by Arlene James
She kept quiet as long as she could, but when the house itself finally came into view, a sprawling two-story palace of white rock and golden marble, she found words tumbling out of her mouth unimpeded. “I can’t believe this isn’t enough for you.”
He arched both brows. “What is enough, Avis? Should I stay here in this lovely place and grow orchids, perhaps? You are a simple woman in many ways, you have made a home and a life for yourself, you live comfortably on the income from your investments, but do you sit in your sweet little house and read magazines all day? No. You are actively seeking to accomplish more, to be more. So you tell me, what is enough, Avis? What is it that drives you?”
The comparison seemed uneven to her. “You have so much more than me, though.”
“Do I?” He shook his head. “We both have all we need materially. We both have careers. I’d even say we have an acute business sense in common. Power can be a great burden, frankly, and at any rate it seems to matter little to you, except on a personal level, and you already have the right and the means to make your own choices and decisions, so I’d say we’re equals there. We each have friends, places where we belong.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the only thing I have that you do not is family, and that I would gladly give you.”
Troubled, she turned her gaze out the window, only to hear herself saying, “I have an older brother.” She felt Lucien’s surprise.
“I don’t believe you’ve spoken of him before.”
She clamped her jaws, but the words slid free anyway. “He cut all ties with me when I chose to stand by Kenneth.” Feeling a sudden chill, she rubbed her hands over her forearms.
“Ah,” Lucien said. “A coward, then.”
Her head turned sharply. “How can you say that? You don’t even know him.”
“I know what kind of people cut themselves off from love. It takes strength and courage to love and support someone even when they make mistakes, and since everyone makes mistakes, it follows that all love requires courage. Those who cannot face the risk of disappointment and heartache cut themselves off. They live in a dull, safe world of black and white, devoid of risk and reward, pain and joy. I am sorry for him.”
Avis had always believed that she had disappointed Wendel so thoroughly that he’d had no choice but to cut her out of his life. She knew from periodically reaching out to him over the years that he had never married. He still lived alone in the house where they had lived as children. Had she thought him wise for that? Was she a coward, as well? She felt shaken, but she told herself that she was too tired to make sense of anything just now.
The long vehicle glided to a stop beneath a broad portico paved with creamy, closely fitted stone, but the driver did not get out. Instead, a small, fastidious man in a narrow black suit, white shirt and black tie hurried down the broad, elaborately landscaped and covered walk to the car.
“Archie,” Lucien announced tersely, “Mother’s lapdog.”
The door at his elbow swung open just then, and he climbed up out of the car, reaching down again for her. She allowed him to help her out of the car and to her feet, then she stepped away from him and smiled shyly at the little man peering curiously at her. He stood with pale, bony hands clasped at chest height, and she saw that his narrow head was not bald as she’d first thought. Instead, his thinning light brown hair had been ruthlessly combed, oiled and plastered to his scalp. Tempted to try to smooth her own hair, she fought to keep her hands at her sides.
“Archibald,” Lucien said by way of greeting.
The little man’s elongated nostrils flared as if he’d caught an unpleasant scent, and he lifted his chin defensively before turning his attention once more to Avis. “Mrs. Lorimer,” he gushed, taking one of her hands in both of his soft, limp ones. “I am Archie. I believe we spoke yesterday on the telephone.”
“Yes, I remember.”
He inclined his head with obvious satisfaction and gave her back her hand. “Mrs. Tyrone has prepared a small repast in your honor. Won’t you follow me?” He executed a smart pirouette and started back up the walk.
“I assure you,” Lucien told her dryly, falling in beside her as she followed along, “Mother has prepared nothing in your honor. She’s merely ordered coffee in the sunroom, which she feels shows her to best advantage at this time of morning.”
Uncertain that anyone could be so scheming or vain, Avis sent him a doubtful look, and for some reason the troublesome man put his head back and laughed.
“Is it any wonder that I love you?” he asked. He drew her to a halt then, and held her by the upper arms with his hands, looking intently into her eyes. “You mustn’t let her get to you. My mother does not command my life. She tries, and in all honesty, for Nico’s sake she’s been almost indispensable, but I learned very young to stand up to her.” He smiled in a lopsided fashion. “Come to think of it, that may have been her greatest gift to me. Just remember, I am on your side.”
“My side?” she scoffed. “It isn’t a war, you know.”
“With Mother,” he said, “it is always war.”
“She seemed friendly enough on the telephone.”
“She is very friendly, even charming, when it suits her, but do not think, my love, that you will be welcomed.” She frowned. “Except by me,” he added, clapping a hand to the nape of her neck. He kissed her quickly on the mouth. “Come,” he said, wrapping his arm around her, “to battle.”
Eugenia Tyrone sat in a delicate wingback chair upholstered in ivory damask. Behind her, a wall of windows provided a backdrop reminiscent of a Monet landscape, while around her the spring-green walls of an enormous room trimmed in ivory opulence and lavishly furnished to the point of gold-leafed tables, framed her like a living painting. Garbed in deep red, she sat erect on the edge of the seat cushion, ankles crossed, tiny, manicured hands folded in her lap. Apart from her eyes, which were very large and very black, her facial features were petite, almost elfin, and this was accentuated by her slate-gray hair, cropped at chin-length and worn full and wispy. At a distance, she looked much too young to be Lucien’s mother. Up close, she wore her age well, displaying the confidence of a beautiful woman who knew that she outshone all her contemporaries in every way.
She smiled in a practiced manner and indicated a chair near hers for Avis before lifting an Elizabeth Taylor eyebrow at her son. Lucien obediently moved forward and placed a kiss on her cheek.
“Mother. Allow me to present Mrs. Avis Lorimer. Avis, my mother, Eugenia.”
From her seat, Avis inclined her head. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Eugenia inclined her head, a queen accepting her due. “Will you take coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Eugenia waved a hand toward a serving cart standing just out of her own reach. “Luc, be a dear. I’m sure you know how your little friend likes her coffee.” She curved her mouth at Avis. “I find it so awkward to have servants about at times like these, do you not agree?”
“Times like these, Mother?” Lucien interrupted, pouring coffee into a delicate china cup. “And what sort of time would this be, hmm? The first bloodletting, perhaps?”
Eugenia did not so much as indicate that she had heard him. She focused entirely on Avis. “You are quite lovely, Mrs. Lorimer, even as rumpled as you are from your journey.”
Avis blanched, painfully aware of her wrinkled slacks, simple tunic and frizzing hair.
“Ignore her, darling,” Lucien said calmly, bringing her the cup and saucer.
She ignored him instead, beyond taking the cup onto her knee, and he returned to the serving cart. “Thank you, ma’am, and please call me Avis.”
“You are not quite what I expected, Avis,” Eugenia said bluntly. “Lucien’s late wife was tall and slender, a fashion model in Europe, a natural, classic beauty.”
“Except, of course, for the breast implants that she got after Mother harped about her ‘boyish’ figure,” Lucien added, piling fruit and pastries onto a plate. Avis struggled to
contain her shock.
“Perhaps she was too slender at first,” Eugenia commented, her gaze sliding away.
“Perhaps she was,” Lucien conceded, turning a meaningful look over his shoulder at Avis, “but I prefer a natural figure. And strength of character.”
Avis looked down at the coffee she had yet to taste. It was the perfect shade of brown. She lifted the cup to her mouth and sipped. The brew was strong and scalding but without any trace of bitterness. Lucien appeared with an encouraging smile and a plate of food, which he placed on the table before her, and a napkin, which he draped over her lap.
“Avis is not Althea, Mother,” he said approvingly. “She won’t flee the room in tears at your poorly veiled barbs.”
“How sad for you,” Eugenia said snidely. “You will have to forego the pleasure of comforting her in bed.”
Lucien laughed. “I assure you, Mother, I forego no pleasures in her bed.”
Avis felt her face flame. She briefly considered leaving the room, not in a bolt but sedately and with dignity. She would not, however, give Eugenia Tyrone the satisfaction. She took another sip of coffee and reached for a piece of melon.
“I see no ring on her finger,” Eugenia said to Lucien. “Perhaps your selection of diamonds was not equal to her tastes.”
Avis looked up sharply at that, but Lucien merely replied, “She hasn’t had the opportunity to choose, as I have not yet proposed.” He looked at Avis and added, “I had intended to, but I realized that it wouldn’t be fair until you’d had a chance to understand what you’d be getting into.”
Something inside Avis melted at that, and she quickly looked at her plate, reminding herself why she had come here.
“Let us be frank, my dear,” Eugenia said imperiously. “Lucien needs a wife accustomed to his world, an equal in every way.”
“Not a nurse for his son?” Avis inquired mildly, wincing inwardly as the words slipped out. Eugenia had the grace to color.
“I care for Nicholas,” she asserted flatly. “He won’t accept you.”
“Perhaps he won’t,” Lucien snapped, “and perhaps one day he will. Surely even you hope for that, Mother.”
“Of course, I do!” Eugenia cried, temper flashing in her dark eyes. “How dare you question my love for that boy!”
“I do no such thing,” Lucien replied calmly, “but how much is your concern for Nico and how much is your need to maintain control of the family?”
Eugenia hit her feet in a torrent of Greek. Lucien replied calmly in kind, then contrived to look bored, filling a cup and plate for himself as she shrieked. Avis openly gaped. No wonder he wanted a polite, calm woman! His share of shrews, indeed. Presently Eugenia wore out her temper and turned her attention once again to Avis, chin high as she struggled for composure.
“I have nothing against you personally.”
“That’s true,” Lucien put in wryly. “She would behave in as beastly a manner to any woman whom she did not handpick for me.”
“As if that could happen!” Eugenia objected.
“True again,” Lucien said unrepentantly.
Eugenia threw up her hands in obvious exasperation and said to Avis, “His father spoiled him. I have never been able to make him see reason.”
“Difficult,” Lucien muttered, “when you have never been able to see reason yourself.”
“So I have to tell you,” Eugenia went on doggedly, “that I cannot welcome this intrusion. My grandson does not need you in his life. He has enough to deal with. I cannot fathom why Lucien would inflict anything else on him. Should you choose to join this family, I have to warn you that it will not be easy.” With that she marched from the room, her small feet clapping smartly against the Persian rugs covering the marble floors.
Lucien struck a relaxed pose by the serving cart. “I think that went very well.”
Avis plunked down her cup and saucer next to her food plate. “You did try to warn me.”
“Ah, but as my father used to say, Eugenia defies description. She must be experienced.” He picked up his own cup and carried it to the seat Eugenia had vacated. “The thing about Mother is, you must never rise to the bait or take her emotional outbursts too personally.”
“She is very emotional,” Avis conceded in a careful tone.
“Mother is pure emotion,” Lucien said, “and it’s of her nature to fight for supremacy.”
“Well, at least I know where you got it,” Avis quipped.
He chuckled. “You didn’t know my father. He was her equal in every way, and believe it or not, it was a very happy marriage. He loved her insanely, and much to her disgust, it was mutual.”
Avis was having a little trouble picturing that. “They got along then?”
“Rarely. But they each took great pride in the other’s strength. She has always referred to him as her ‘lion,’ and even when he seemed angry enough to throttle her, that deep pride was always there in his eyes. He told me once that a woman who will not fight you is not worth fighting for.” He smiled with remembrance and added, “I understand that better since I met you.”
Avis lifted both eyebrows. “Lucien, I am nothing like that. I hate confrontation.”
“But you will stand resolute, nonetheless. You’ll smile and lower your eyes and refuse to budge an inch until you’re utterly convinced, until every argument has been overcome. It’s absolutely maddening. And unspeakably precious. Strength comes in many forms, my love, and I prefer yours to all others I have seen. Now eat your breakfast. I’m sure we have another unpleasant scene ahead of us.”
Avis fought through a sense of warm pleasure to concentrate on what was most important. Nicholas. She took a deep breath, blew it out again through her nostrils and helped herself to a strawberry. Obviously, she needed fortification. Even Lucien seemed to. She noticed as he drank deeply of his coffee that his brow seemed tight, a tiny furrow appearing between his eyes. Perhaps he had not rested as well as she’d thought. Perhaps much was not as she’d thought. Deflated, she ate her breakfast in silence, wondering just how much danger her resolve was in.
Nicholas Tyrone occupied an entire wing of the Tyrone mansion, if such a mundane term could describe the palatial house. There were rooms for everything: clothes, toys, media, private dining and visiting, instruction, nurses, nannies, therapy. Avis didn’t ask what sort of therapy the boy required, realizing that she would know soon enough. Presently Lucien opened the door to a small library, and a plump, thirtyish woman in flowered scrubs came immediately to her feet. Beside her a small boy with thick, curly blond hair bent his head over a picture book.
“Oh, Mr. Lucien,” she said, delight and welcome in her voice. “We didn’t expect you back so soon.” She bent toward the boy, tucking her hands between her knees. “Nicholas, your father is here.” The child did not respond. She straightened, her smile still in place. “He loves this book, so it’s now part of our reward system. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have given it to him, but he’s worked very hard this morning.”
“Hard work deserves reward,” Lucien said heartily, but he lifted a hand to Avis, silently asking her to stay in place, before he approached his son. Nearing the table, he went down on his haunches, bringing his face level with the boy’s. “Hello, son.” The boy began to rock slightly, but he looked up briefly and smiled at his father.
“My b-book,” he said, focusing once more on the picture. Avis craned her neck a little to see what was so interesting and found that what engrossed him so was a simple photo of a boy bending to pick up a ball from the ground.
“What are you looking at here?” Lucien asked with interest.
The boy began pointing to various aspects of the picture. “Boy. Shoes. Shirt. S-socks. Ties. P-pants. Ball. S-sidewalk. Tree. Grass. D-dirt. S-sky. Light.”
“Very good,” Lucien praised. “And what is the picture about?”
“The boy is going to p-play with the ball.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“
Yeah.” He shook his head. “Don’t throw it.”
“You prefer to roll the ball, don’t you?”
“Don’t throw it,” Nicholas said firmly and went back to studying the picture.
Lucien waited a moment then said, “I’ve brought someone to meet you.” He motioned to Avis, and she started forward, but suddenly Nicholas jerked around stiffly and looked at her. His gaze seemed to bounce off her and fly around the room. He shoved his chair back and rose, one hand drawn up tightly against his chest.
“No!” he yelled. “Book! I want my book!”
The nurse backed away, keeping her hands to herself and looking at Lucien apologetically. Lucien nodded, rose and seized the boy by both arms, holding him still but keeping their faces level. “You can look at your book in a moment,” he said calmly. “She’s not here for you. She’s my friend. I only want you to meet her. All right? We’re learning how to be polite, remember?”
The boy calmed, but his gaze stayed on the book on the table. Lucien rose to his full height and turned to face Avis, one hand sliding across the boy’s shoulders comfortingly. He beckoned her closer. “Avis, this is my son, Nico.”
She walked forward uncertainly, attempting to make eye contact. “Hello.”
The boy stared at the book. “Say hello to Avis, Nicholas,” Lucien instructed. The boy ignored him. Lucien tightened his embrace slightly and firmed his voice. “Be a polite boy and say hello.”
The child squirmed, trying to shrug off his father’s arm, and Avis’s heart went out to him. “Don’t push, Lucien,” she pleaded softly, but he shot her a sharp glance and repeated himself.
“Say hello to Avis.”
Finally the boy’s gaze, dark as night, slid over her. “Hello,” he said quite cordially.
Lucien hugged him. “Thank you. Now you may go back to your book while I have a word with Nurse.”
The boy eagerly returned to his chair and bent low over the photo once more, seemingly oblivious to all else. Lucien led the nurse over to Avis and then led the pair of them to the door. “Karen, this is Mrs. Lorimer.” The nurse offered her hand and a warm smile, both of which Avis accepted. “Karen is specially trained in treating autistic children,” Lucien told Avis smoothly. Then he turned his attention to the nurse once more. “Everything going well?”
