by Ani Keating
In the silence that follows, I have a sudden urge to leave something behind—here, with him. Not on his bed, his wall or even his skin. Somewhere deeper, in a place only he knows. The urge becomes a compulsion. It crashes against my ribs with the urgency of someone strapped to an electric chair.
“Are you up for a midnight stroll?” I ask.
His eyebrows arch. Perhaps he was expecting a long story or, with my track record, a battle for information. “Where?”
“There’s a place I usually go to alone. It will be closed now but we can still go in. I’d like to show you,” I say, more than a little bewildered by my choice. Over Javier, over Reagan, over everyone I have met here, somehow it is this beautiful stranger who feels right.
Aiden smiles. “It would be my honor.”
That little ember between my lungs glows and vibrates while the rest of me starts hunkering down for what I’m about to do. Making the end excruciating. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow. And maybe this way he will share something that matters with me too.
“Let’s go,” I say, climbing out of bed. He does the opposite. He leans back on his elbows, his eyes traveling over me. I cover my breasts and scuttle to the other side of the palatial bedroom where my dress is in a heap on the floor. He laughs a buoyant, carefree laugh that fractures the night. It’s freeing, like the sound of a waterfall.
“Elisa, I have memorized for life everything you’re hiding. So you might as well let me enjoy the show.”
He’s right, idiot. He’s seen it all. Still, I pick up my dress and clutch it to my chest, blushing head to toe. He uncoils from the bed covers and saunters my way in nothing but flawless skin. I know he is walking at his normal pace but it looks like slow motion to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure angels are singing.
“Doing some memorizing yourself, Elisa?”
“Not really. Just realizing that memory does not do reality justice.”
He smiles but this time, the dimple does not form in his cheek. “Depends on the memory,” he says so quietly that I’m not sure I heard him right.
He reaches me, covers my hands with his and pries the dress from my fingers. His eyes start a path from the roots of my hair to my curled toes. He leans in, his mouth to my ear.
“Don’t hide from me.” His breath sends a fiery current over my skin. But the instant my breathing picks up, he pulls away.
“Tempting though you are, I don’t want you to be sore. You have to sit for your painting tomorrow.” He winks, and just like that, his humor returns.
Oh, bloody hell, my painting! Will he still insist on that when he hears the truth?
He strides into his walk-in closet—or rather, walk-in apartment—taking my dress with him.
“I don’t think my dress will fit you, Aiden. Might be a bit tight around the—ah—groin.”
He laughs that waterfall laughter again. The closet lights flicker as he crosses the threshold. He flits to the far back, the muscles of his exposed back rippling with tension even from this distance. Why? What causes this? I want to ask but I’m sure the reasons are embargoed.
He puts on a pair of dark jeans and a navy sweater with blinding speed. Then he digs some clothes from a polished wood dresser and is back to me in seconds.
I look at the mountain of clothes, horrified. “These are for me?”
“Yes. It’s cool out and you only have your dress with you.”
Before I can open my mouth, he slides a white short-sleeved T-shirt over my head, then a long-sleeved one, then a navy hooded sweatshirt. They all fall to my knees. He kneels in front of me and guides my legs into a pair of gray sweatpants.
“Aiden, do you think this is going a little overboard? Considering that it’s May in Portland, Oregon, not winter in the Arctic tundra?”
“Not at all,” he says, lifting my right foot. He kisses my toe and slides a woolen sock over it. He repeats the process with my left foot and tops off the preparation for the Ice Age by sliding a knit hat over my head until it covers my eyebrows. He steps back, regarding his handiwork with solemn deliberation.
“Are you sure we don’t need a scarf and gloves? Or a biohazard suit?”
“Don’t tempt me.” He smiles and swats my behind. “You’ll do. Come, let’s go fend off the elements.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“I’d still fuck you.”
“That’s rude.”
“But true.”
“I’m sweating.”
“Even better.”
“Aiden, honestly, can I at least take off the hat? I can barely see. I’ll trip.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, picking me up like I weigh as much as the hat, not twice my normal pounds from all the fabric layered over me.
I wrap my arms around his neck. His ever-present tension relaxes and he marches out of the bedroom with purpose.
The moment the night air whips my skin, I’m grateful for my Eskimo attire. The wind is sharper up here than in town. Aiden sets me down by the Aston Martin and opens my door. For the first time since the accident, I wish I had my own car so I could drive instead of giving directions. Hmm, on second thought, then I couldn’t stare at him.
Aiden folds gracefully into the driver seat despite his tall frame, and turns on the ignition. He presses a button on the steering wheel and “Für Elise” fills the car.
My eyes fly to his. He smiles. “It seems appropriate.”
“My mum named me after this,” I volunteer, surprised at how easily the words leave my mouth.
“It suits you. It has a calming quality, I think.”
“Calming? You mean soporific?”
He laughs. “We’ve already established you keep me up at night. So, no, soporific is not appropriate. Where to, Elisa?”
“Down the hill, to the left.”
I listen to the melody as the Aston Martin curves smoothly, its light beams piercing the thick darkness. Every few seconds, my eyes flit to Aiden’s face. There is a different kind of beauty about him now—something that glows underneath. The music changes to the “Moonlight Sonata” as we take the final curve. The closer we get, the louder my heart beats until it drowns even the angelic piano. I keep my eyes ahead where in a few meters, the tall, rose hedges will appear.
“Ah!” Aiden smiles. “The Rose Garden.”
I nod, rolling down the window. The moist May air steals inside, heavy with the scent of early blooms. Aiden parks the car and scans the night with sharp vigilance. It’s so intense that I follow his gaze, half expecting shadows to morph from the darkness. But there is nothing.
He gets out and comes to my window. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “Sure you want to be here?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes.” He frowns as though the answer is a surprise. He opens my door, wraps his arm around me and pulls me to his side. I expect the permanent tension that strains his muscles, but they are half-relaxed, like violin strings after a long concert.
We start strolling to one of the oldest public gardens in the United States. Ten thousand roses and counting. But that’s not the only reason why I come here. I stop under the enormous trellis at the entrance, the way I always do. Christmas lights and soft halogens light up the paths. The rest of the blooms are tucked in the darkness, their petals humming with critters. There is a whoosh of hilly wind, almost like a whisper. I lock my knees, bracing for the crater that ruptures in my chest when I come here. But tonight, it is contained. Not like it does not exist, but like the ember that glows at Aiden’s presence fills it with light, not void.
“You come here alone.” Aiden’s voice is low—a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I grew up with a rose garden. Not as grand as this one, of course. But it smelled the same.”
I take a deep breath, wondering if my lungs know the difference. Aiden breathes in the air, t
oo, as his eyes assimilate the garden. There is something unique about the way he perceives things—as though he is consuming them with all his senses.
“So you come here when you miss home,” he states quietly.
“No. I don’t miss England. I come here when I miss them.”
“Your parents?”
I nod. “This is the only spot I’ve found here that suits them. Come. This way.” I take his hand and start on the mossy, cobblestoned path.
“The path to our cottage in England looks exactly like this except it’s barely two feet wide,” I say, having the odd sense that I am inviting Aiden not to my home, but to my origin.
His sentient eyes scan the path. Then he pulls me to his chest and caresses my lower lip with his thumb.
“Why do you come here alone? I’m sure it’s not because you can’t find the company.”
“We all need a place where we go alone. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I think that’s true.”
“Do you have an Alone Place, Aiden?”
Walls rise up in his eyes and he stops caressing my lips. “Yes, I do.” His voice has a hard edge.
I wait for him to tell me where it is, but he doesn’t. I don’t push him even though I would give some of my remaining days to know. Things like this are only shared by choice.
“So you know the feeling, then.”
He nods. I reach on my tiptoes and kiss his lips lightly. “Come, let me show you the rest,” I say, following the mossy path.
“Do they have your favorite roses here?” he asks, as we enter the round Shakespeare Garden with its twinkling lights.
“No. Aeternum romantica grows only in East Africa. Portland’s soil would be too wet for it. In truth, I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. But I did see its purple cousin once when it was shipped to England for the Countess of Wessex. My dad was asked to extract the oil from the petals so that the Countess could use it.” I smile at the memory of Dad bouncing on his heels, much like Denton, when the royal summons arrived.
“You’re serious?” Aiden chuckles.
“Oh, yes. He was quite overcome. Before he was locked up to distill the geraniol oil, he managed to get security permission for me and my mum to see the roses.”
I pad along the perimeter of the Shakespeare Garden, stopping at the purple floribunda bush. I sense Aiden behind me like a shadow.
“The Purpura romantica looked similar to this one,” I say. “Except its blooms were smaller and it smelled like honey.” I caress the deep purple petals. Aiden’s fingers cover mine, feeling the petals too.
“Like your eyes,” he says.
I nod. “And my mum’s. And my grandma’s before then. I think it’s why Dad worked so hard to get permission for those roses. He exchanged his annual bonus for some blooms.” I swallow the wave of tears rising in my throat. It does not take the supernatural strength it usually does.
“My mum, Clare, was in seventh heaven. She was very fond of roses—something she inherited from her mother.”
I start leaving the floribunda, but Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and draws me to him. He bends his head, running his nose over my throat to my chin. Inhaling deeply. Then his warm lips press against mine. If I live a million years, I will not be able to describe Aiden’s kisses. This one is slow at first, soft like petals. His lips and tongue fight for dominance over my mouth until they combine forces and I surrender. My arms hang limply on his shoulders, all nostalgia forgotten. Was that his plan? He pulls away, smiling.
“You smell better than this rose,” he says. “Now carry on.”
“I like your smell test but the olfactory sense is fooled by sex hormones. So you see, your conclusions are unreliable.” I take his hand and follow the Shakespeare circle to the tall tea rose. His low throaty chuckle blends with the night. I tap his nose with one of the cyclamen buds. He smiles and sniffs.
“You still smell better.”
“You wouldn’t want my mum to hear that. She was born to aristocratic Lady Cecilia Juliana Sinclair. This rose—La France—was Cecilia’s favorite. Each Lady Sinclair has a signature rose, I’m told.”
Aiden tilts my face up and kisses me again. “I had a feeling about you,” he says against my lips.
“What feeling?” My words sound more like sighs.
He pulls away, running his thumb over my lower lip. “When I first saw you, you seemed so…defeated. But you had this dignity about you, like someone slapped you and you were turning the other cheek. The words ‘grace’ and ‘aristocratic’ came to mind.”
I laugh. “You’d be the first to apply those words to me, I think.”
“I highly doubt that. And I really dislike your self-deprecation.” His jaw sharpens against his skin.
“I’m British, Aiden. Self-deprecation is our national trait.”
“You’ve managed to Americanize your speech but not your outlook? There has to be more to it than that.”
“Well, quite obviously, I was waiting for a man to buy my naked paintings. Nothing is more beneficial for a woman’s self-esteem than being wanted only for her body,” I say, trying to keep a serious face.
He smiles and presses me close to him again. “What about being wanted for her insufferable know-it-all attitude?”
I laugh. “That’s a genetic trademark.” I shuffle my hand over the tea rose buds, remembering Mum complaining about the same thing in Dad.
“So what happened to Lady Cecilia?” Aiden prompts, no doubt thinking that my know-it-allness comes from my aristocratic line.
“She ran away with the family butler, Franklin Brighton—my grandfather. When the scandal broke, her family disowned her and removed her name from the inheritance. They never reunited. She and Franklin were both gone by the time I was born.” I tap the rosebud one more time and traipse across the grassy circle to the ivory hybrid in the corner.
“Another rose with special meaning?” Aiden asks.
“Not as special as the others. But it’s part of the story. My mum met Dad when she worked at the Ashmolean as an assistant curator. It was love at first sight, they said. And by what I saw, it does exist.
“They married in six months. I was born only a year later, right as my dad got a professorship at Oxford. They moved to a tiny cottage in Burford, a small town close to the university for my dad.
“Mum loved to garden. Her pink English roses slowly took over the cottage’s bricks and even the shingles on the roof. It looked more like a fairy tale than a twenty-first century home.”
“Is this rose your mother’s favorite?” Aiden points at the pale bloom.
“No. This is very similar to the hybrid she cultivated for me.”
A soft, cinnamon gasp leaves his lips. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is. She worked on it for years. Named it Elisa, of course. This here is called centifolia because it has precisely one hundred petals. The Elisa has fewer but it’s the same color and fragrance.”
Aiden leans in and smells it. “I like this rose best. But with all due respect to your mother, you still smell better.”
“Especially after sweating in these clothes.” I raise my face to his, prepared for his kiss this time. As his lips mold to mine, I realize he is kissing me by each rose. I don’t know if it’s to keep my memories at bay or simply because he can, but whatever the reason, this stroll feels new. More mine, less my parents’.
“Come, one more stop,” I say when I can speak again. He follows me out of the garden, along a corridor of climbing English roses.
“No longer Shakespeare,” he muses, as though he is speaking to himself. I shake my head. Does he know the end is coming?
“Do they have your mother’s roses here?” he asks, never releasing my hand.
“No. Her favorite was pale pink English garden rose. The closest they have is right above us.” I poin
t at the rose canopy over our heads.
We leave the rose tunnel and step into the heart of the garden, at its curvy, tiered fountain. It gurgles cheerfully the same way it has greeted me these last four years. The soft yellow light at the bottom of the pool turns the water a molten gold. Hundreds of copper pennies and silver quarters litter the granite floor. I perch at the edge, dipping my fingers in the water. I expect Aiden to sit next to me, but he picks me up and cradles me on his lap.
“A fountain this time?”
“Yes. My parents didn’t make much money but once a year, they’d pick some place in the world they thought I ought to see before college, and we would go. Dad sometimes left a day or two early to set up a treasure hunt for Mum and me. Usually, for her, he’d hide things that meant something to the two of them alone. On our last vacation together, in Rome, he hid a pair of lacy knickers in the Fontana di Trevi, which completely scandalized her but I thought it was hilarious. She berated him in front of the fountain, except in her fluster, she forgot that she was still carrying the offending unmentionable and was waving it at him. I never saw him laugh that hard again.”
I pause to let the lump in my throat drop to my stomach. Aiden runs his thumb back and forth on my hand but does not move. It looks like he is not breathing.
I risk a look at his face. I see many words in his eyes but he does not interrupt. He takes my hand, which is clenched into a fist, and covers it with his. It’s warm, and it keeps me going.
“They were driving home from Oxford on January 4, 2011. The roads were icy and a truck hit them. Their car saved an SUV with two children and their mum from being crushed.”
My lungs shudder, and I breathe to halt any tears from rising to my eyes. Hydrogen, 1.008— Aiden kisses my lips and my breathing steadies. Oddly, in this moment, I feel stronger. As if he shoulders this pain like Atlas with me. I swirl my index finger in the fountain until it forms a little whirlpool.
“Where did you go after the accident?”
“At first, I was in the hospital for a few weeks—I wasn’t well enough to go to school. Then I went to my grandparents’ house and finished my classes online. I was admitted to Oxford, where I had applied before the accident, but I couldn’t face the school that meant so much to them. In fact, the entire United Kingdom became an enemy. It didn’t take much to convince my grandparents that I had to leave.”
