Hush (Black Lotus #3)

by E. K. Blair

  “I’m with a client . . . I won’t be . . . I know . . . I love you too.”

  “Was that your wife?” I question with a tinge of disdain leaking through after he hangs up.

  When he looks at me from across the room, he’s visibly uncomfortable. “Umm . . . yes.”

  I stand and don’t say anything. The light mood from earlier is now vexatious as real life intrudes on our clandestine gathering.

  “I’m going to have to leave soon.”

  “Why?” My chest sizzles in irritation when jealousy rears its ugly head.

  “Hailey has a recital today.”

  How fucking lovely.

  “You’ve missed a million things in my life, you can’t miss one of hers?”

  His forehead creases in confliction, but my resentment spares no lenience.

  “It isn’t fair,” I say thickly.

  “I agree, but it’s what we have to deal with.”

  “So . . .” I begin and then pause when Declan walks back into the room.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, sensing the tension, and my father responds, “I have to leave.”

  “It seems his other daughter has a recital that he can’t miss,” I tell Declan while keeping my eyes on my dad.

  Declan places a supporting hand on the small of my back, and I continue what I was saying. “So, how does this all work then? I mean, if you can’t tell them about me . . .”

  “I don’t really know, sweetheart.”

  “I mean, when I leave, I won’t be able to call you unless you get yourself a burner phone, but then it’s only a matter of time before your wife will accuse you of an affair, and then what happens? You’ll resent me?” I sputter off, allowing my thoughts to get the better of me.

  “We don’t have to figure this all out today,” Declan says, trying to reassure me, but I’m well aware how sensitive time is and blurt, “Come back with us.”

  “Princess . . .”

  “When we leave, get on the plane with us. Declan owns the plane; no one would even know you were on it.”

  He moves towards me, saying gently, “I can’t leave my family.”

  His words burn like acid, and I snap. “I’m your family!”

  “You are,” he says quickly. “But so are they, and I can’t just disappear.”

  “Like you did with me?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  My body heats with rage and jealousy. I’m giving him a choice, and he’s choosing wrong.

  “They’ve had you!” I cry out. “They’ve had more years with you than I ever got!”

  “Hey,” Declan says softly, trying to get my attention, but I ignore him and lash out at my dad.

  “So is this what I’m left with? Scraps? That’s all I get of you, whatever time you can manage to sneak away from your precious little family?”

  “Elizabeth,” Declan says in another attempt to get my attention as my dad stands there speechless.

  “You used to be mine,” I tell my father on a quivering voice. “It was you and me, and we didn’t have to share with anyone.”

  “And now we do.” The sorrow in his eyes is reflected in his voice.

  “But they get you first.”

  “I know it isn’t fair. I want as much time as I can get with you, but I have three other people who love me and depend on me, and I can’t walk away from them and cause even more people the pain I’ve caused you.”

  “Why not? It’s okay for me to suffer but not them?”

  “It’s not okay for you to suffer. It was never okay, but I wasn’t given a choice. No matter what I did, it was inevitable that you would suffer. It didn’t matter if I went into the program and lived or if I went back to prison and died.”

  As I look at him, I can feel the neediness expand in my soul. Its growth makes me feel like I have so much empty space that needs to be filled. I’m hollow and starved for the one thing I’ve been deprived of, and it’s a horrible feeling I’m forced to withstand.

  “Can I come back tonight? Around ten or so?”

  I nod, because I’ll start crying if I speak. I refuse to cry, but the blades of despair are slaughtering me from the inside.

  “Declan?” My father turns from me, seeking permission from the man I love.

  “Of course. Come as late as you need.”

  With his hands on my shoulders, he looks in my eyes with sincerity, saying, “I’m sorry.”

  And I nod again before he pulls me to him and hugs me. I take his embrace, and with a deep breath, I take in his scent once again, because the same fear remains that he just might not come back.

  “I love you.”

  “I’m sorry,” is my response.

  “Look at me. You have nothing in this world to be sorry for. It’s okay to be angry; I’m angry too. I’m pissed and bitter. I want to grab you and steal you away, do everything in my power to make up for all the time we lost. But do you understand why I can’t?”

  “I do.”

  I don’t.

  “I know it doesn’t make it easier, and I’m so sorry. If I’d known that there was a chance in this lifetime that I’d be seeing you again, I would’ve waited alone so that nothing could stand in the way of me disappearing with you. I need you to believe that. Tell me you believe that.”

  Taking a hard swallow, I force the words out through all the pain that’s suffocating me. “I believe you, Dad.”

  MY DAD DID come back later last night just as he promised. He and Declan talked business and politics while drinking Scotch. I enjoyed watching the two of them together, debating and laughing as if they’d been friends for years. Dad wanted to know what life was like for us in Scotland and now in London, and although our time there has been plagued by so much darkness, Declan did well to veer around all that. When Dad asked about the house in Scotland, I told him all about my time at Brunswickhill: the history of the estate, all the amazing parts of the land surrounding it, the clinker grotto, the atrium, the library. I went on and on, because truthfully, I love the house so much; it’s what most little girls dream a palace to be like.

  The more we are around each other, the more comfortable we become. The ease of last night felt so natural and so promising. Having the two men that I love so much in the same room with me is amazing. I try not to focus on the nuts and bolts of how this is all going to work moving forward. Declan told me after my father left last night to just enjoy this time we’re able to share in the here and now, and that we will figure out the details later. I accepted his suggestion to live in the moment.

  My father returned a couple hours ago with another bouquet of pink daisies. We’ve been hanging out on the couch, watching an old James Bond movie that my dad claims is one of his favorites. Once the movie ends, we order up some lunch, and are now eating our food as we sit in the living room together.

  “Declan, tell me, are your mother and father still living in Scotland?”

  Now, it’s my turn to give Declan a preemptive squeeze like he had when my father asked me about my childhood. I’m not sure what Declan will say, but I need to let him know that I’m here.

  “No. My mother actually passed away when I was a teenager.”

  He doesn’t say anything about his father, and when he turns away from my dad, I know he won’t. Before my dad can ask another question, I turn my father’s attention to me.

  “Dad, I umm . . . I thought you should know that I had a friend of mine look into finding my mother.”

  He looks at me nervously. “You did?”

  “Yes,” I tell him and then add, “I know what she did.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to know about her because I didn’t want you to think—”

  “That she didn’t love me?” I cut in. “Dad, she didn’t love me. The thing is, her being sick and depressed when she sold me is one thing, but she’s been a free woman for a very long time and still has yet to contact me.”

  “I don’t want to make excuses for that woman and w
hat she did. It was a rough period in our lives—one I had to move on from—which is why when you were little and would ask me if you had a mom, I would always deflect. And since you were so young, it was easy to do.”

  I can talk about that woman without getting worked-up because I’ve closed myself off from that facet of my life even though it goes against Declan’s word. He’s made it clear that he no longer wants me to avoid that which hurts me. But my mother’s truth about what she did to me when I was a baby is too painful for me to think about, and with everything else going on, Declan hasn’t broached the subject of my mother since.

  “Do you think you’ll ever see her or talk to her?”

  “No,” I state firmly. “She’s never been a part of my life and I don’t see a need for it now.”

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do in this situation, but I think staying away is the best choice. I’d be afraid she’d only hurt you.”

  “Have you spoken to her since all that?”

  “No. As soon as I had you back in my arms, I was done with her and, aside from the day I had to testify at her trial, I never spoke to her or saw her again.”

  When there’s nothing else to be said, we sit in a short span of silence before my dad attempts to lighten the mood. “Tell me something good. Something funny from your childhood.”

  He has no idea that there’s nothing funny about my childhood, but Declan catches the conversation before it drops and says to my dad, “Better yet, why don’t you tell me more about Elizabeth. What was she like as a little girl?”

  Thank you, Declan.

  My father’s face instantly lights up with a smile as he reflects on the past. “She was a spitfire of a girl, but in the most endearing way possible.”

  “So I see that part of her hasn’t swayed.” Declan’s voice is full of humor, but I keep my attention on my father as he goes on.

  “She didn’t have any women in her life, it was only me and a couple of my good friends that surrounded her,” he says and then turns to look at me. “But, somehow, you were so soft and pink and everything a little girl should be.”

  He says this with a doting smile, which makes me smile as well.

  He turns back to Declan and tells him, “I used to have a short beard, almost the same length as yours, and one thing she would always do was rub her tiny hands over it. She’d giggle and tell me she liked the way it felt as it crackled against her palms.”

  I look over to Declan when my dad says this because I do the exact same thing to Declan’s beard every single day. And I do it because it’s always reminded me of my dad, and it simply makes me feel good. Declan gazes into my eyes and gives me a hint of a smile when he puts those two puzzle pieces together.

  “But as girly as she was, she still wanted to be my right-hand man,” he continues with a chuckle. “I can remember when we moved into the Northbrook house . . .”

  “We didn’t always live there?”

  “No. After everything with your mom, I decided it would be best that you and I had a fresh start together. I bought that house for us.”

  “I never knew that,” I murmur.

  “You were only three years old at the time, but you insisted on having a little tool belt of your own so you could help me hang the window treatments and artwork on the walls. I wound up tracking one down at a nearby toy store, and you wore it proudly as you followed me around the house.”

  I laugh when he tells me this, saying, “I don’t remember that.”

  “Well, you were so young, but, yeah, you’d pull out your plastic hammer and tap it against the wall every time I would hammer in a nail.” He stops for a moment and smiles at me before continuing, “There was one time when I had a couple buddies of mine over, Danny and Garrett. Do you remember them?”

  I do my best to think back and vaguely recall, “You mean Uncle Danny?”

  “You do remember,” he says happily. “Danny was a good friend of mine and he insisted that since you didn’t have any aunts or uncles, that you should call him Uncle Danny.”

  “I don’t remember his face or anything, but I do remember an Uncle Danny,” I tell him.

  He turns to Declan and explains, “Danny and I had known each other since our twenties, and when it was just Elizabeth and me, he’d started to come around more often to spend time with her. But anyway,” he says, shifting his attention back to the story. “I was in the attic, laying insulation because it was unfinished, and I wanted to turn it into a storage space. You were downstairs playing with Uncle Danny, and I had stumbled and my foot slipped off the rafter I was standing on and my one leg fell right through the floor.” He starts laughing. “I hollered down to you two, and instead of Danny coming to help me, he took you out to the garage where my leg was hanging through the ceiling. He picked you up so you could reach me and encouraged you to take my shoe off and tickle my foot.”

  Declan and I join in my father’s laughter as he tells this story I have no memory of.

  “The more I laughed, the more you tickled, and the more I started to slip through. But I could hear you giggling, and you were having the time of your life.”

  “Well, it looks like your leg survived that ordeal,” I tease.

  “It did,” he says and then faces Declan. “But if you really want to know what she was like as a child, she was perfect. She had the softest heart and always wanted to please people. If I told her to do something, she always did it and never fought me. She was kind and she was sensitive,” he says and then looks at me, finishing, “and she was my every dream come true.”

  He goes on to tell a couple more funny stories, and when we finish our lunch and clean up, he turns to me and asks, “You feel like getting out of here?”

  “I thought you couldn’t . . .”

  “Forget what I said. You want to go for a walk?”

  “Um . . . yeah. That sounds great, Dad.”

  “It’s a little cold outside, but why don’t I take you over to Owen Beach?”

  With a smile, I respond, “Okay. Let me go change my clothes, and I’ll be ready.” I give Declan a smile when I walk past him and into the bedroom. Closing the door, I rush into the closet like a kid about to go to her favorite candy store. I slip off my dress pants and pull on a pair of jeans before grabbing a hooded raincoat. I dig through Declan’s clothes, looking for his jacket, and when I find it, I make a quick stop in front of the mirror to wrap my hair up in a bun on top of my head.

  As I walk out of the bedroom, I notice the two of them standing off by the door talking in hushed tones with one another.

  “What are you two talking about?” I announce as I approach, and when Declan turns to me, I hold his coat out and wait for his answer.

  “You, of course.”

  I narrow my eyes at him in mock annoyance and then laugh when he kisses me.

  “I don’t have a whole lot of time before I have to leave, so why don’t we take two cars for time’s sake, and I’ll just leave from the beach?”

  “Not a problem, Steve. We’ll just follow you there.”

  The drive is a short one, and pretty soon, we’re driving among fresh blooming buds of spring. The sky may be dank and gray, but the pink cherry blossoms make the gloom beautiful. I press my hand on to the window, absorbing its bitter chill as Declan pulls into a parking spot that looks over the desolate beach.

  My dad opens his door next to our car, and when he opens my door and takes my hand, Declan says, “I’ll wait here.”

  I look over my shoulder. “You sure?”

  “I need to make a few calls,” he says. “Go share a walk with your dad.”

  Hand in hand we walk over the mounds of driftwood on the beach and down to the water’s edge. The wind gusts, creating a mist of sea spray that mingles with the cloud’s sprinkles that fall from the sky. I reach back with my free hand and pop the hood of my raincoat over my head as we stroll leisurely across the dense, water-puddled sand.

  “Is this where you came when you left prison or h
ave you lived other places?”

  “Only here. I love it. The mountains, the water, the gray. I love the cold.”

  “I do too. Winter has always been my favorite for some reason. Maybe it’s because it hides the truth of Earth’s death under a blanket of false purity.”

  “False purity?”

  “The white fluffy snow seems so innocent, but in actuality, it’s the weapon that kills what lies beneath.”

  He looks down at me, asking with slight humor, “You always think this much?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I do too.”

  I stop and turn to face him, and the wind kicks against us when I ask, “What about?”

  “You, mostly.”

  He drapes his arm around me, tucking me against his side as we look out over the water.

  With his eyes cast out, he says, “I’ve always had a lost soul.”

  We don’t look at each other as we speak, my arm now slung around his waist.

  “Me too.”

  “Sometimes when I see a little girl with red hair, for a split second, I feel hopeful that it’s you, but then I realize that you wouldn’t be that little girl anymore.”

  “I used to sneak out of windows in the middle of the night when I went into foster care. You told me about Carnegie the last day we were together. I used to think that if I walked far enough to find a forest, you’d be there.”

  My tears blend with the mist that collects on my face and trickles down my cheeks as we speak.

  He turns to me, his hands running down my arms, and his eyes fill with years of inconsolable pain that I know too well.

  “I am so sorry, princess. I have so many regrets in my life, but none bigger than losing you.”

  I see his tears too.

  “I was careless.”

  “No, Dad.”

  “I was. I should’ve never gotten involved with the people I worked for.”

  I look into my father’s reddened eyes as blades nick my heartstrings.

  “I will never be able to make up for all my wrongs, for leaving you fatherless, for causing you so much heartache,” he chokes out in shame.

  “I don’t blame you, Dad.”