LUCIEN: A Standalone Romance

by Glenna Sinclair

  The ride back to the house was quieter and more somber than anything I’d ever experienced, even compared to the ride to the hospital after Miles got the call. Once again, I felt like an unwelcome observer to a private family drama, an intruder into the life of a man who didn’t appreciate such invasions. He never pushed me away and never asked me not to be around, but he didn’t invite me in either.

  I wanted to make things better for him. I just didn’t know how.

  There were cars already spilling out of the long driveway of the Thorn mansion. The limo carrying us had to maneuver between parked cars to let us out at the front door. There were people everywhere inside the house, almost like the party thrown in Miles and my honor five days ago. Joan was just inside the entryway, welcoming people and directing them to the right rooms. She was quiet, respectful, but her eyes filled with pain when they fell on each of Elena’s children. Especially Miles. I remembered what he’d said about her, about how he’d had a crush on her when he was a small child. I could see that the depth of affection, while not romantic in nature, was clearly mutual.

  “Your father’s out on the veranda,” she said. “He asked that you join him when you arrived.”

  I wanted to help. I could see the wait staff hired through a catering company was overwhelmed by the number of mourners and that the regular staff was not keeping up with trash and dishes and coats tossed over furniture. I felt like I would be more useful if I went to the kitchen and helped organize the appetizers that were coming out on trays or checking on the supply of liquor being consumed by the tumblerful. But when I stood to pick up a plate discarded by a woman who’d come to express her condolences to the family, Miles grabbed my hand and pulled me back down into the narrow loveseat we shared. So I stayed.

  I heard more stories than I could have imagined a person could tell about another. Stories of Elena’s kindness, of her generosity. Stories of her as a young woman, of her as a young wife, of her and her children. It was overwhelming the things I heard. I can only imagine how hard it was for her husband. For her children.

  Miles barely spoke all afternoon. He nodded when someone spoke to him, whispered thanks more than a dozen times. But he never offered anything that wasn’t requested first. He was polite, but silent, lost in his own thoughts. And he held my hand so tight through it all that my fingers were numb even hours after he let it go.

  It felt like the reception lasted forever. But, really, most of the mourners were gone within a few hours. Joan stepped out onto the veranda when the last of the people had gone, the confidence I’d always associated with her disappearing as she stepped in front of Jackson Thorn.

  “I’ll take care of the cleanup,” she said. “You should go up and rest.”

  “I’ll help you,” Miles said.

  Based on the animosity so obvious between them since the night of the party, I expected Jackson to refuse. He didn’t even acknowledge Miles’ words, but he didn’t move away when Miles slipped his hand under his father’s arm and led the way inside.

  I watched them go, then stood and began gathering the dirty dishes scattered on the glass table tops and in the seats of the chairs.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Joan said.

  “I want to help.”

  I continued to gather the trash even as Joan assessed me with that thoroughness I’d squirmed under during our first meeting, that ill-fated job interview that introduced me to Miles and opened the door that brought me here. I’m not sure if she found me as wanting as she had on that occasion, but she shook out a trash bag and opened it for me.

  We worked methodically across the veranda and into the sitting room while Lila, Robert, and their spouses continued to sit quietly and live in their grief. I glanced at them from time to time, once again wanting to do something to make them feel better, but unable to think of anything that wouldn’t just make things worse. I wondered, as I had off and on these five days, if this was what it was like after the car accident that took my parents’ lives. I was too young to remember. I have vague flashes of memory—the flashing lights, the hospital, the sense of missing something—but nothing concrete. At the moment, I was kind of glad I couldn’t remember.

  “He’s going to need you.”

  I looked up. Joan was standing across the room from me, gathering glasses on a tray, her back to me. I thought for a moment she wasn’t talking to me. But then she glanced at me over her shoulder.

  “He thinks he’s strong enough to handle this on his own, but he’s not. No one is.”

  I set down the pile of plates I’d gathered. “He won’t talk to me.”

  “He does that. He holds it all in until he just explodes, usually in anger. He’ll need you to be there to pick up the pieces when he does.”

  “I don’t know if I know how to do that.”

  “You’ll figure it out. This is what love is about, Riley. This is what marriage is about.”

  I looked around me, at the mountain of trash we had yet to get to, at the family portraits that were a reminder of what this family lost, of the part of the family that still waited on the veranda for the return of the beloved matriarch who would never return, and I knew she was right. But this wasn’t what I’d signed on for. This wasn’t part of the deal Miles and I made. Yet, I still felt an overwhelming need to be there for him. I just wasn’t sure he wanted me there.

  “Get out!”

  The scream seemed to reverberate throughout the house, even though it came from the top of the stairs. Joan and I both rushed to the foot of the stairs, Lila, Robert, and Keegan not far behind. Miles was at the top of the stairs, staring back at something we couldn’t see. But we could hear.

  “Get out of my house! The only reason I allowed you to remain for so long was because it was what she wanted. But she’s gone now. I don’t want you here.”

  Miles spoke, but his words were so low we couldn’t hear them.

  Joan looked at me, urging me to go up to him with a slight flick of her eyebrows. I hesitated, again feeling like a witness to something I was never meant to see. But then I looked at him, at the sloop of his shoulders that suggested the huge burden he was carrying, and my feet seemed to have a mind of their own. I was behind him before I realized I was moving, my hand resting lightly on the small of his back.

  Jackson’s face was reddened, his hands balled into fists. He stood a few feet back, just outside the open doors of the master bedroom. A photo of Elena and a young, but unmistakable, Miles lay inside its broken frame just inside the doorway.

  “You walked away from us,” Jackson said, his words dripping with anger and resentment, but something else, too. A little hurt, maybe. “We don’t need you now.”

  “She wanted me to take care of you.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Mr. Thorn,” I said, stepping forward a few feet, “will you let me clean up that glass? I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  He glanced back as though he wasn’t aware of the broken picture frame. Then he focused on me, tears forming in his eyes. It was then that I could finally see the broken man that had been hiding inside of his proud, aristocratic façade these last few days. I could see how torn by grief he was. At this moment, he was a seventy-something man who’d just lost the love of his life and who felt betrayed by his children. He was a man who was suffering.

  I gently took his arm and led him back into the bedroom, carefully guiding him around the broken glass.

  “You should lie down,” I said softly, speaking to him as I would one of my aunts when they were upset. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I miss her,” he said. “She wasn’t supposed to go first.”

  “I know.”

  I helped him into the already turned down bed, helping him lay back against the pillows. He was exhausted, his eyes closing the moment he was settled. His breathing changed quickly, whatever argument he’d had with Miles already forgotten. I held his hand for a moment, patting it gently as he settled into a deep sle
ep. When I finally disengaged myself and turned, Joan and Lila were kneeling just inside the doorway, cleaning up the mess. I grabbed a small trashcan near the bed and took it to them, watching as they dropped the pieces of glass inside.

  “Thank you,” Lila said as she stood.

  I just nodded as I looked around her to find Miles, but he was no longer standing in the hallway.

  “Go to him,” Joan said.

  I didn’t hesitate. I rushed down the hallway, turning that way and this, just as I’d done the first night we arrived, following Miles through a maze I thought I’d never be able to navigate on my own. But I did, and I found him in the green room, tossing clothing into his suitcase with no concern to organization. I watched for a moment, then went to the closet and began packing my own bags.

  He glanced at me without speaking, or even slowing his movements, but there was gratitude in that simple look.

  Chapter 14

  The flight home was uneventful. Like before, we flew on a private jet. Miles held my hand silently through the takeoff and landing but spent the rest of the flight buried in emails and paperwork on his laptop. I curled up beside him and tried to concentrate on a novel I’d been reading for what felt like months, but unable to really get into the plot. I mostly just stared out the window at the heavy clouds that followed us from Massachusetts to Texas.

  The house felt different when we walked through the door. Smaller, but cozier than I remembered. More like home than it had felt the entire four months I’d spent alone there. I called my aunts while Miles took our luggage upstairs, happier than words could express to hear their familiar voices. And I texted Lisa. I guess I just needed to check in with the people I loved, to reconnect in the wake of these long, dark days.

  I’m not much of a cook, but I can open a can like no one else. I warmed up some soup and made toast, taking a tray up to the master bedroom for Miles. The door was open, and he was sitting on the end of his bed staring at a photograph when I tapped on the doorjamb.

  “You need to eat.”

  “So do you.” He dropped the photo face down on the bed and came toward me, slipping the tray out of my hands. “Let’s go downstairs and eat at a table like normal people.”

  I led the way, and we settled in the kitchen in a small nook by the bay windows that overlooked the front drive. The soup was salty, but it was better than anything else I could have thrown together. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Then he cleared his throat—even as he continued to stare out the windows.

  “Thank you for what you did for my father.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “And you did. You got him settled in a way I couldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry for what he said to you. He was just grieving.”

  “I know. But he wasn’t completely wrong.”

  Miles picked up a piece of toast, but he just shredded it between his fingers. I watched, trying to be patient. I didn’t want to force him into telling me something he didn’t want to share. Yet, I so desperately wanted to know what he meant that I was afraid to frighten him out of saying it, too.

  “I did run away. I abandoned my family at a time when I really shouldn’t have. And when I found out my mom was sick, I should have gone back. But I screwed up and I was afraid of facing the consequences of that.”

  “Whatever you did, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “It’s not so much what I did. It’s what I refused to do.”

  I studied him, trying to read between the lines, trying to figure out what he was talking about. But I couldn’t begin to guess.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You already thanked me.”

  “No. Thank you for going there with me. For staying when everything fell apart. For being at the funeral today. It couldn’t have been easy for you.”

  “Where else would I go?”

  He looked at me, his jaw loosening, as though he wanted to say something. But he seemed to change his mind. Instead, he reached across the table and squeezed my hand lightly. Then he stood and walked out of the room.

  I washed the dishes, feeling disconcerted. Part of me wanted to run upstairs and demand he talk to me some more. That he tell me what was really going on with him. But another part of me felt like I should just pack my bags and go back to my aunts’, that my time with him was over, like I was overstaying my welcome. I didn’t know what my role was supposed to be in all this. I needed him to tell me, to explain what was going on here, what he wanted from me, and how much I was supposed to ask of him. Because, at the end of the day, this was a marriage of convenience. When we were alone—despite that almost magical night five days ago—we were still basically strangers perpetuating a fraud on everyone around us.

  But then, why did I want to hold him in my arms and make his pain disappear? Why did I want to make promises to him that I had no place making?

  I went up to bed a little while later. He’d laid my bags on my bed so I wouldn’t have to lift the heavy things myself. Very considerate.

  I unpacked, tossing my dirty things in the wash and rehanging what wasn’t wrinkled beyond repair. Then I showered and curled up in bed, wondering if he was asleep or if he was watching television as I’d discovered he was apt to do when sleep wouldn’t come.

  Sharing a room had introduced me to a lot of little quirks about Miles’ personality that I realized I actually kind of liked. The way he almost obsessively folded his clothes when he took them off, the way he brushed his teeth up and down inside of side to side, the little noises he made when he was sleeping, and the scent of his soap and his cologne overwhelming the room after his shower.

  It was stupid, really. But I’d gotten used to all those little things these past few days. The room suddenly seemed very empty without him in it.

  Even as that thought crossed my mind, a soft tap came on the door. I crawled out of bed and opened the door a crack, standing behind it to hide the skimpy t-shirt I was sleeping in.

  Miles worked his jaw, acting again as though he had something he needed to say. And then he abandoned speech, taking my face into his hands and drawing me into him, his lips on mine before I could so much as utter a sound. I went to him most willingly, my body opening to him as though I’d been waiting days for him to ask. Maybe I had been waiting.

  He pushed me backward until we landed on the bed, immediately tangled in each other’s limbs. I pulled at his shirt, and he tugged at mine. Our hands seemed to be everywhere at once, my fingers burying themselves in the flexing muscles of his back, his fingers seeking out the softer flesh of my hip, my ass. There was an ache he awakened days ago that was back as though no time had passed, a need that took my breath away and destroyed any logic that might have been floating around in the back of my fevered mind.

  His mouth was at my throat, his teeth nipping, as he moved slowly down over my collarbone and down along the top of my breast. And then my nipple was in his mouth, his tongue playing around the bottom half of it before he drew it deep inside, pulling a groan from deep in my belly. He gave equal attention to my other nipple, another moan slipping out. I ran my fingers through his long hair, tugging at it until he hit a spot that made pleasure rush to my swollen clit.

  He moved lower on my body, peppering my belly with hot kisses as his fingers slowly peeled away my panties. And then his mouth…I can’t even put into words what it felt like when he touched me there, when his tongue danced a little dance around my clit, when his breath washed over those sensitive areas, when his fingers…it was unbelievable. I arched up against him, my body becoming one big ball of nerves, and every nerve quivering with the overwhelming number of pleasure impulses bouncing over them. If I had known how good this could be, maybe I wouldn’t have waited so long to experience it.

  He pushed me until I was tasting blood because I bit down so hard on my lip, pushed until I couldn’t lay still, until my fingers were buried so deep in his hair that it must have hurt, though he never tried to separate the two. He
pushed me until I couldn’t catch a breath without a moan coming out with the exhalation. Only then did he slide back up the length of my body. Only then did he capture my lips again, the taste of my arousal sweet and meaty on his tongue. I could feel his hand between our bodies and a shiver of anticipation danced down my spine. Whatever it was that made me hesitate before was nowhere to be found today. There was just Miles and this incredible need that seemed too much to control.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered against my lips. “I didn’t want it to be like this, but I need you.”

  I pressed my hips up against him and welcomed him into me, as he let go a sound of such emotion—filled with relief and gratitude and pleasure and pain and a million other things I couldn’t even begin to identify. His hands moved around my hips to pull me even closer to him. I lay still for a moment once he was filling me with everything he had to offer, his breathing rough as he kissed me again, a kiss that was more a mingling of breaths than passion. I expected—I don’t know what I expected that first time. The physical was less and so much more than I had thought it would be. But there was so much emotion going on, so much connection, such a combination of needs and desires and wants and…and.

  He began to move slowly, carefully, conscious of my comfort. And that just added to the incredible sensitivity of it all. I touched him, ran my hands over his back, wanting to give him as much as he was giving me. I didn’t know, but when I listened to his hands, to the way he encouraged me, I learned. And it was an amazing lesson. In moments, we were moving in a rhythm that was perfection. That burning need deep in my belly grew and grew, aching until I thought I would go mad with it. But then it seemed to hit a limit and burst, spreading through me until all I could do was wrap my legs around Miles’ waist and go along for the ride.