by Ann Macela
“In my experience, the bond doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes it goes too far. That’s the case in my own family.”
She still didn’t say a word, only put her glass down, and brought her gaze back to his. She looked puzzled, not angry.
He broke the contact. Somehow the explanation would be easier if he didn’t have to look into her eyes. He cleared his throat again, stiffened his back. Damn, telling her, saying it all out loud, was harder than he thought it would be.
“It took a long time for me to figure it out. Here’s the gist of it. The phenomenon and the SMI screwed up with my parents. From everything I could find out, and most of it came from people who knew them before they met, each of them was totally focused on a career and had no discernible interest in the opposite sex. The soulmate connection hit them hard when Judith was thirty and Stefan thirty-four. After that, they were still focused on their careers and also on each other—to the exclusion of everybody else.”
“What about your grandparents?” she asked.
“They were living at the time of my parents’ marriage, but all died before I was born. I’ve never understood why my parents had even one child after five years, except for the idea of continuing their bloodlines. Both are only children. I traced my genealogy once. Only children run in my ancestry. All of my forefathers and mothers were quite intelligent, only not prolific.” He looked out the windows and pondered his next point.
She didn’t let him deliberate long before asking, “No uncles, aunts, cousins, either? I have a bunch.”
He shook his head and turned back to face her. “My grandparents had siblings, who had some kind of family falling-out—I remember a reference to my great-grandfather’s will being the cause. I believe there are a few distant cousins, although no one ever made overtures to the others.” He shook his head and stared down at his feet for a few seconds as he wondered what having other close family members would have been like. Nothing like what Gloriana had, but at least they would have been around.
She must have become impatient with his stopping and starting because she said, “Go on.”
He sighed and continued, “At any rate, here I was. Putting this information together with what I can remember of my years before boarding school, Judith and Stefan did little to change their lives because of a baby and then a young child in their house. I had a nanny, and starting when I was five, a tutor. I was precocious and that seemed to please them—when I saw them. I believe I was scheduled for an audience between six and seven in the evening.” He heard the bitterness in his voice but decided not to worry about it. She had to understand how strongly he felt.
Evidently she did because when he was silent, she waited a little while before asking, “What happened next?”
“When I was eight, I was sent to a boarding school for gifted children. It was a boys-only institution, and I hated it. Oh, I had an excellent education. On a personal level, however, let’s simply say it left a lot to be desired. During school vacations, I either traveled with my parents—and a tutor—and met their colleagues or continued my studies at home with more tutors or at educational camps. I’ve never been to Disney World, by the way, but I’ve seen every important museum in Europe.” He shrugged, and she gave him a small smile and said nothing.
“I spent my school years trying to live up to my parents’ expectations—high grades, difficult subjects, honor rolls, and awards. I was good in sports, but they didn’t care about that—mostly they saw athletics as a waste of time better spent on intellectual matters. I played despite their opposition—probably more for the thrill of my slight rebellion than for love of the game.”
“Marcus, are you sure they feel that way, that you’re reading them correctly?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “When I discovered theoretical math and it was clear my magical talents lay there, they were pleased. When I made professor, they were even more satisfied. Their only goals for me that I haven’t achieved are to take a position at one of the schools like Harvard or MIT and to win the Fields Medal, the greatest math prize. They’ve never asked me what my goals are for myself, and they pay no attention to my fiction writing. We don’t talk much. In fact, outside of academic subjects and current events, we have little to say to each other, except for their continuous questioning of my career choices and place of employment. It makes for awkward visits.”
“What does all this have to do with your decision on soul mates?”
Her expression and tone were neutral. He wished he could tell if that augured well or ill for her acceptance of his explanation. All he could do was tell the truth, and he plunged ahead. “Everything I know of the actuality of soul mates is from my parents—two people so wrapped up in each other and their careers, they had no time for one child, much less more. All they could do was push me to succeed, grant me sparse praise, and present me with role models for success in the academic world. From what they’ve told me about their upbringings, they parallel mine. I’m determined that I will not force a child to repeat my experience. I will not perpetuate the total concentration on success and pressure on a child to succeed according to his parents’ ideals, not his own.”
He paced back and forth in front of the windows for a moment.
She didn’t let up on the pressure for him to talk, however. “If you’re that determined, why do you think you’ll continue their ways?”
“Wait, it gets worse,” he said. “I don’t know how to be a mate. I don’t know how to share emotions, or even show them, for that matter. I knew they were soul mates, but saw no overt expressions of affection or emotions between them, ever. Hell, I never saw them enough to form a basis for behavior toward and with a mate. I’m a solitary person. I don’t know how to be otherwise. With everything my parents ingrained in me, how could I be a good soul mate, much less a good father? It will be disastrous for both of us and for our children if I’m your mate. All I know is how to be like them.” His center lurched, and a chasm opened inside him. He tried to ignore the empty feeling. He should get used to it. It was going to be with him for a long time.
“How are you absolutely certain they were ‘wrapped up in each other’ if they never showed it?”
“Because all their practitioner colleagues I met said so. Over and over I’ve been introduced to someone who knew them during those years and who spoke of their ‘double-mindedness’ for themselves and their careers. It’s famous among their friends.” He held up his hands with crossed fingers to demonstrate his point.
“I didn’t get that idea at all,” she protested. “My parents said they enjoyed their company when they went for drinks and never mentioned even a notion of their being self-centered.”
“Among strangers, Judith and Stefan are always guarded and charming. I am, too, for that matter—guarded, at least. When we’re simply three together, it’s like I’m a spectator or outside the bond. Oh, we converse, but have little to say to each other about things that matter.” He gave a little laugh that sounded more like a croak.
“As for soul mates? We’ve never discussed a potential soul mate for me. Stefan and I had the usual father-son talk about sex and mates when I hit puberty, yet when I brought the subject up later, it was clear he didn’t want to discuss it further. My mother has never mentioned the word that I can remember.”
Gloriana stared out down at her clasped hands, clearly mulling over what he had told her. She didn’t look convinced. He had to make it absolutely clear, and that meant he had to open up even more, talk about what he never spoke of—whether he liked it or not. The emptiness in his chest grew until it seemed to reach the bottom of his soul.
“Believe me, I’ve spent long hours thinking about it. There are no other logical conclusions I can draw, given the evidence. I will fail as a soul mate and a father. I’ve seen your wonderful family. I don’t have a clue how to be part of a group like yours. You have no concept what it’s like living in mine, and you’d hate it. We don’t joke or tease or play ar
ound. Neither Stefan nor Judith would have joined in with that ridiculous rap song of George’s. They’d have thought everybody was either crazy or—one of my mother’s favorite put-downs—’common.’
“I envy the way you all hug each other. I can’t remember the last time my mother hugged me. I don’t think my father ever has. If the debate hadn’t been in Boston, they wouldn’t have come. They would never have come far simply to provide support like yours did.”
“Marcus, there are all sorts of families,” Gloriana interjected. “The real questions are, do you love them and do they love you?”
He had to think about that for a moment. Again, he had to look the truth in the eye. He didn’t particularly like what he saw, but he told her the truth. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. It seems more like it’s been a duty on both sides rather than love in our interactions. I’ve never thought they didn’t support me—when I’m pursuing their goals. As for my own goals? They never bother to ask if I have any others.”
He held out a hand to her. “Look, Gloriana, I don’t want to contemplate what my upbringing did to me or would do to you or our children. I sure as hell don’t want to find out I’m correct after we’re bonded. You’d hate me, our children would think I’m a lousy father, and our lives would be miserable. You’re too lively a person, too vital and energetic to get stuck with someone like me. I can’t be what you need. It’s better for both of us not to go through the frustration, despair, and finally hatred that would result. Let the SMI attack me. I can take whatever it dishes out. Surely there’s a more appropriate, better mate out there for you. You deserve one.” There, he’d said it all.
There was a long moment of silence while she stared at him. Finally, she took a deep breath, slapped the couch with both hands, stood up, and glared at him. “Marcus, that’s the biggest load of manure I’ve ever heard of. I’ve spread better stuff on my petunias!”
He opened his mouth to refute her, but she pointed a finger at him. “Now, you be quiet, and let me have my say. First off, I am not your mother, and you are not your father. I don’t act exactly like my mother does, Daria doesn’t, either, and Clay certainly doesn’t act like Daddy.
“Second, in the old ‘nature versus nurture’ argument, you’re saying we’re ruled as adults by the way we’re brought up. So what if their nurturing wasn’t very good? What happened to conscious free will and your nature? Is their nature truly yours? Are you happy to sit here behind your immaculate walls and keep out the messy world? Or do you want to wallow in self-pity and claim your sacrifice is for my own good because you’re afraid to face the truth about your own nature or afraid to change?”
A part of him tried not to listen to what she was saying. Another part, several parts, however, loved the way her eyes flashed, the way her expressions made no bones about her reaction to his arguments, and the way she ran agitated fingers through her hair. God, the woman was a fireball.
“That reasoning won’t wash,” she continued. “Furthermore, let’s look at the evidence scientifically, the way you’re always saying. To date, we have only your observations, interpretations, and conclusions, your knowledge, and you are hardly a disinterested observer. You have never been in the position of having a soul mate before, am I correct?”
He shook his head, started to speak. She, however, kept going, her voice rising.
“Then, based on one and only one experiment, you don’t really know, can’t prove, that you or the relationship will fail, can you? You’re basing your conclusions on conjecture, and with your mind-set, you’re setting up yourself and me for a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s really not about what you know here. Sometimes you have to be open to possibilities and to take life on faith. Take a chance. You want an equation? Here’s one you’ll like: Me plus You, but You either multiplied or divided by your Family—take your choice, but I like divided—equals No Soul Mate, No Possibility of Happiness, No Life. That’s a negative number.”
He had no answer for that. Her equation made too much sense.
“You’re not even giving the process a chance. I agree, we have lots of differences, yet everything I’ve been able to learn—from a bunch of observers and people who’ve actually gone through it—is that the process works those out.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we do—as thinking adults.”
“Look,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could muster, “don’t you think I have considered all these factors? Thought of all the counterarguments? I know myself and I know my parents. It’s not going to work.”
She squinted her eyes and stared at him for a long moment. He waited, ready to refute whatever she might say. Instead, she picked up her purse. “In that case, my self-sacrificing soul mate, we have nothing left to talk about at the moment, do we?”
She was leaving. Despite a certain amount of relief that she wasn’t going to argue any more, a stronger feeling of potential loss caused him to say the first thing that popped into his mind to keep her here. “Wait. Tell me, how did you throw me to the ground and hold me there?”
“Oh, that!” She waved a hand nonchalantly. “That was a simple strength spell, invalescere. Most women learn it in case they’re ever attacked. To put it in your terms, small s is the strength spell you can find in most elementary spell books to channel energy to the muscles. The sub- T is of course my talent, but strength is a universal, low-level spell. The cap L sub s level I use is about at fifty percent to compensate for my size. I dial down the L sub small p, my level, to twenty percent unless I want overwhelming strength. For cap E, I only put a few percentage points of mine into the power/energy part for the same reason. I don’t need a ritual or gestures for the spell, because I’ve made it part of me—that’s the intuitive side of casting I was talking about. Ditto on items. I’m sure you can figure it out from there.”
Before he could ask for further explanation, she stalked over to the stairs and yelled, “Delilah!” The dogs came running up the stairs and followed her to the front door.
He hurried to the door to catch hold of Samson’s collar, but the threesome didn’t wait for him, and he trailed them to her car. She opened the door and Delilah climbed in. He took hold of Samson before the hound could do the same.
Watching Gloriana buckle Delilah into the harness, he knew he ought to say something, but what? Convince me I’m wrong? Stay with me anyway? Please?
She shut the car door and turned to him, stepped close. Since he was bending over to hold Samson, he had to look up to see her face.
Nose to nose, she stared him straight in the eyes. “We’re not done, Marcus. While you’re in your cold bed tonight, walled up in your castle, think about this.” She fisted one hand in his hair and held him still while she kissed him.
The next thing he knew, he’d let go of Samson, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her back. The way his body reacted, he’d never have even suspected he’d had the most spectacular sexual experience of his life such a short time ago—it wanted more, now. How long they stood there devouring each other, he had no idea, but all too soon, she was pushing on his shoulders. He dropped his arms, and she stepped back. Her green eyes sparkled, her color was high, and her cheeky grin promised trouble.
Without another word, she circled her car, got in, and started the engine. Her radio blared a song, something about “the taillights I may never see again.” She roared off and didn’t even wave as she rounded the corner. The last thing he saw was indeed the red glow of the taillights of her car.
Marcus sighed and looked down at Samson, who stared back. The hound snorted, shook his head, and trotted back into the house. Even his dog was disgusted with him. Marcus followed, rubbing his breastbone. The hole in his chest had assumed the magnitude of the Grand Canyon.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Gloriana thought hard all the way to the farm. She also fumed. She’d wanted to use that strength spell to shake him until all those peculiar notions flew out of his head
like the bats from under the Congress Avenue bridge. It was crystal clear however, that nothing she said would make a difference to his foregone conclusions. So, she’d left him to stew before she did him bodily harm. Besides, she needed more and bigger cannons against his walls.
What was she going to do about Marcus? Obstinate, shortsighted, inflexible, infuriating Marcus. Her soul mate. The man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. The man who was supposed to be the father of her children. The man with whom she’d had the defining sexual experience of her life.
He’d looked good enough to eat lying there under her on the floor. Perfect. Broad shoulders, toned muscles, blond hair, blue eyes—oh, yes, the way those eyes caressed her and heated her clear to her bones.
Single-minded, self-hypnotized, that’s what he was. He’d told himself for so long that he was not soul-mate material that he believed it. She knew better. No man who kissed like that was meant to be alone. He was hers.
How to convince him?
She had to assume that their lovemaking had affected him as strongly as it had her. Deny it though he might, he was still going to want more. She certainly did.
She couldn’t, however, ambush him again. He’d be expecting it, and while she did it for the reasons she’d stated, she wasn’t going to use that tactic a second time. Lovemaking was something to be mutually enjoyed. Using sex for an ulterior motive or a bargaining chip went totally against her grain.
If she couldn’t come up with solutions herself, to whom could she turn for advice? Her parents? No, they’d want to sit down with Marcus and talk him to death. She wasn’t going to gain a soul mate because of a guilt trip laid on by them. Daria didn’t have enough experience, and Clay would want to zap all Marcus’s computers.
There was someone else, however.
“We’re going for help,” she told Delilah. “You belong with Samson and I belong with Marcus.” The dog grinned.
She drove past the turnoff to the farm and headed for LaGrange. Before long she pulled up in front of Lulabelle Higgins’s house.
