours if you need me, Bear. Did Gary go over your meds with you?”
James was officially in fussing mode, nervous about leaving her. She forbore any caustic remarks about having survived thirty months in Kavsak, and feeling certain she could read a prescription label. Still, she would miss him. It had been good, having him by her side. And yeah, maybe she felt a little trepidation about staying with Daniel. She was handing him the keys, as it were. Making him her designated driver.
Gary sprang down the stairs in what he would be the first to call his ‘light in the loafers’ gait, and chirped ‘good mornings’. He was a New Yorker, happily anticipating his return to the metropolis. “Ready for your shower, Bear?”
He had promised to wrap her bandages in plastic and help her get her first shower since she left D.C. for Kavsak.
“God, yes.” She reached for the silver-handled walking stick. She was so over washcloth cleanups and leaning over sinks to shampoo. “I’ll be back when the hot water’s all gone,” she told Daniel.
When Alden and Margaret Ellsworth drove to Daniel’s from Portland, they made the trip in three days, stopping to catch up with friends outside of New York, and in Philadelphia along the way. On average, they made the trip twice a year, Spring and Fall. Daniel went to Maine for summer vacations, and for Christmas.
Margaret was eager to meet Brenna. Daniel was clearly in love with her. True love. The day-to-day effort of living with a person with PTSD could be daunting, and a man without a true commitment would have failed by now, had he not that degree of dedication.
His own journey to recovery after losing Aya and Joseph Alden had been difficult. Establishing a new love life was a milestone. Brenna, despite her struggles, had to be extraordinary to cut through his fog. She hoped they were a good match.
Alden, she knew, was skeptical. He’d promised not to interfere but he confided his doubts about Brenna’s suitability for their son, given her past. “Is that what you want for a daughter-in-law? An easy woman?” he had asked her.
“What I want is someone who cherishes him and makes him happy, whatever mistakes she’s made otherwise. She may be the one. Just keep an open mind, Alden.”
“I will. I am.”
After they exited Interstate 495 onto Connecticut Avenue, and got nearer to Daniel’s neighborhood, she saw a market with cut flowers out front and asked Alden to pull over while she went inside and got Brenna a mixed bouquet. She didn’t want to arrive empty-handed.
Poor woman, living with Daniel already and she hadn’t met his parents. She must be feeling uneasy, and Daniel had said over the cell phone that her brother and his partner had already left for New York. She would be feeling awkward, staying on alone with Daniel.
Alden pulled into the driveway at four-fifteen, a few minutes later than expected. The front door opened almost at once. Daniel came down the steps to the driveway to greet them.
My wonderful, dear, son.
“Ma!”
She got out of the car a bit stiffly, wound her arms around his waist, and rested her head against his chest, grateful all over again that he had returned safely from Kavsak. She and Alden had come so close to losing him.
Alden came around the car. “Son. Your mother’s already misty-eyed. What did you say to her?”
Daniel turned to his Dad and gave him a warm hug and shoulder-slap. “I said ‘Ma’. That’s all, Dad, I swear.”
The men chuckled. She reached into the car and extracted the bouquet.
“Flowers, Ma?”
“For Brenna.”
Daniel smiled, pleased at her overture. “Oh, that’s nice. She’ll like that you brought ’em. She’s become increasingly tense, all afternoon.”
His Dad pressed his lips together.
“What have you said about us, dear, to have her in such a state?”
“Nothing. She lost her mom when she was twelve. Has a strained relationship with her dad. I’m not sure she knows what to do with parents.”
“Acrimonious,” Alden said. “The relationship with her father is acrimonious.”
“Dad.” Daniel’s tone changed. “You promised. Get to know her before you judge.”
“Sorry.”
“She’ll read you like a book,” Daniel warned, lifting their bag out of the trunk and leading the way up the brick path.
Inside, the house was immaculate and smelled like Murphy’s Oil. Daniel set the bag down in the foyer, took their light jackets and hung them on the hooks. “Brenna’s in the family room,” he said, leading the way.
Brenna was rising from the couch. Daniel went to her side to help her stand up.
When Brenna turned, Margaret saw her fully for the first time. Her heart stopped. She recognized this rare creature, the confluence of beauty, intelligence, wealth, and social status. She transformed a room merely by being in it. She was gifted, intense, charismatic. She had a palpable allure, a sexual draw, a potent way of attracting people to her, simply by being. Men fell at the feet of women like this, seduced by the lure of conquest, the promise of abandoned sensuality. A woman like this, if capricious, left a trail of broken hearts—hearts she would step over without a backward glance once she became bored.
For the first time since Daniel had begun speaking about her, Margaret feared for him.
Margaret straightened, reminded herself that Brenna Rease had saved her son’s life. A selfish woman, a user, would not have put herself at risk for Daniel. Margaret had to trust Daniel’s judgment. “Hello, dear,” she said. “I’m Margaret. I’m so glad to meet you at last.” She held out the bouquet. “These are for you.”
Brenna’s eyes fluttered from Margaret’s face—which she had been watching intently—to the cut flowers.
“Oh.” She took the bouquet, momentarily flustered. “Uh. They’re beautiful. Thanks.”
“And this is Daniel’s father, Alden.”
He stepped forward, hesitated for an instant when he saw his own father’s walking stick in Brenna’s hand.
Brenna’s remarkable green eyes flicked over his face. Margaret groaned inwardly. A brilliant photographer would miss nothing. No micro-expression would pass unnoticed.
Alden extended his hand.
Brenna’s fingers twitched on the cane’s handle, as if it had suddenly become too hot to hold. “Dr. Ellsworth,” she said, her tone reserved.
“Alden,” he said.
Daniel protectively rested his fingers on the nape of her neck. “What can I get everyone to drink? Mom?”
“A little iced tea?”
He nodded. “I’ve got a pitcher in the fridge. Dad? A beer? I’ve got a nice Dogfish Head ale. Micro-brewed in Delaware.”
“Sounds good. The Beltway was a bit brisk. I could relax a bit.” His dad took the armchair across from the couch.
“I’ll join you. Bren?”
Standing as close to her as he was, when he turned his face to hers, it created a zone of intimacy between them. She looked up at him. Her eyes met his, scanned his face. Her expression relaxed imperceptibly.
“Is there any of that pineapple juice left?” Brenna murmured, her voice soft as a summer’s evening, intended for him only.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Could I have that, please?”
In that instant, Margaret knew she had nothing to worry about. Brenna saw Daniel as who he was. Kind. Tender. Thoughtful. Margaret saw appreciation, not entitlement. This woman prized her son. When she looked at him, she gave the impression that nothing else existed.
Daniel gave the nape of Brenna’s neck a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t be long.”
Brenna stood there, not bearing full weight on her right leg, one hand on the cane, the other holding the bouquet. She had no way to brace herself while she sat down again.
“Here,” Margaret said. “Why don’t I help you unwrap these flowers?” She took the bouquet out of her hand.
Brenna, using her now-free hand to hold the armrest, eased herself down. Margaret sat next to her, knees pointed in her direction, not so close as to intrude on her personal space, nor so far as to seem distant. Body language counted with Brenna, of that she was certain.
“Do you have a vase, Daniel?” Normally, Margaret would have gone for it herself. She felt comfortable in her son’s home. But she wasn’t leaving Brenna and Alden alone—not while they were casting mistrustful glances at each other.
The cellophane crinkled as Margaret tugged the staples loose.
“I like the irises,” Brenna finally said.
“Yes. Nice contrast to the orange Gerbera.”
Daniel reappeared, set a vase down on the coffee table, half-full of water, and a pair of kitchen scissors to cut the nutrient packet open. “Mom loves flowers,” he said. “She and Dad went to that flower clearing-house near Amsterdam. What’s it called, Mom?”
“The Bloemenveiling in Aalsmeer,” she said. Clever man, giving her the opening, providing a link to a neutral topic, upon which he knew she could expound while he went back to the kitchen.
He came back again shortly with a laden tray. Brenna’s juice included a skewer with fresh pineapple chunks. He set down two canapé trays, one beside herself and Brenna, the other between his and his father’s armchairs opposite the couch.
“The weekend’s supposed to be beautiful,” he said, taking the second armchair. “Mid- to high-70s, and clear skies. I thought we could get out in the garden, maybe barbecue, eat on the deck. What do you think?”
The conversation segued smoothly to weekend plans, Margaret’s upcoming conference, and topics beyond.
As the conversation unfolded, Margaret covertly watched Brenna. She observed the gathering, listening acutely but silently, her striking green eyes assessing everything, including Alden’s tension. This was the gift, the skill. Observation. Evaluation. Selection. What interested Margaret, however, was what was occurring on the personal plane, behind the shields. Because shields there were.
For most people, self-revelation was habitual, unconsidered. Within moments of meeting others, hum
ans divulged themselves. With little prompting, two women, strangers on a bus, would soon be discussing their husbands, their children, even their menstrual cycles.
Brenna, however, had mastered personal effacement to the point of invisibility. That in itself was telling. Although PTSD—with the attendant emotional lability, flashbacks, and dissociations—was difficult for any patient, Margaret thought that for Brenna, accustomed to emotional control, it must be profoundly destabilizing. The fact that she remained so close to Daniel despite the instability suggested absolute trust in him.
Brenna sat across from Daniel’s father for dinner. He’d been studying her since he’d arrived, and she’d been letting him look all he wanted. But now she was tired of it. He had a boil, and she was going to lance it. She knew what it was. Same old, same old.
While Daniel and his mom muzzed about something inconsequential beside her, she lifted her eyes across the table and nailed him with her gaze. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “Ask.”
He looked down, busied himself with the dilled salmon on his dish. “I don’t know what—”
“Sure you do.”
His eyes darted to Daniel.
“What did you do—an internet search?”
Alden’s eyes flickered back to her.
“How many hits, these days? Thousands? The mother lode, anyway. All the juicy details about my promiscuity, my drunken binges.”
Daniel and Margaret, alerted by her dangerous undertone, stopped talking, looked from Brenna to Alden. Her sword was drawn. They hadn’t missed the rapier hiss.
“Archives-full of my social and personal history. My debauchery.”
“Brenna,” Daniel warned.
“I suppose you saw the photo. Me, sprawled on the billiard table, legs spread for—”
“Jesus, Brenna. Dad, what did you say to her?”
“Nothing,” she interrupted. “Your father has said absolutely nothing. But you want to know, don’t you, Dr. Ellsworth? Am I sitting in his wife’s old spot? I am, aren’t I? I’ve seen her picture. She looks perfect. Demure. Beyond reproach. A woman to make Daniel proud.”
“Brenna, stop.”
She didn’t. She was plunging headlong down a path, the incline steep enough to exert its own pull. “But—me. You have to wonder how such a sullied woman ended up in your son’s home, don’t you?”
Day Three Page 45
