by Snow, Wylie
Clara sprang forward from her semi-reclined position. “Luc, stop!”
“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed by her frantic wide eyes.
“Don’t uncover the tray!”
“Okay,” he said, backing away as if the lid were booby-trapped. “Why?”
“I think… I think I know what’s under the lid.”
“So do I,” he replied. “Food.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Clara fluttered her hands. “I know what’s on the tray because I can smell it!” She looked between him and the food. The bluish circles under her eyes couldn’t hide the glimmer of excitement that made her irises look greenish-gold in the morning light.
“Go on,” he said, nodding. Hoping.
She closed her eyes and sucked air through her nostrils. “There’s coffee, and toast I think, or some kind of warm bread, and sausages. And maybe, I think, eggs? I can’t quite nail that one.” She opened her eyes, a nervous smile tugging the corners of her mouth. “Now, open it, open it!”
Luc lifted the lid with a silent prayer. He peered down at the small patty of sausage meat, cheese omelette, orange slices, a wedge of oatmeal loaf and a mug of steaming coffee. He wheeled it closer to Clara so she could see for herself.
“I’m fixed!” Clara squealed. “I have my smell back! The puck must have reversed the damage!”
“I can’t believe it,” he said, planting kisses all over her face. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! Your proof is right bloody there!”
“I just can’t believe it,” he said, raking her hair back off her face, beaming.
“Well do believe it,” she said with a giggle. “If it weren’t for you and your brave journey back to the arena, I’d never be able to smell the heavenly scent of bacon again. This sausage won’t do. I want bacon! Go,” she said pushing him away. “Go find me bacon, and while you’re at it, brush your teeth!”
If he didn’t have his macho image to worry about, Luc would have skipped through the hospital door and all the way to his hotel. In fact, maybe when he got to his room, skip he would.
Chapter 36
“Mmm, can you smell that Miami air?” Clara asked, inhaling deeply. She took the towel from her hair to let it air dry in the afternoon breeze that wafted across Luc’s generous balcony. It was the first time her hair had been properly washed and conditioned since the accident four days ago and, aside from the tender, itchy spot on the back of her scalp where the stitches were, she was back to her old self.
Luc stepped through the French doors with two giant bowls of cereal. “Hope you don’t mind cereal for dinner. It’s all I have in the house.” He pushed a few flakes around with his spoon, scooped out a raisin, and deposited it in her bowl. “If I knew we were coming back early, I would have asked my housekeeper to stock the fridge.”
“I’m so sick of hospital food, anything will do,” she answered. Before she could get a spoonful into her mouth, he’d picked out another few raisins and dropped them into her bowl.
“Don’t you like raisins?” she asked.
“I like them just fine.”
“So why are you picking them out?”
“So you don’t feel raisin-gypped,” he said and winked. “I’d hate for you to review my humble establishment negatively.”
“Never,” she said and swallowed a sigh. “It’s perfect.”
She ate her cereal, each bite full of sweet goodness that turned to leaden weights in her stomach. This entire business was making her ill, but if you used the very definition of the word sacrifice, which, according to Messieurs Merriam and Webster was to destroy or surrender something precious for the sake of something else, then she was making the right decision. At least, that’s what her mind was telling her. Her body, however, clung to the balcony rail as an ominous shiver travelled the length of her spine.
Luc took her near-empty cereal bowl out of her hand and wrapped an arm around her from behind. She didn’t fight him, didn’t have the strength or the will, and settling back against him was frightfully easy.
“What do you want to do tonight? We can go to a club or take a moonlight stroll on the beach. You haven’t seen much of my city, so it’s your call.”
Clara remained hypnotized by the lines of white waves, the purple sky above. She focused on every detail, including Luc’s strong frame against her back, his big hand caressing her upper arm, engraving them on her mind like the names etched in the black memorial wall.
“Is there no game on?” she finally said.
“Not tonight.”
“I’ve had my fill of sightseeing, Luc. I’d rather just stay in.” With you. Alone.
“Of course. You’re probably still tired.”
“Mmm.” Not really. She had slept for the better part of four days, her body needing to catch up and heal the latest head wound. And when she wasn’t sleeping, she was pretending she was. The less said, the less damage…
He turned her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “You’re not tired of me yet, are you?”
…but tonight would be different. Tonight, she pushed all the accusations and hurt from her heart, squashed all thoughts of Valentina, and focused solely on Luc and his kisses. She would have one more selfish night before her atonement, a final farewell before she moved on.
“Oh yes, indeed I am. You’re a complete bore, like being in a room of drying paint and growing grass. I’m stifling a yawn as I speak.”
He tilted her chin up to kiss her and, as their bodies aligned, she added these feelings to her memory banks—his radiant heat, thigh touching thigh, solid chest against her breasts, his thick black waves curling around her fingers. She smiled as he pressed his mouth to hers. Her Luc. At least for tonight.
They kissed, long and deep, passionate, yet without the frenzy that normally had them ripping each other’s clothes off.
He took her hands, twined her fingers with his, and wordlessly led her to the bedroom. His bedroom. And while he undressed them, he kissed her more, taking the time to enjoy the simple pleasure of his lips on hers, sometimes engaging her tongue, just as often not.
Luc touched her, massaged her muscles, played with her hair. He kissed her toes, her elbows, her breasts. He whispered poetic things into her ear.
She did the same, tracing every ridge, every plane, every scar with her lips. He was so beautiful, so perfect, body and soul, she wanted to weep.
The fire built slow and lasted for hours and when he entered her, deep and filling, it was unhurried, reverent, and beyond lust. Whatever his sins, whatever happened between him and Valentina that night, when they looked into each other’s eyes, Clara knew that she was in the company of her soul mate.
Luc.
Her Luc.
Her sacrifice.
Her friend, her lover, her demon, her god, and she loved him so much, she thought she would die of it. She probably would.
Clara pretended to be asleep until Luc left the condo at sunrise. She was getting very good at pretending. In fact, if there were a category in the Oscars for ‘best female pretending to be normal’, her performance since the Washington phone call would have garnered her that golden statue, hands down. And maybe another for ‘female coward of the year’ because it was the mile-wide yellow streak that made her roll over and snuggle under the covers as Luc left for his golf game with Riley Sutter and the boys, all because she couldn’t face him. He’d know, in the way she would have said the word goodbye, that it wasn’t temporary.
Cowardly, yes. Necessary, double yes. But she couldn’t let herself dwell on how much it hurt. And she didn’t want to imagine what he would think when he came home to find her gone. No, no, no. No thinking, or she’d never go through with it. And though it seemed the perfectly logical thing to do when she’d come up with it all t
hose days ago in the middle of the night, actually sticking to the checklist of action items on her escape plan left her heart feeling like it had been dipped in molten rock and left to dry: cold, cracked, broken.
Glad she had the forethought to write the note in advance, for her hands shook so badly, it dropped to the floor twice before she got it settled on his pillow, she then quickly threw her things into her bags. Determined not to cry, she let the door click behind her without daring to glance back at Luc’s home, without turning to drink it all in, his furniture, his pictures, everything that was him. She only had two things to take with her—memories, and a little something of Luc’s she hoped he’d never miss. Every step toward the waiting taxi pricked her eyes like shards of hot glass. She’d reckoned she’d need no less than ten packets of travel-sized tissues for this flight.
One more hurdle to jump, she asked the driver to take her to BMG headquarters.
“Clara Bean!” Kingsley Bartel boomed as she set her luggage down in his private lobby. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“I’ve come to say goodbye, sir,” she said, pulling an envelope out of her briefcase, “and to thank you, and to give you this.”
His exuberance faded as turned it over in his hand. “I hope this isn’t what I think this is.”
“It is. I’m sorry.”
Kingsley furrowed his brow and straightened his shoulders. “I think you’d better come in to my office.”
She followed, though a personal confrontation was not what she wanted, what she tried to circumvent by laying it all out in the letter.
“Please explain,” he said, leaning against his desk. He looked larger than she remembered, blocking out the view of the endless ocean behind him.
She swallowed, wishing she had a drink of water. “I’m leaving the company, sir. Going back to England.”
“Why?” he said, tapping the envelope on the edge of his desk. “I fail to understand. Why would you leave something you’re good at? I knew you were initially unhappy with co-writing with Luc, but I thought it went splendidly in the end.”
Keep it together, Bean. Dignity, grace, professionalism. “It did. Luc’s been brilliant to work with, and the assignment was educational and fun.” She took a deep breath, thankful her voice didn’t crack. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to say his name aloud.
“But?”
“Mr. Bartel, I explained everything in the letter. And I really must run or I’ll be late for my flight—”
“There are other flights to London, Miss Bean, and I want to hear it from you why you’re giving up a promising career with BMG. I thought we were breaking new ground together, thought you were excited to be part of our global team.”
Clara sighed. There was no other way but to be honest. “Have you ever heard the term anosmia before?”
Bartel furrowed his brows. “Not that I can recall.”
“I had an accident, hit my head—”
“Yes, yes, puck to the head. I had the full report from Mr. Sutter.”
“Mr. Sutter wasn’t aware of the lasting damage.” She averted her eyes, unable to face him while she used Riley in her lies, unable to face Bartel’s scrutinizing look.
“Of what nature?”
She wondered how she should approach this. It couldn’t be like her tearful confession to Luc, it had to be emotionless, businesslike, and succinct. The textbook version. “The axons that run from my olfactory neurons to my brain were sheared, severed, rendered useless.” Clara’s body shook from head to toe. It was the first time she’d ever said it out loud. “I have anosmia,” she said, letting it sink in. “In other words, I can’t smell a thing.”
“I see,” Bartel said, tapping his finger against his chin.
She could practically see his brain weighing the issues, knew the minute he got it.
“I see,” he said, rubbing his big square jaw. “We’ve excellent doctors in the United States, Miss Bean. I’m sure they could fix this problem. BMG would pay, of course.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but there is no cure for anosmia. And only about a twenty percent chance that the nerves will ever mend over time. So,” she shrugged. “It’s impossible for me to continue being a food critic.”
“Hmmm. And Charlie? What does he say about all of this?”
“He doesn’t know yet. I’d rather tell him in person.”
Bartel pressed the envelope with her letter of resignation into her hand. “You save this for him, Clara. And good luck.”
Clara turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. She would get through this without breaking down. She had to. Because once the tears began, she doubted they’d stop. Ever.
She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood.
“Something else Miss Bean?”
She turned and looked the older man in the eyes. She thought he’d understand if he could see her expression. “Luc doesn’t know,” she said, her throat parched and cracky as an autumn leaf.
“So be it,” he said with a nod.
Chapter 37
“There was a flight that left for London Gatwick at seven thirty this morning,” Shelagh said. The sound of her clicking computer keys in the background matched Luc’s racing heart. “And another at nine twenty, bound for Heathrow.”
“No, those would have been too early. She never would have made it,” Luc said to BMG’s travel coordinator. “Bartel’s secretary said she was sure it was Clara in with the boss just as she arrived at work about eight forty-five.” He dragged his fingers through his hair as he paced.
“There was one at eleven forty,” Shelagh continued, “which makes sense considering she would have had to be through security at least an hour before her international flight, unless she connected out of Altanta. Then she would have left earlier.”
God damn, tabernac, and fucking hell. He should have never stayed for lunch in the clubhouse, but when he called home after the eighteenth hole and she didn’t pick up, he assumed she’d gone shopping. He might have been able to stop her, talk her out of it, at least had the chance to say goodbye.
He thanked Shelagh for her help navigating the airport information and wished he had the kind of phone he could slam. Tapping the red bar on his touch screen, no matter how hard he pushed, did not have the desired effect.
Blood roared in his ears; useless adrenaline coursed through his body. He’d felt angry, pissed right the hell off, and a bit crazed with disbelief since he found the note in her prim handwriting, left on his pillow. There was no Dear Luc, just:
Charlie called to say he had a new assignment waiting, so I had to dash to catch a flight. My apologies for not sticking around for a final meal, but I have a very tight connection. I’m headed to Istanbul!! Can you imagine how wonderfully smelly it’ll be? If not for that lucky puck…
It’s been a brilliant few weeks—thanks for introducing me to your country and your game of ice hockey. I’ll be out of England, probably for ages, but if you’re ever over my way, do pop in for a cup of tea.
Best regards, Bean
He read and reread the note, looking for clues, anything that would make him feel better, give him some idea as to how she could have left without a goodbye. The impersonal tone, the implication she wouldn’t be there if he called, the fact she reverted to calling it ice hockey, left him feeling cut. And she knew he despised tea!
His jaw hurt, the muscles around his mouth refusing to relax from the tight frown. It’s like he didn’t know her, this “Best regards, Bean” person, like she didn’t know him.
Maybe he drank up every detail about her because he was completely smitten. Maybe to her, he was just that one-night stand that lasted a month and she had absolutely no emotional investment. She was clearly excited about visiting Turkey and didn’t seem at all regretful about her departure. May
be that was her nature. What did he really know about her? She travelled from country to country, like a nomad, just her and her dog. She probably didn’t allow herself to become attached. Did she have other men, lovers in every country she visited? She admitted to Franco in Italy. Was he just her American fling?
Best regards. She’d signed it “best regards,” not even “love, Clara” or “cheers,” that charming little word she used to end a telephone conversation.
He slunk into his cave and collapsed onto the leather sofa.
Surely he didn’t imagine the gut-rightness every time they connected. And last night was fucking magic! She was insatiable and so…so…so fucking amazing. There was this buzz when they came together, when he was inside her, a bond that ran so deep it was like… like… fuck! It was love. He looked at the letter one more time before crumpling it in his fist.
He loved her.
And she left him.
Chapter 38
“Bean!” Luc pounded on the door, not caring that it was after midnight. The neighbourhood was otherwise quiet—no traffic, no people, no sirens or music—so different than his Miami neighbourhood. He was sure by the light of day, her English town would be described as quaint, maybe colloquial, but at the moment, he could have cared less. “Bean!” he shouted, again. A light went on in an upper window. “Open up!”
She came to the door tightly wrapped in a flannel robe.
“Luc?” Clara shook her head, rubbed her reddened, puffy eyes. God, was it only a week since he’d seen her? It felt like a lifetime, an eternity spent pacing the length of his cave, pretending to be interested in hockey games and pretending he could taste the food he chewed.
“Bean,” he said and pushed a loose bouquet of roses at her. He hadn’t intended to buy her flowers, but when he saw the woman outside of the airport selling them by the stem, saw that the pale, peachy-pink petals matched Clara’s skin tone exactly, he grabbed a handful. And with a sliver of hope, they might remind her of the last time he’d given her a rose.
