by Shenda Paul
"Just let me get my bag," she murmurs shyly before hurrying away.
"Where are we going?" Angelique asks about five minutes into our drive.
"Larz Anderson Park, do you know it?" I turn my head to glance at her.
"I don't. Does it have a restaurant?"
"I don't think so," I say, suppressing a smile at her adorable confusion. "We're having a picnic."
"Really?"
I laugh because she looks and sounds like an excited teenager, but also in relief that my worrying has been in vain. I wanted to avoid a recurrence of what happened on our last outing, but I'm also determined not to skulk around, so the idea of a picnic appealed. We'd be out in public, but sufficiently isolated to not have her easily recognized or made to feel uncomfortable, I rationalized. Since waking, though, I've been agonizing about whether I made the right choice and whether she even likes picnics.
"Really," I return, elated by her enthusiastic response.
"Do you go there often?"
"I haven't been in over ten years, but my parents used to take us all the time as kids."
"I remember Mom and Dad taking me to Central Park once, but I've never had a real picnic. I read about it as a child, though, and I always dreamed about picnics with three-legged and egg and spoon races," she remarks wistfully.
"I can't promise you either of those, but I'll do my best to make sure you enjoy the experience," I promise. She smiles warmly before returning to watch the passing landscape.
.
.
"It's beautiful here," Angelique says, looking around. We’re in a lightly shaded area within view of passers-by and other potential picnickers, yet sufficiently secluded to prevent us from being stared at or overheard.
"Wait until you see some of the other areas. We could go for a walk later if you like, but I have something much better in mind."
"What?" she asks, her expression a mix of excitement and apprehension.
"It's a surprise; don't worry, I'm almost certain you'll love it," I say avoiding her curiosity. "I hope you don't mind the blanket. I thought about hiring a table and chairs but felt this would be more authentic."
"There were no tables at the picnics in my dreams," she says, with a contented smile.
"Can I get you a drink? Alcohol isn’t allowed in the park, but I have apple juice, tonic with a slice of lime or sparkling mineral water."
"Lime?" She peeks into the open basket. "You have lime in there?"
"Yes, I have lime. Tonic and lime is your preferred drink."
"You didn't have to go to that much trouble…."
"Nothing would be too much trouble," I cut her off gently. "What would you like?"
"Just sparkling mineral water for now, please. With lime," she adds, giving me an appreciative smile.
"Coming right up." I remove two spiked glass holders and sink one into the lawn within easy reach of her.
"Crystal glasses?" she questions as I hand over her drink.
"Only the best," I answer, reaching over to clink glasses. "To picnics."
It's a sunny, breezy day, but we're sheltered as we comfortably lean back and chat about last night's performance. People stroll the paths, and a couple of picnickers have settled within sight but not close enough to disturb us.
"Hungry?" I ask.
"Famished, actually. I didn't have breakfast."
"Don't you eat breakfast?"
"I usually have a slice of toast and some fruit, but I skipped this morning… too nervous," she admits sheepishly.
"So was I," I confess. "Let's see what we have."
"Can I help?" Angelique offers as I start unpacking the basket.
"You could help to serve," I suggest, spreading the white tablecloth out between us before handing her plates and silverware wrapped in napkins. I find two elegantly printed menu cards that I hadn’t expected to see. I ordered the lunch from my favorite French bistro where I've come to know Maurice, the chef and owner, pretty well. I simply told him I was taking someone special on a picnic. The only specification I made was for the drinks and the inclusion of a selection of tea. He must have had these specially typed and printed. I knew the food would be good, but he's surpassed my expectations. I hand Angelique one before I peruse the other.
Thorne Picnic
May 18, 2014.
Chicken Ballotine with spinach and porcini mushrooms
Asparagus served with balsamic vinaigrette
Green salad
Fresh Fruit
Selection of Petits Fours
Choice of English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Earl Grey, Darjeeling or Jasmine tea
Coffee
"Oh!" she exclaims, her eyes widening as she reads.
"I didn't know what kind of tea you'd prefer," I blurt out, not knowing what to say.
"It's perfect." She smiles tremulously.
"I'm not terribly domesticated," I confess as I unwrap and place the platter of chicken, the bowl containing salad and serving spoons in the center of the cloth. Angelique serves while I freshen our drinks.
"You’re doing well…is this okay?" she asks, holding out a plate for my inspection.
"It's great."
"This is absolutely delicious," Angelique enthuses as we eat. I tell her about Maurice and his bistro, then. "I'll take you some time. You'll love it," I promise.
"I'd like that," she replies unhesitatingly, and I smile like a Cheshire cat at the thought of yet another date.
Conversation is easy and entertaining, the food delicious; every course has been thoughtfully chosen, and when it’s time for dessert, Angelique gasps at sight of the petits fours I produce.
"I’ve never seen these on his menu; Maurice must have made them specially." I make a mental note to tell him how much she loved his treat and to do something nice for him in return.
I ask whether she's spoken to her mother and friends about her performance, and Angelique tells me she called late last night. "Mom always stays awake to hear from me," she says. When I ask how often they see each other, she tells me she tries to make monthly visits. I can tell by the note of longing in her voice just how much she misses her mother.
She asks about what's happening in my life, and I update her on Eleanor’s Place and promise a visit to the premises as soon as we gain access. I don't ask or push her about a decision on the job offer; I want that to remain a matter between her and Mom. Then, as we repack the basket, she hesitantly asks me about work.
"I don't want to upset you by raising things you'd rather forget or that could potentially spoil things between us, Angelique. I'm not sure we should discuss my work until after the Cordi cases," I say worriedly.
"We can't keep avoiding it… not if we want to truly be friends; and you should be able to talk about your work day without worrying about upsetting me."
"Are you sure? Because my work, right now, revolves solely around the Cordi case, and I don’t want to resurrect the events of Justin’s trial…"
"We have to talk about it, Adam," she almost pleads.
"Okay," I say, still feeling concerned. I take a deep breath before starting. "As a prelude, I think you should know that I schooled myself from a very early age to mask my feelings and later, as a prosecutor, I learned to successfully compartmentalize my work, to push back my personal feelings and concentrate solely on the legal aspects of a case."
"You do it very well," she responds quietly, and I hear the hurt in her voice.
"Angelique, I'm so very sorry for the way I treated you. You have no idea about the battle that raged in me. I've never felt as conflicted about having to question a witness as I was with you."
"I didn't really help myself as Samuel so bluntly pointed out. You were just doing your job, so please, let's stop apologizing to each other."
I lean in, wanting her to see how deeply apologetic I truly am. "I've already told you that much of it was becaus
e of my own past. When I first found out about your association with Justin and Joseph, I'm ashamed to admit that it influenced the way I treated you."
"It's understandable," she says, but I still detect a trace of hurt. So I decide to tell her everything. I start with the man who came demanding the rent money, how Eleanor held me as we hid behind the sofa, waiting for him to leave, how he later returned with another man. I relate how that man intimidated me and how afraid of him I felt Eleanor was. I confess how abandoned I felt when she sent me to my room when he visited. I tell how I only recently accepted that her actions were borne from a desire to protect me. I tell about the many other men. Tears spill from her eyes as I relate how I listened to what was happening in the next room, about how I heard them hurt her. I explain the anger I felt toward Eleanor for letting them into our life, letting them do those things to her. I tell her how hurt and abandoned I felt at her neglect, at her drinking and drug taking.
I try to explain the fury I felt toward myself for not being able to stop what was happening. I describe how my once beautiful, loving and vivacious mother turned into an alcohol and drug induced zombie. I tell of meeting Emma Thorne, and how she and Mrs. Doyle, our neighbor, cared for me. I don't stop until she knows about Eleanor’s death, how I came to be adopted by the Thornes. I tell her about Adam Winston, how he abandoned my mother and me, their unborn child, I tell her about the fortune he left me seventeen years later, the anger I felt, the fights I got into because of that anger; how I hated him then and despise him now, and why I decided to become a prosecutor.
"It's no excuse for the way I treated you, but I want you to know so you can, perhaps, better understand."
"I…I'm sorry that you had to go through that, Adam. It explains so much about your feeling toward prostitutes." Her moist eyes cloud with shame.
"Stop beating yourself up about your past," I gently reprimand.
"You didn't treat Amy and Sarah, probably not even Natasha, with the same disdain…. Why?" she suddenly asks.
"I wasn't attracted to them. No woman has ever affected me in quite the way you did…do. I was determined to not let it influence my prosecution of the case. A large part of my despicable behavior was because of my internal struggle," I explain.
She averts her head to stare into the distance, and I wonder what she’s thinking, fearing I may have said too much too soon…or perhaps not enough.
"Why?" She faces me, her eyes wide and glistening with tears.
"Why what?" I ask, confused.
"Why are you here with me? What do you really want from me, Adam?"
I reach for her hand, grateful that she doesn't pull away. "I've already told you why. I realize that you're not ready, and that's fine; but you should know that I really do care for you…more than you probably want me to. I want to be friends, yes, but I'd also like more, Angelique… when you're ready, if you're willing," I add at her look of near panic.
"I… you …confuse me. You could have any woman, why would you want to be involved with me? You know my history."
"And you now know mine; doesn't that tell you why? For most of my life, I've lived with the misconception that I hated Eleanor. I believed she couldn't possibly have loved me. Why else would she have chosen to prostitute herself and not think about the impact on me? But this case, you …you made me realize she’d been a victim. I’ve finally accepted what my therapist told me all those years ago; that I allowed my anger and hatred for what she became to bury and deny my pain. You’ve been victimized by the men who’ve used you too; why would I hold it against you after my realization about Eleanor?"
She cries freely now, her head averted once more. I turn her body gently, so we’re sitting cross-legged and facing each other. I cup her face in my hands and wipe away her tears with my thumbs. "I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention for us to discuss this today. I wanted to make you happy."
"I'm not unhappy, Adam. I'm emotional and ashamed …and relieved. I'm many things, but I'm not unhappy." She smiles wanly.
"Come on, I have something special planned. Interested?" I get up and extend my hand.
"More surprises, Mr. Thorne?" she asks, valiantly attempting to match my light tone. I pull her up, resisting the overwhelming need to embrace her.
"I have plenty more in store for you, Miss Bain," I say as I start packing up.
"Well, I hope it's good," she playfully challenges.
"Oh, I think you'll like it."
"What is it?"
"Wait and see," I reply, and with the blanket and basket in one hand, I hold out the other in invitation. I smile when she unhesitatingly clasps it.
.
.
"A kite? We're going to fly a kite?" Angelique exclaims excitedly.
"If you'd like to." I grin back at her.
Her eyes shine as she nods eagerly. "It's beautiful, where did you get it?"
"I bought this. Dad used to help Cait and me make our own, though."
"Why did you choose a butterfly shape? It’s so unusual. "
"It reminded me of you."
"Of me? Why?"
"I'll tell you sometime," I say cryptically.
"Spoilsport!" she accuses, and I smile at her childlike, yet provocative pout.
"Come on, we need to climb to the top of that little hill." I grasp her hand, noting again just how right it feels in mine.
"Adam, look at our kite!" Angelique calls out excitedly as it takes to the air.
I've never, in the short time I've known her, seen her so alive and happy. I step up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist and place my hand over hers on the spool. "Let it out some more," I urge, my lips close to her ear.
"Watch how high it soars," I whisper, helping to unwind the cord. "See how good we can be together?" She nods, turning her head to glance up at me. I lay a soft kiss on the delicate skin behind her ear.
"Thank you," I say tightening my hold on her. She caresses the back of my hand with her thumb, and I close my eyes, savoring the moment.
We drive home in contented silence. Angelique’s cheeks are beautifully flushed, her mouth turned upward in a tiny smile. She turns her head to look at the backseat where we'd finally agreed to store the kite. On our return to the car, she expressed concern that it would be damaged in the trunk. I assured her that it hadn’t suffered on the journey there, it had cost thirty dollars and could easily be replaced if damaged, I said, but she remained unconvinced. She held it almost possessively and offered to carry it on her lap, relenting only when I suggested the back seat as a compromise.
"Would you like to keep the kite?" I ask when helping her out of the car.
"I don’t have room to store it. I know I seemed silly, but I haven't had so much fun for a very long time," she bashfully explains.
"Me too. I’ll keep it safe," I promise, squeezing her hand gently.
She invites me in when we reach her door. "I'd love to," I instantly reply. She excuses herself to freshen up and returns wearing a different top with her hair falling in loose waves.
"Can I offer you something? I'm afraid I don't have any good wine or beer."
"Coffee would be great. Can I help?" I offer.
"I can manage, but you're welcome to join me, not that there's much to see." I follow her eagerly and watch as she potters around the tiny space, then offer to carry our cups back into the living room. Angelique settles in at one end of the small sofa, and I, at the other.
"I appreciate what you're trying to do with Eleanor’s Place even more now that I know what happened to her. It's a wonderful way of giving meaning to your mother’s life," she says. "And I want you to know…I'd like to tell you why I accepted Joseph’s offer."
"Angelique, you don't need to feel obligated just because I told you about my past."
"That's not the only reason…." Her eyes cloud with emotion. "I want to tell you because of what you said … about wanting more. I do
n't think we can move ahead until you know why I did what I did."
"I've already told you, it doesn't matter..."
"But it should matter, Adam," she interjects, "If you’re involved with me, your reputation will be dragged down with mine...well, there’s not much of mine left to destroy," she says ruefully. I put my cup down.
"You're a trained and highly talented ballerina. You’re not defined by your time at Liaison."
"Just let me speak, please… before I lose my nerve," she appeals, and I nod, pushing aside my need to comfort her.
I want to destroy things. How much does one person have to go through? Losing her father so young, suffering the unwanted attentions of Quandt, her accident and painful rehabilitation, and then, as if that weren’t enough, the car accident that claimed her stepfather's life and caused her mother's disability. The fact that her need for money to adequately care for her mother drove her into Joseph’s clutches makes me almost irrational. I want to kill him and every man who’s ever used her, especially Justin fucking Wade. He knew why she needed the money, the prick; perhaps not at the beginning, but later. I really don't give a damn what he tells himself to feel better; he used her.
I'm practically vibrating by the time Angelique finishes, but she's looking so forlorn, I lock down my anger. I have to think of her, I remind myself.
"I'm so sorry. I wish I'd known you then. What you did was selfless, Angelique."
"I want… I need you to really think before we become involved, Adam," she pleads. "I simply can't stand the thought of hurting another person. I'm not even sure if I should be involved with Eleanor’s Place. I’ll attract the wrong kind of attention to this wonderful thing you’re doing."
I clasp both of her hands. "I don't have a choice in the matter, I don't think I ever had a choice. I care about you too much. I want to be with you; I need to be with you. Do you share even the smallest part of that desire?" I ask.
"I do," she replies brokenly. I cup her beautiful face and lower my head to touch my lips to hers. If I weren’t already sitting, I'd collapse from the force of feeling that rips through me; it's like holding a flaming torch to tinder. I deepen our kiss and groan as she surrenders to me. Finally, finally, I get to suck on that bottom lip that’s taunted me for so long.
