“This is my first time reading it,” said Mr. Lazarus sadly. “But it was my wife’s favorite too. In fact, this is her copy.”
“Are you enjoying it?” asked Helena, who suspected discretion to be the better part of valor, at least with regard to Mr. Lazarus’ wife.
“Yes, very much so,” said Mr. Lazarus, as he stood. He wobbled a bit and, alarmed, Helena reached out to grab his arm.
Across their arms, Mr. Lazarus smiled a small, strained smile at her.
“Thank you,” he said. “That might have been embarrassing… and painful.”
“It was nothing. You’re probably just tired.”
“I am,” admitted Mr. Lazarus, looking unspeakably sad, and Helena had the feeling that he wasn’t just talking about his physical tiredness.
“I’ll walk you back to your apartment,” offered Helena on impulse, because Mr. Lazarus still looked quite ill and he seemed so terribly unhappy; and also because he was her friend.
Mr. Lazarus smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a sweet girl. You remind me of my late wife, when we first met.”
“When did you first meet?” asked Helena. Quickly, she leaned down to drop her cell phone in her small bag, then scooped the whole thing up. “What was she like?”
At her question, Mr. Lazarus looked pleased, if bitterly amused and terribly, terribly sad.
“She was a princess,” he said, as they started out, Helena’s arms linked around one of his. “Not literally, of course, but she had been raised as if she were one; all the best schools, the best friends, and the best parties. It was only the best for Caroline Rothschild, majority heir to the Rothschild fortune. But despite it all, she was very sweet; naive in some ways. It was her aunts and uncles who put on airs, not her.”
“And what were you like back then?”
“I was an interloper,” said Mr. Lazarus with a sharp laugh. “It caused something of a stir, when she came home with me in tow.”
“Were you not considered suitable then?” inquired Helena, curious.
Mr. Lazarus barked another laugh.
“No. I’d gotten into her fancy private school on an athletic scholarship, and I managed to keep it all four years. She was a legacy that had gotten in on the strength of her family’s previous donation of a building. She had a cousin a few years older than her – Spencer – and he was bad news even back then. The benefit of that building of Spencer’s had sort of trickled over to her.
“At any rate, neither of us, Caroline or me, was really supposed to be there. And yet, somehow it was my presence there that offended sensibilities, particularly so after Caroline chose me over any of the other heirs or future titans of industry that were swanning around campus in those days trying to get her attention.”
“And then you got married?” asked Helena, now fascinated.
“Of course! Right after we graduated. But then, Caroline had always been very brave.” He looked down at Helena then and, his gaze piercing, added “As I’m sure that you are, my dear.”
Flushing, Helena deliberately looked away.
I’m not brave, thought Helena, just desperate.
Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Mr. Lazarus changed the subject, asking solicitously, “So, what are you about this afternoon?”
“A glass of water, a shower, and then lunch,” said Helena. “And then maybe some shopping? I wanted to make dinner for my host.”
Remembering what he had said about the oven, her previous indignation welled up, and Helena scowled.
I’ll show him, she thought vengefully.
She’d make a great dinner! And then he’d have to eat it, along with his words! So there!
“What sort of dinner did you have in mind?” asked Mr. Lazarus, drawing her attention back to himself.
Helena felt her face warm.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve never really cooked before, so I thought I’d look something up online?”
Chuckling, Mr. Lazarus reached across himself to pat Helena’s hands with one of his own.
“If you don’t mind some interference from a well-meaning busybody,” said Mr. Lazarus, “perhaps I could offer some assistance. I’m quite tired today, but tomorrow afternoon, I could certainly help you.” And when Helena hesitated, tempted but still indignant, he added slyly “Your young man would never have to know.”
Immediately, Helena felt her entire outlook brighten.
“That would be great!” Helena enthused. “It’s a date!”
And Mr. Lazarus smiled his sad smile again.
At his door, Mr. Lazarus thanked Helena for walking him home. When he was safely inside, Helena took herself upstairs for that drink of water and a quick shower.
Showering naturally brought up memories, specifically memories of Rudolf in that towel, water darkening his hair and dripping down the length of his gorgeous body. He might have been embarrassed about forgetting to grab a change of clothes before his shower, but for herself, Helena had been quite appreciative. So appreciative, in fact, that she spent a little extra time in the shower herself.
Afterwards, Helena dressed and went to see what Rudolf kept in his kitchen cupboards. Not a lot, as it turned out, though the refrigerator was better stocked. But he did have peanut butter, a few kinds of jelly, and some slightly squashed bread, all of which meant just one thing.
I could make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, realized Helena, excited. She’d never had one before.
Jellies and jams had both been alright in her grandparents’ household, and French bread a staple, but Helena’s grandmother had deemed peanut butter far too plebian a thing to ever be granted space on her shelves. It was no fit food for a Tarleton, much less a lady. And the mothers of Helena’s classmates must have agreed with her, because there had never been so much as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to trade for at any of the private schools and academies that Helena had been sent to over the years.
For herself, Helena had always loved the idea of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They had always seemed so happy, so romantic, to her! Helena had always reckoned that peanut butter was probably the sort of food that people ate before they ran away with handsome musicians.
As she had never been much of a lady, and she wasn’t much of a Tarleton anymore either, Helena dared to fetch the peanut butter down from its shelf.
The peanut butter didn’t prove to have the most appealing color, but it smelled okay, although trying to spread a thin layer of it across a piece of bread mostly resulted in her ripping up the top layer of the bread. A thicker layer went on better, she found, though it inspired in her a desire to put an equal amount of jelly on the opposing slice of bread. Then Helena slapped the two pieces of bread together, cut them in half diagonally, and, on a whim, cut the crusts off.
It just didn’t look right with the crusts on. Her mother had always –
My mother? Helena wondered, her surprise interrupting her own train of thought.
It was a mistake.
The thought – or maybe the memory – was gone, though she spent several minutes straining for it.
Rats! Helena thought, scowling.
It happened like that, sometimes. But maybe, if she was very good and didn’t directly think about it for awhile, the memory might come around again. Maybe. Possibly.
It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one that she had. And sometimes, it even worked.
Determinedly, Helena pushed all thoughts of her mother away in favor of bending all of her concentration to the task of cutting a pear from the refrigerator into nearly equal slices without cutting herself too.
It was a more difficult task than it sounded, especially since it was one that Helena had never had to do for herself before. And Rudolf wasn’t home to fuss over her and bandage her fingers if she made a mistake this time.
Fortunately, Helena had better luck with her knife this time.
Leaving her dirtied utensils in the sink, Helena poured hers
elf another glass of water before claiming a set of silverware as well as a paper napkin. Then she trundled all of her things into the living room, where she arranged them neatly on the coffee table.
Carefully, Helena cut a bite out of the first sandwich, red jelly oozing out of the sides of it.
Her first bite was… interesting.
The peanut butter seemed to suck all the moisture out of her mouth, while simultaneously gluing her teeth together. It was an amazing contrast against the jelly. In fact, the strawberry jelly was sweet, so sweet and so exquisitely delicious that shimmery scales began to form along the length of her legs, just as if she had taken a saltwater bath.
Her sandwich was delicious!
But as tasty as it was, it was also terribly messy. Somehow, in the scant space between her plate and her mouth, and despite using a fork and knife, Helena had still managed to get a drip of jelly down the length of her wrist.
Happily, she licked it up, no doubt leaving her skin sticky and sweet in her tongue’s wake.
The peanut butter and jelly sandwich was a messy disaster, and yet, somehow it was deliciously messy disaster.
How could I have waited so long to eat this again? Helena wondered, as she discarded her silverware in favor of using her hands. It couldn’t possibly be any messier. And besides, there was no one to see her using her fingers.
And somehow, impossibly, that seemed to make the whole sandwich taste even better.
Peanut butter, Helena decided, must be a bit like liver or caviar: easiest eaten when you’ve grown up on it, and harder to acquire a taste for later in life.
Helena hated both liver and caviar, something that had always made her grandmother despair of her plebian taste buds, but she loved this sandwich. Helena figured that, as a small child, she must have eaten a great many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with her parents.
The sandwich was so good that when she was finished, Helena very much wanted to eat another. Unfortunately, she was full. So she split the difference, indulging in a bit more strawberry jelly. It didn’t help with her scales – in fact, it made them so much worse – but it did make her happy.
Helena loved strawberries! She had always loved them so very, very much.
After lunch, Helena got her laptop out. She checked her e-mail, even though it was far too soon for anyone to have replied to her previous messages, and then surfed the web for a bit. Then she helped herself to a couple of books from Rudolf’s library.
In fact, she was still sitting at his desk, nestled down in his comfortable computer chair while she read, when Rudolf came home. At the sight of her there in his chair, he looked surprised and then abruptly but acutely uncomfortable.
That made Helena uncomfortable. It made her feel like she was intruding. Crushing down that feeling as best she could – she was his guest. In fact, he had insisted that she stay with him. No way was she intruding, and even if she was, it was his own fault, anyway – Helena straightened in her seat.
“So!” she chirped. “How was your day?”
Chapter 10 – Dolf
Dolf stared at Helena, surprised by her for the second time in as many seconds. It was a simple question, but not one that anyone had ever bothered to ask him before now.
“Good, I guess,” he said carefully, while mentally sorting through the things that had happened. “Tomorrow is the last day of my current assignment. Then I’ll have a debriefing, and hopefully it’ll be on to something new.”
Hopefully, because tomorrow was also the day of his physical; when he passed, he’d be off the rabbit food, first thing.
“Oh. Are you going to be sad when this assignment is over?”
“No,” said Dolf, while toeing off his shoes. They went neatly onto the shoe rack.
It had been an extremely lucrative contract for the company – one that would allow them to take on the kinds of pro bono cases that Dolf preferred – but Dolf didn’t liked the client, not one little bit.
“Well, hopefully, you’ll like your next assignment very much,” said Helena cheerfully, surprising Dolf yet again.
He wondered how many of his unspoken thoughts she had heard in that single syllable. At a loss, Dolf merely nodded; content to accept her well-wishes for his future.
“What about you?” he asked, reciprocating. “Did you have a good day?”
She had, in fact, had a very good day, something that she told him about at length as he got out the recipe and they got out the ingredients for that night’s meal. They were going to have quiche.
“Mr. Lazarus?” echoed Dolf at one point in her narrative. “Mr. Greg Lazarus?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Helena, clearly pleased. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” said Dolf, trying to remember what he had heard about the other man. He didn’t personally know many of his neighbors. “But one of the other Defenders does. Nice guy. But isn’t he fifty-ish and kind of… frail?”
“Yes,” said Helena, more soberly. “He looks like he’s getting over a terrible illness.”
“Car wreck a few months ago and then a serious illness, I think,” said Dolf. “I think his wife was killed in the car wreck.”
“Oh! How sad!”
“Yes,” agreed Dolf, remembering the rest of it now.
Connor, who was one of the more gregarious Defenders, knew the man. He had said that Greg Lazarus, although human, was mourning his dead wife as deeply as any were-animal would a lost soul mate. Dolf had been sorry for the older man. He didn’t wish misery on anyone.
“I’m glad that he seems to be doing better,” added Dolf, and Helena nodded.
It was becoming easier to carry on a conversation with Helena Tarleton, possibly because he was getting used to her presence in his life. Or maybe, it was because she kept putting herself in danger.
“No, don’t do that,” said Dolf quickly. Hurriedly, he confiscated the vegetable peeler from her – before she could accidentally peel any of her fingers, he was happy to say. She had already cut herself once in his kitchen. “I’ll do this. Why don’t you go grate the cheese?”
“Okay!” said Helena brightly.
If she was unhappy with her assignment – or suspected him of trying to keep her away from the sharper kitchen implements – she gave no sign of it. Leaving Helena to shred the two kinds of cheese that they would need for their small quiche, Dolf washed and peeled the vegetables, his movements swift and sure.
From across his galley kitchen, there came a pain yelp and a hiss then the sound of the cheese grater clattering against the counter.
Dolf’s stomach swooped.
“Helena?” he asked. “Did you grate your finger?”
“Maybe,” she said, her voice wavering. “Or maybe it was more than one?”
Leaving his vegetables where they were, Dolf went to see how badly she had grated herself.
The best thing that could be said about her injury was that it didn’t need stitches.
“C’mon,” said Dolf, his hand cupping hers. “Let’s get some antibiotic ointment on those fingers.”
Helena, her cheeks flushed, nodded.
While he doctored on her hand, Dolf scolded her. He couldn’t help it. With her knee black and blue and so many of her fingers bandaged, she was beginning to look a bit pathetic. And he was beginning to look like a crap Defender.
“You’ve got to be more careful in the kitchen,” he said. “There’s a lot of stuff that you can hurt yourself with in there.”
“I know.” Helena grimaced. Whether it was at his words or the disinfectant that he was liberally splashing over her scraped fingertips, Dolf didn’t know. “I didn’t know that cooking was so dangerous. It’s harder than I expected.”
“Then you expected? How have you been feeding yourself until now? Takeout?”
“Yes, some takeout,” agreed Helena. “But when I wanted to eat at home, I got Pia to cook my meals.”
“Pia? Who’s Pia?”
“My maid,” said Helena, surprising D
olf so much that he actually dared to look up from his work. Helena’s face was very close – kissably close, even.
Not that he was thinking about kissing her.
“Well, she was,” amended Helena, distracting Dolf from his observations on how soft her lips looked. “Grandfather has probably fired her by now.”
“Why? Wasn’t she a good maid?”
“Oh, no, she was a very good maid. Her references were impeccable, and she came very highly recommended. But I’m no longer there for her to serve.”
“That seems a bit hard on her,” said Dolf.
He was careful to sound casual about it. Inside, he was reeling. Just how rich was Declan’s cousin that she had never had to do for herself? And how could she speak so casually about the firing of someone that she must have known pretty well? Someone that had a hard job and must now be having trouble making ends meet?
“Did you at least warn her that you were leaving?” he asked, feeling sorry for this faceless maid of Helena’s. It would be rough being tossed out on your ear like that.
Helena stared at him like he had lost his mind.
“Why would I do that?” she asked, sounding bewildered.
“Then she would have had a chance to look around for somewhere else to work!” exclaimed Dolf, now incensed.
“If she had known that I was going to run away, then she would have gone straight to Grandfather to report it.”
Dolf snorted. “I think you’re being paranoid.”
“No, I’m not. Grandfather always paid her very well for any private information that she could provide to him regarding my life or my movements,” said Helena matter-of-factly. “He had the same arrangement with all the serving staff in his own household, as well as my aunt’s home. The chauffeurs, gardeners, and my aunt and uncles’ assistants were also on his payroll. Of course, my aunts and uncles had similar arrangements with his staff too.”
Dolf looked appalled and, not wanting to abandon her aunt or uncles to his judgment, Helena added “I did it too, although only with Grandfather’s chauffeur. I just wanted to know where he was and what he might be doing.” Helena scowled. “Leaving would have been easier if I had known who he was talking to – at least as it pertained to me – but Grandfather’s secretary is utterly loyal to him. She would never have told me the truth.”
The Wyvern's Defender Dire Wolf Page 10
