by L. B. Dunbar
Crossing the hall to enter our apartment, a hand clasped my upper arm and I turned abruptly to come face to face with my father.
“Guinevere,” my father began in a warning tone. He rarely spoke to me like that. I knew a lecture was about to start.
“I’d like you to hear him out,” his tone softened as he released his grasp. “He’s been through a lot, but he’s found his way home. We’re thrilled that he’s here, and I’d appreciate if you would…if you would try to listen to him before you judge him.”
Judge him? I wasn’t judging Arturo. It wasn’t my place to evaluate what he did or why he did it. I hadn’t gotten to that step in my process anyway. I was still stuck on anger: angry that he was in an accident; angry that he hadn’t sought me out to help him, to care for him. Angry that he hadn’t loved me enough to want me to be there with him.
“I…” I stammered. I closed my mouth. I opened it again. I struggled and paused one more time.
“I’ve been through a lot, too,” I snapped. Over my father’s shoulder, I saw the mirage of a shadow move. Arturo stood in the doorway to the apartment, his arms folded over his chest as he leaned against the frame. His expression was reflective, his stance casual. I glared at him.
“I’ve been through a lot, too,” I said directly to him before I turned again and walked away.
“Okay, what’s your deal?” the pixie-haired Trinity snapped at me. Her bright blonde hair had a vibrant streak of hot pink in it. Her multi-leather banded wrist lowered her bow as she stared at me over her violin. Icy blue eyes glared at me, a hint of danger, as well as a hint of concern.
“I don’t know,” I said shaking my head, knowing full well what was wrong with me. I couldn’t concentrate. The look in Arturo’s eyes, as I walked away, continued to distract my mind. There were so many things he didn’t know and the truth of his expression showed it. He had no idea what I suffered in his absence. He had no idea what I’d done, and yet his eyes were asking me to tell him. Like my father wanted me to be understanding of Arturo, Arturo wanted to understand me. Yet, it made no sense. Why would he care what had happened? He obviously didn’t care about me. If he did, he would have contacted me.
I wasn’t so selfish that I wasn’t concerned about him or the damage to his body. I had no explanation for the loss of his hand other than the accident. While it was certainly shocking to see, it wasn’t my main concern. I was more upset with why he hadn’t told me, why he hadn’t communicated with me, more than anything else. I wanted to know how he could stay away if he loved me, unless he didn’t really love me after all. I didn’t understand anything at the moment, and I shook my head to snap out of my muddled ramblings.
“I know what’s wrong with you.” Lace Cardaugh’s soothing voice spoke, “He’s returned.”
The statement was simple. I was about to ask how she knew when two people spoke at once.
“Fuck,” Trinity muttered, but loud enough to fill the air between us.
“It’s all over the Internet,” Lace replied, as if in anticipation to my question. She reached into her bag, for what I assumed was her phone.
“I don’t need to know,” I sighed. “I’m sure the articles all show the slap.”
Trinity sat up straighter, her violin resting across her lap.
“You slapped him?” Her voice practically squeaked with excitement at the prospect of doing Arturo physical harm.
“I did,” I sighed, my shoulders sinking, the weight of my cello suddenly heavy between my thighs.
“Why?” Trinity breathed out. I laughed. Of all people to ask, with even a hint of concern, she was the last one I expected. Her voice showed her utter amazement and true interest. Despite hating him, she acted as if she had no idea why I’d slap him.
“He kissed me,” I replied.
Enid giggled. Lace snorted, but Trinity let out a full-blown laugh.
“Oh my God, girl. I might kiss you myself. That’s awesome,” she said, as she continued to laugh. I didn’t know why Trinity disliked Arturo so much. She was adamant that she had not slept with him, and when I accused her of that being the problem, I swear she could have killed me with the slice of her glare across my throat. She was just as strong in her response that sleeping with him was the last thing she ever desired to do.
“What did he say?” Enid asked shyly. Her wild red hair was contained today in a thick strap of fabric, attempting to hold the curls at bay.
“He didn’t say anything actually,” I responded. “We didn’t talk.”
It was Lace’s turn to stare, blink, and then question.
“He didn’t say, ‘hi,’ or ‘I missed you,’ or ‘how are you’?”
“Nope.”
“He didn’t say, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I have so much to tell you’?”
“Nope,” I said again, shaking my head emphatically.
“He didn’t say, ‘I love you and I had trouble getting to you, but now I’m here ready to throw myself at your mercy and beg you to take me back’?” Three sets of eyes stared at Enid. She was a quiet girl. She had her own secrets, but none so great as mine, and none so extreme as Arturo. Her words froze the three of us, until Trinity let out a snort and Lace giggled. I continued to watch the expression on Enid’s face as it fell slightly, then her lips curled into a slow smile.
“Been reading too many of those damn romance novels,” Trinity continued in her laughter. Enid nodded once, but something in her eyes told me she hadn’t come up with that line from a romance novel. Green eyes found mine then dropped back to her instrument. For a tiny thing, she played the viola, a slighter larger looking violin with its own unique sound.
“We literally said nothing. He kissed me. I pulled back and slapped him,” I said in an attempt to redirect the conversation, but on second thought I didn’t want to discuss why I slapped him. It was an uncharacteristic reaction to my greater questions: Where had he been? Why hadn’t he returned to me? I straightened my instrument and simply named a song for us to play.
A couple weeks passed, and Kaye Sirs was doing the best he could to keep the media controlled, as the news of my return travelled like rapid fire. Kaye’s phone rang constantly. His computer chimed with email alerts. Social media was out of control. I should have taken a moment to relish the adoration of my fans, the relief they felt that I was alive and well. The love they shared that I had returned. I wasn’t overjoyed by it, though. That was the very thing I was growing bored of before the accident. I was tired of trying to please Kaye, with his demands for another album and another world tour. I was tired of trying to please fans, who ceaselessly demanded for more – photos, news, and gossip. I missed making music for the joy of music, and I’d actually been stuck in a rut until I met Guinevere.
She came on like a summer thunderstorm. My world should have seemed sunny and bright, but it wasn’t. I didn’t have a focus or a goal. I vaguely knew I wanted to rule Camelot Records one day, but I wasn’t certain when or how that would happen. I had no direction, and then I met her. She rolled into my life unexpectedly, and although our love affair was tumultuous, it was refreshing and reviving. I wrote almost an entire album inspired by her and her love with me: first kiss, first touch, first sexual experience for her. Hell, I’d felt like a virgin when I was with her and it was renewing.
Suddenly, I knew what I needed. I needed a break. Although I’d already been away, I needed time to regenerate, rejoin the band, refresh our music, renew my love. I needed to take us upstate. Of course, when I told Kaye, he disagreed. There wasn’t much Kaye and I did agree on, so it was almost comical that we were brothers: adoptive brothers, that is. I was a foster child in the care of Kaye’s father until I was twelve. That was when I discovered that I was not the natural son of Hector Kaye and began my mentorship with Mure Linn shortly after that. Mure knew the truth of my past but kept those secrets until each one was revealed in time. At eighteen years old, I met my mother. At twenty-one, I inherited a company. At twenty-two, I learned of my son.
/> Morte LeFaye, now nine years old, rode next to me on the long four-hour trip upstate. I’d offered to bring Morte with me to give us time to talk. The rest of the band was intended to meet us up there. Perkins and Hollister were expected to stay at his mother’s for a few days then come to the house. Lansing Lotte, along with Lila Lovelourne and her daughter, Fleur, were intending to stay in a small cabin near the town. He seemed hesitant to come to my place, but I ignored his reluctance. Tristan Lyons wanted to make a stop before he arrived at my house: Camlann.
Placed high above the lake, the picturesque view appeared as if it was lord of the land. The medieval times architecture gave it an Old World feel with its criss-crossed windows and dark wood etched into the block structure. I’d inherited this home from the father I’d never met, Locke Uther, owner of the Pendragon Empire, a multi-billion dollar real estate company. The only portion of the business that interested me was a smaller group that made music, Camelot Records.
Pulling into the circular drive, Morte bounced in anticipation of an afternoon of swimming in the pool. My heart beat rapidly in concern at returning to my historical home. I hadn't stayed here since last summer. The summer I fell in love with a girl, who clearly wanted nothing to do with me anymore.
“Can we swim right away?” Morte asked, breaking into my thoughts. His dark hair, which matched his mother’s, bounced almost as much as him. His translucent skin reflected back the sun, giving him a ghostly appearance as he led the way into my home. His mother would be here soon, as would the others. My own mother, Ingrid, had a house near here, a few miles north. Her family home lovingly called Tintagel Castle, after her family name, and the turret tower at one end, was a place I rarely visited. I had my own space. She wanted me to come to dinner as soon as I arrived, bringing Morte to rejoin his mother, who was with Ingrid. I assured Morte we could swim in a few minutes. My arm ached. I’d learned to drive with the prosthetic hand, which itched and sweated from the heat on the end of my right stump. I couldn’t wait to take it off and give my skin air.
The skin was puckered and taunt; sown as neatly as could be, I suppose. Heavy creams and salves were rubbed over it to moisturize the skin and dull the scar tissue. I laughed at first. What difference would a scar make? I didn’t have a hand. Surely that lack of an appendage was going to be much more noticeable than some scar. I had plenty of other scars. My skin had been ripped off as I was dragged by the motorcycle that hit me. I fell in such a way that my hand somehow became trapped in the wheel, tugging me along until the bones inside could take it no longer. Crushed to mere powder, I somehow fell free, but not before a trail of my blood carpeted the pavement.
Of course, I was incoherent at that time. The initial fall was a vague memory. The connection with the paparazzi bike a total blur. When I awoke in the hospital, or rather a hospital-like room, I was completely unaware of who I was, where I was, or why I was there. I seemed to recognize Mure Linn, but I recalled little else as I faded in and out of consciousness. I remember a voice in my head. One I didn’t seem to hear actually as much as remember. A memory of love spoken: My Once. My Future.
“Arturo!” Morte screeched with excitement as he raced up the curved staircase in the main foyer. “Come on. Change.”
I stared after the boy. His thin legs, almost animal like, skipped clumsily upward, his shorts askew. He looked nothing like me. A vision flashed before me of him dressed in a white button down and a loosened tie. He played a concert here, once I learned he had musical talent. It was Guinevere that encouraged me to help him out. I took him into my room to rough up his hair and downplay the dress-up clothing. We had loosened the tie further and rolled up his sleeves. He looked like he could have been my son for one night.
More visions filled my head as I climbed the stairs slowly. I hadn’t been here for months, but the memories were so vivid. I entered her room first. I was simply torturing myself, I knew, but I was drawn there. The room was very yellow, in creamy butter color and golds. It was royal and feminine. We’d spent all our nights in here instead of my room, for some reason.
I stood at the end of the bed and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine what she smelled like. What she tasted like. My mouth opened slightly at the thought of kissing her in this room. Lapping at her. Making love to her. Distant memories, yet so potent. I stood frozen amongst the space that recalled them. This would always be her room in my mind.
I turned to the right, an adjoining door in the corner beside the fireplace opened to my own room. Darker, in heavy wood tones, the room was masculine and oversized. The bed was large and filled the space. It called to me, and I wanted nothing more than to lay down in hopes of shutting off my memories.
“Arturo, are you ready?” an excited voice squealed, as it grew louder. Without seeing him, I knew Morte was running up the hall toward my room.
“I’ll be right out,” I hollered as I set down my bag, and slowly removed the prosthetic hand. My skin sighed with relief as the polypropylene material struggled to come off my stump. The suction was tight and a slight popping sound happened with the release of my wrist. I no longer looked at it in wonder as I did in the first days. I’d grown used to many things, relearned and forgotten just as many, without the hand. One thing that lingered was the feel of Guinevere under that hand. Of course, that too was a memory, as I no longer had the physical presence of my fingers or her.
I paced the guest room in Ingrid’s home, as I anxiously awaited the arrival of Arturo with Morte. Somehow I’d let her talk me into coming upstate as she swooped in to take Isolde Ireland under her wings. Alone and pregnant, Ireland had walked away from her fiancé, a man who wasn’t the father of her child, and Tristan, the man who was. She came to me, but we were both quickly enveloped under the protection of Ingrid Tintagel. She was a force to be reckoned with when her mind was made up, and her mind decided that Ireland and I both needed to get away from the city.
I was rather surprised to find Ana LeFaye at Ingrid’s home. Ana was Ingrid’s stepdaughter and the mother of Arturo’s son, Morte. My heart softened at the thought of seeing Morte. He was an awkward child with little to recommend him, other than the fact Arturo was his father. He also had incredible talent on the piano. Estranged from Arturo for the first few years of his life, once Arturo learned of Morte’s birth, he stepped up to accept his responsibility, but only in a minimal manner. It had been my intention to change that relationship, and I was on my way to doing that when the accident occurred. Arturo was beginning to accept Morte, recognizing him more so as his son. I wasn’t certain what happened to that relationship once Arturo went missing. I knew what happened to my relationship with Arturo – it disappeared.
Ana greeted me rather civilly, which was shocking in and of itself. She was a snake-like woman, tall, lanky, and practically slithering as she walked. Translucent white skin, which her son shared, was a striking contrast to her jet-black hair, another feature shared with her son. They both had bright green eyes. There was no resemblance to Arturo in Morte’s features. Ana rounded out the reptilian look with bright red mouth and a tongue that moved uncontrollably when she spoke. It crept out and licked her lips in an unpleasant way that brought shivers to my spine.
But on that day, Ana was polite and cordial, even pleasant as she reached for me and gave me the social hug of an heiress. We didn’t actually make contact, but our bodies leaned inward and she airbrushed my cheek. Her eyes betrayed she held a secret. She knew things that I could only imagine, and her slow smile assured me that I was correct in my estimation. If I thought Ana held the truth to where Arturo had been, I was right.
I didn’t bother to ask questions of Ana, as Ingrid invaded our space immediately. She sent Ireland to her garden for some flowers as she was hosting dinner that night. Shortly afterward Tristan Lyons appeared. I realized that Ingrid had ulterior motives as she practically pushed Tristan in the direction of the garden, as well. His expression showed he didn’t understand why he had to go pick flowers, but his relationshi
p with Ingrid proved he would do what she asked.
He’d lived with her for years, while the boys went to college. Not having a mother himself, as he was raised by his uncle, he valued his new relationship with an adult woman. Most connections he had involved sexual experiences. On that note, the handsome sandy haired man returned through the main living room with a squealing blonde in his arms.
“Put me down,” Ireland laughed as he carried her like a bride.
“Ingrid,” he demanded, but the smile on his face could hardly contain his excitement. “I need a room.”
“Tristan!” Ireland shrieked.
Ingrid only tweaked her lips in a knowing expression. Tristan’s model good looks could melt the heart of anyone, and Ingrid was no exception.
“Your room is always ready for you,” she replied. Without further ado, Tristan passed through the living room with Ireland wrapped around his neck. Whatever she said to him, he laughed heartily, and my insides cracked a bit. It was good to see him happy. It was good to hear laughter. He had been a pillar of support for me when I was at my worst, and I wished him all the best.
My eyes followed their happy sound until it disappeared, then I returned to the bright gaze of Ingrid. Her face still held that knowing expression as she said, “You’ll be next, my dear.”
I huffed without a laugh.
“I don’t think so,” I said drily. The weight of Ana’s glare fell heavy on me. Her presence alone was daring me to look in her direction, so I might fall under her hypnosis. I refused to break my stare with Ingrid.
“He’s come back for you,” Ingrid said softly. She rubbed her hands along her thighs, smoothing an already smooth skirt.
I humphed again.
“You’re all he talked about,” she stated, no longer looking at me. Ingrid had secrets, as well. We were all treading lightly around one another, trying to feel our way through crumpled friendships. I had been close to Ingrid, but she slowly shut me out when Arturo disappeared. I never wanted to believe she knew the truth and wouldn’t tell me. I did believe that Mure Linn knew of Arturo’s whereabouts. He would not have held information back from Ingrid. She would have had a crumb of truth but not the whole cookie of facts, or so, I thought.
