by L. B. Dunbar
Chapter 29
[Ireland]
Forces hold the two apart
As the last of the party invitees left Mark’s penthouse, I found myself alone with him as my parents escorted a couple to the elevator.
“Did you enjoy your party, Isolde?” Mark asked.
“It wasn’t exactly my party,” I muttered, as I picked up another champagne glass and headed toward the kitchen.
“It was all for you, darling.”
I didn’t respond.
“You disappeared for a while. Where did you go?” he asked, as he followed me.
I stopped as I placed the glasses on the countertop near the sink.
“I wasn’t feeling well, but I’m fine now.”
“I noticed my nephew was missing for a while, as well.” Mark’s presence was close behind me.
My hands shook as I tried to busy them with something in the sink.
“You never explained to me exactly how my nephew caught a ride with you on a private jet. Quite ironic, considering the jet was scheduled for him.”
I froze. I didn’t dare look up at Mark, but he forced me to turn, gripping my upper arms, and spinning me quickly to face him. He pressed his body against mine, forcing my backside into the edge of the kitchen countertop. I gasped with the surprise and the pain.
“Were you with him in the Caymans, Isolde?”
He squeezed my thin arms tighter, and I could feel the deep imprint of his fingers wrapped around my biceps.
“I already explained. I went to the house and he was there, but we didn’t interact. When Marshall came down, I was ready to go home and Tristan offered me a ride.”
“Why did he lie?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
I glared at him, his grip tightening further.
“You lied,” I rebutted.
He stared at me, narrowing his eyes.
“That was quite a surprise announcement, all things considered.”
He continued to stare at me before he smiled a crooked smile that reeked of evil.
“I wanted them all to know you belong to me.”
“I’m not a piece of property,” I replied.
“No, you aren’t. You’re precious and fragile, like a special gift to be cherished, and that’s what I plan to do. Cherish you. All the days of our life.”
He loosened his grip, but kept his pelvis pressed against me. He slipped his hands up my arms to my shoulders, wrapping them loosely around my neck. He leaned forward and kissed me softly, like he had before all the guests. He pulled back. I thought I was clear of him, when he leaned into me again and kissed me hard.
His lips were wet and cold. He pressed on mine, like he was punishing me, trying to force me to respond to him. His tongue skirted the outside of my mouth. I clenched my lips harder to keep him out.
I couldn’t respond to him. He wasn’t warm and soft. He wasn’t teasing or tempting. He wasn’t caring or caressing. He wasn’t Tristan.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Mark said, as he pulled back from me, his hands still on my neck.
“Who?” I replied.
“Don’t lie to me, Isolde. It’s very…upsetting… to be lied to, like he used to do.”
I had a flash of a young teenager, beaten for lying to Mark about playing his guitar until he learned to hide the truth, in order to prevent the pain. My heart broke for Tristan and hardened further toward Mark.
“I’ll never let him have you,” Mark hissed finally, as my parents entered the kitchen.
“What’s going on here?” my father spoke, a rare case of authority in his voice as he took in the position of Mark holding my neck.
“Just kissing my future wife good night, Hurmon,” Mark said, before releasing his hold on me.
The next morning, I opened the door to my bathroom to find my mother on the other side, smiling.
“I might have had too much to drink last night,” I lied, as I walked on wobbly legs to my bed. My mother smiled deeper at me as I leaned back on the cool pillows, curling my legs into a pretzel.
“I'm so proud of you,” Isa began, “you've secured your man, just like I did.”
Shaky hands pulled the blanket over my legs at the same time Isa tugged the comforter forward to cover me also.
“You sold your soul?” I replied flippantly.
“No, you're...” She paused. The expression on Isa's face showed she changed her mind about what she was going to say. “You think you've sold your soul?”
“Mother, please. He hurt me.”
“He was angry. He apologized.”
“Mother.”
“Isolde, sweetheart, he's bigger than you. He grabbed you harder than he thought. It's just a bruise.”
“I can't believe you are defending him. What if it was my face?”
“He wouldn't have touched your face,” she responded immediately. “It's too valuable.” I sighed heavily, as Isa smoothed the soft blanket that already lay flat.
“If you'd like I can speak to Marsh...” her voice trailed off. It wasn't that she forgot that her brother was gone. It was that Isa relied on him, so much, to handle difficult situations that it was second nature for her to refer to him. It was also a reminder to me that without Marshall, there was no debt. The necessity of the marriage no longer existed.
“Mark loves you,” Isa started again.
“He doesn’t know me,” I mumbled.
“You don't believe him?”
“Mother, I don't love him,” I emphasized the last two words.
“Oh, Isolde, what's love have to do with it?” Isa scowled.
Nothing, I told myself. Nothing, because I loved Tristan and he didn't love me. I’d said the words in the heat of passion and he didn’t respond. Then when he asked me if I meant it, I was too embarrassed to admit I had said anything, knowing he was going to reject me, regardless. I understood how Mark felt. He realized how much I did not return his affection. But I couldn't steel my heart to love the likes of Mark. I had lost my heart to Tristan.
“Rest, honey,” my mother said, smoothing the blanket one last time before she stood. “I'll bring you some crackers.”
I smiled reassuringly, as the thought of plain crackers made me feel nauseous again. My nerves took over my stomach. I held myself still until Isa left the room. Once the bedroom door was closed, I bolted from the bed for the toilet once again.
Chapter 30
[Tristan]
And one reunion would not please
I was surprised to see Guinevere standing in the sound booth as I finished putting away my guitar and packed up my amp. I’d asked Leo if I could use the studio at Camelot Records to work on the last tracks for The Nights’ album. Camelot Records was owned by Arturo King, outright, but Leo DeGrance and Kaye Sirs were managing the label. Leo had a strong history of finding new talent, and Arturo’s vision was for the record label to promote musicians with potential.
As I clipped closed the case for my Stratosphere, Guinevere asked me if I would be willing to take a walk with her. She had some things she wanted to discuss. I faltered with my guitar case before I stood to look at her. I wasn’t prepared to discuss what I knew, or the lack of what I knew about Arturo. I had decided seeing Arturo standing before me at The Round Table was all a vision. If Perk and Lansing hadn’t confirmed it, I might have thought it was an alcohol-induced hallucination. But Arturo had been standing there, and then disappeared again.
I followed Guinevere as we crossed the busy street and headed in the direction of a small, gated park inside the antiquated neighborhood. The trees and bushes were thick within the wrought iron fencing. I noticed a flash of light without being able to see past the greenery.
“I wanted to ask you something,” she began, as we walked at a slow pace down the sidewalk.
I held my breath.
“If you love her, why aren’t you fighting for her?”
I lifted my head to stare at Guinevere. This was not what I
expected her to ask.
“It’s complicated,” I replied. My lips rose in a smile, those where the words Ireland used to explain her situation to me at first.
“I’m listening,” Guinevere replied and she looped an arm through my elbow.
“She’s engaged, Guinie. To my uncle,” I stressed.
She was thoughtful for a few moments as we continued to walk toward the enclosed park.
“It’s difficult, I understand, because he’s family to you, but you can’t control love. You can’t contain it. You can’t force it. She’ll never love him. She’ll resent him for taking her.”
I looked at Guinevere, wondering if she was still talking about Ireland or herself.
“I can’t go against him. I just…can’t,” I sighed, as we drew closer to the park. I saw another splash of light above the trees like a camera flash. Its brightness was a spark of surprise against the darkening evening sky.
“Does she know how you feel?” Guinie asked softly.
“I don’t know how I feel,” I laughed in reply.
Another spark of light appeared like lightning. I heard the soft sound of music as we reached an opening in the iron fencing. Guinevere stopped us, so she could look at my face. Her aquamarine colored eyes searched mine for answers she wouldn’t find.
“Too bad,” she muttered and tugged my arm to keep us walking through the entrance of the park. There were no gates to prevent people from the wooded garden within the neighborhood and we proceeded down the short walk to find a photo shoot set up amongst the trees.
In an ivory dress of sheer material, Ireland stood on a platform with her arms outstretched. She looked like an ancient fairy or mythical princess, as a fan blew her hair and her clothing to give the impression of her flying. She had an elaborate design painted on her face in gold and silver and high heels that laced up her legs in a Romanesque design. She looked otherworldly as the bright light of the shoot caught the silver and gold edging of her dress. She glowed like I remembered her standing in the moonlight the night we made love for the first time.
“She’s very beautiful,” Guinevere interrupted my gawking gaze. “Too bad she will belong to another man soon.”
I looked at Guinevere. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Convince her to stand up for herself.”
“What?”
“Convince her she can do it.”
“How do you know that she thinks she can’t speak up now?”
“Is she going to marry Mark? Does she want to be with him?”
I blinked at Guinevere. What did she know?
“She needs to know that she can do it and someone will support her. That someone needs to be you, Tristan. She’s been spunky, but trapped all her life. Does she seem like the type to do what she wants because she can? She’s been sheltered and protected for this moment to happen, but she’s not stupid. She knows what she wants; she just needs to be reassured it’s okay to want those things. She’s done everything for her parents, all her life. Modeled. Travelled. Given in to their wishes. She’s done it willingly because she loves them, but she’s not them. And their mistakes aren’t hers.”
I stared at Guinevere. I’d never known her to be so fierce. I’d really only gotten to know her better as she cried and cried for Arturo over the past few months.
“How do you know all this?”
“Because I was her until Arturo.”
I didn’t know how to respond.
“I wanted things for me, and I did things for my father. He protected me and gave me everything I could need, but not everything I wanted. It took Arturo to help me learn what it is I wanted to do, and how to do it. I would have found my way on my own eventually, but it was so much nicer to share the ride with someone I love.”
I looked up at Ireland, who was now staring at me over the heads of the photographer and assisting staff. Someone helped her down from the platform, like the queen that she appeared to be. I walked farther into the city garden without willing my feet. I was almost to the edge of the wires and cords needed for the electric lights when I saw Mark cross in front of the photography lighting and embrace Ireland. He kissed her softly on the cheek so as not to mess her artwork-face. Ireland’s eyes remained on mine over Mark’s shoulder. Mark stepped back and spoke to Ireland, which made her look at his face. It broke the bond between us. Mark’s arms slipped around Ireland’s waist and he hugged her again. Her eyes found mine, questioning me.
What was I doing here? She seemed to ask.
Watching Mark hold her, I wasn’t sure what I was doing there.
Mark broke the hold he had on her and followed her gaze. His gray eyes steeled the anger I knew lay beneath as he glared at me. Keeping his arm around Ireland, Mark forced them both to approach me. The tension grew as Mark moved them as a unit closer to me. I suddenly felt Guinevere’s hand within the crook of my elbow again. She squeezed lightly before holding her hand in place.
“Tristan,” Mark said in a voice too high, not masking his false surprise.
“Uncle Mark,” I replied. “Ireland.”
“Isolde,” Mark corrected. “Her name is Isolde.”
I looked at Ireland, who bent her head to hide her eyes as she slipped out of Mark’s grasp. She mirrored Guinevere’s hold on me. She held onto Mark’s elbow, as if ready to contain him should he strike out at me.
“What are you doing here?” Mark continued.
“Tristan and I were taking a walk,” Guinevere broke in. “We stopped to see what all the excitement was. You look lovely, Ireland.”
“Isolde,” Mark said through clenched teeth. I noticed Ireland bit her lip to hold a smile. I could have kissed Guinie.
“Yes, Ireland, you look gorgeous,” I added. I found strength in Guinevere’s hand on my arm. Ireland bit harder to hold her smile down. I wanted nothing more than to capture those lips and contain the smile myself, inside my own mouth.
“What’s this shoot for, Ireland?” Guinevere continued.
“A new lingerie line,” she replied sheepishly.
I swallowed hard and Mark blinked.
“How is school going?” Guinevere changed the subject.
“She’s not attending school,” Mark responded, at the same time that Ireland replied, “I’m on a break before the summer session begins.”
Mark turned to scowl at Ireland. “We discussed this,” he said sharply, “and agreed.”
Ireland didn’t answer when Mark bit out her name. “Isolde?”
“I’m taking another course this summer, and it won’t interfere with my work,” she said, standing a little straighter as she looked at me.
“Well,” Mark interjected, “speaking of work, you need to get back to the shoot.” He leaned into Ireland and kissed her neck before stepping back from her, so she could return to the platform.
I followed the sway of her backside, the soft sheer material of her dress leaving not much to the imagination. I didn’t have to imagine, though. I knew what she looked like from behind. I felt Mark’s eyes on me and I stared at my uncle.
“I’m a lucky man,” Mark commented. “Of course, while others look, I get to touch.”
My hand turned to a fist. Guinevere must have felt the tension because she gripped my arm tighter.
“I forgot,” Mark spoke too loudly. “I never thanked you for returning Isolde to me. She didn’t exactly tell me how you found her in the Caymans, but I see that she’s come back to me, and that’s all that matters.”
My heart sped up in my chest and the blood raced through my veins.
“She’s been promised to me for years, and now that will be a reality.”
“You know Marshall’s dead,” I spat without thinking.
“Marshall? Marshall Dragon, her uncle? He doesn’t have anything to do with this anymore. Her father approves. She is mine.”
Seeing her again wasn’t enough for me. It had been another week and I’d received the announcement that the wedding was planned for mid-June. I need
ed to know she was going to be all right.
Let me see you again, I texted her. And waited.
The reply came much later than I expected, and I scanned my phone with blurry eyes as the buzz of alcohol filled my brain. There was a party around me, but I heard the ping of my phone above the noisy chatter and the thumping bass of rock-n-roll.
When?
Tomorrow.
I have class.
I can meet you.
Ireland told me where and when to meet. I found the coffee shop on the edge of campus earlier than I would have liked to be awake. I quit drinking as soon as she responded, knowing that I wanted a clear mind when I saw her again.
I waited for her inside the shop, two coffees already on the table, when she entered. She spotted me immediately in a corner, and I shifted my back to the door as soon as she was seated. She sipped the coffee I offered her as I spoke.
“How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“Really?” I asked. She smiled at the word.
“Not exactly.”
“Tell me exactly.”
Ireland held my eyes for a moment before she looked away, out the glass window.
“A date’s been set.”
“I got the announcement,” I faltered on the word. “You’re really going through with it.”
“I can’t seem to find any other choice.” Her gaze returned to me.
We were silent for several minutes.
“Can I ask you something?” I was curious. Ireland nodded. “Have you spoken with your father?”
“My father?” Her blue eyes questioned me.
“Something Mark said last week, implied that Marshall no longer has anything to do with your situation. It’s your father.”
Ireland stared at me, puzzled.
“My father?” her voice sounded uncertain.
“It’s what Mark said before he told me you were his. Mine was the exact word he used.”
Ireland continued to watch me with her sapphire eyes.
“Thing is, I can’t seem to reconcile that because you’re mine,” I spoke softly.
