A Rush of Wings

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She stood up and staggered to her door, lingered there, then went back to the bed. Her mind had overlapped the memories. Maybe the trauma of Michael’s violence had triggered the old terror. Staring at the hawk, her body remembered the violation of her innocence. And she had attributed all of it to Michael.

  “Are you trying to destroy me?” Had he killed himself because of her accusation? “He’d be alive if it weren’t for you.” Assault and battery was not rape. He could have gotten off with probation and mandatory anger management. But she’d accused him of worse. Had she pushed him over an edge because she didn’t know, couldn’t put together the pieces that were tearing her mind apart?

  Overwhelming dismay seized her. Had she caused Michael’s death? She groaned as the shakes seized her. Not fear now, but … guilt? Her teeth chattered. Maybe she did need help. But she didn’t trust anyone to give it.

  Noelle ran her fingers over the piano keys, stopped, and fingered the passage again. The phrase was difficult, but she could master it. She caught motion from the corner of her eye and looked up.

  Her father said, “There’s a man here to see you.”

  She frowned. “Tell him I’m not interested.” Daddy should know that. Whomever he’d put up to it this time…

  “Noelle, I am not your personal secretary. Tell him yourself.”

  She slammed the cover down over the keyboard and saw him wince. Then she rose from the piano and stalked out to the entry. She stopped. Her heart skipped a beat. “Morgan!”

  His smile was rascally as ever, and it caught something inside her and tugged. The curt dismissal she’d intended died on her lips. Instead her voice rushed on. “Daddy, this is Morgan Spencer. Morgan, my father, William St. Claire.”

  Morgan shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure.” Then he turned and brushed her up and down with his eyes.

  She spread her hands. “What are you doing here?”

  “Business. But in between, I thought I’d have dinner with a beautiful woman.”

  She found the familiarity of his words strangely comforting.

  Her father nudged her. “How can you refuse?”

  “Thank you, Daddy. I can accept my own invitations.” She turned back to Morgan. “I’ll need a moment to get ready.”

  “Make it count. We’ll go somewhere nice.”

  Naturally. She felt his eyes all the way up the stairs. Morgan. What on earth had brought him? And why did it matter? In her room, she changed into a teal rayon dress, elegant but not overstated. Then she brushed out her hair. She started to work it into a braid but stopped and shook it loose.

  What was she doing? Why had she said yes? Because she wanted to go. Could it be that simple? Something had awakened in her with Morgan’s visit, and she wanted it to stay awake. The times they had spent ran together in her mind and mattered.

  Walking down, she heard Morgan talking about his latest project. No doubt Daddy was interested in more than Morgan’s profession. She joined them and recognized Morgan’s admiration as she pulled on her silver fox fur. Fur might not be politically correct, but there was nothing like it against your neck on a cold night, and she could tell he agreed.

  She kissed her father’s cheek, then took Morgan’s extended arm. He wasn’t sweeping her off to some mountain hole-in-the-wall; he had entered her world, and he fit remarkably well. His cab waited outside on the circular drive and started off as soon as he had tucked her in beside him.

  She said, “I suppose you know where we’re going?”

  “I do.”

  Did he ever not? She stared out at the city lights. Morgan stared at her. Familiarity again.

  She moistened her lips. “How did you know where I lived?”

  “Give me credit for half a brain.”

  She smiled. “I’m not listed in the phone book.”

  He only smiled back.

  She looked back out the window. It didn’t matter how he knew. The fact that he did meant a lot. It had been nearly a year since she’d last seen him, lounging against his white Lincoln rental car outside his parents’ house. Funny she should remember that so clearly. She didn’t say anything else while they drove, and surprisingly, he stayed quiet as well.

  He led her into La Belle Maison, waited while the maître d’ seated her and laid her napkin across her lap, then after the familiar stroke of his hand across her shoulders, Morgan took his own seat. “So.” He crossed his leg and studied her. “How are you?”

  Did he really expect her to say “I’m fine. How are you?”

  Their waiter approached, and Morgan said, “Dom Perignon. Nothing younger than 1990.”

  “We have a fine vintage, 1987.”

  Morgan nodded, and when the man left, he said, “I’m not drinking it alone.”

  “It’s never concerned you before.” She smoothed the napkin in her lap.

  “Killing a bottle of champagne by yourself is depressing.”

  Was it possible his eyes were bluer? The fine lines at their edges etched a little deeper? A hint of a shadow showed along his chin and upper lip, and his cheek creased when he half-smiled. What was he thinking?

  The waiter brought their champagne, allowed Morgan to approve the label, then opened the bottle and poured half an inch into two flutes. Noelle raised hers and sipped, now that protocol included women in the approval process. He’d made a good choice. Dom Perignon was Daddy’s favorite as well. Since neither of them protested, the waiter filled their glasses, tucked the bottle into the ice bucket, and left.

  Morgan raised his glass. “To my muse.”

  The flutes clinked, and Noelle raised her eyebrows. “Your muse?”

  “Inspiration.”

  “For what?”

  “This evening.” As though he needed inspiration to enjoy himself.

  She sipped, then opened the leather-cased menu and studied the selection. For some reason she thought of the Italian restaurant Rick had taken her to. The only restaurant he’d taken her to. “First date should be special.” Her thoughts shied. It was easier with Morgan, though her first date with him had left her walking up the mountain in the dark. She closed the menu and set it at the edge of the table. He closed his as well.

  A moment later, the waiter came and stood at his elbow. Morgan motioned for her to order and she named her choices, then Morgan his, in barely discernable French. Noelle covered her smile with her fingers.

  Unabashed, he smiled back. “Atrocious, isn’t it? You’re fluent?”

  “More or less.”

  “Been to Paris?”

  She looked at the crystal vase holding a single stem of yellow orchids. “Once. After my coming out, Daddy and I went.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  She leaned back. “Very old, deep, and sad.”

  “Sad? Gay Paree?”

  “My mother was from Paris. It’s where she and Daddy met. It was painful for him to go back there without her.” She laid her hands in her lap as the waiter set the shallow bowl of carrot bisque before her.

  “Why did he take you?”

  “I wanted to see my mother’s home. In true adolescent oblivion, I didn’t think how hard it would be for him.” She spooned the creamy carrot puree garnished with a dab of yogurt and carrot curl. She knew how it was made. There’d been a recipe for carrot bisque in the French cookery book.

  “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.”