“So tell me Henri, what is it that you do for a living?” I ask, desperate for conversation.
“Genetic research.”
I choke on my water. He could have told me he was an astronaut, and I would have been less shocked. Over the years, though I’d never admit it because of how sad and desperate it is, I Googled him. I Facebook crept, and back when MySpace was the thing, I clicked through every Henri on the site. Nothing, it was as if he vanished.
“Don’t look so surprised. Stephen is the one who sparked my interest. When you and Emily weren’t tormenting me, Stephen would show me what he was working on,” Henri says laughing. It’s deep and throaty and I melt a little.
“We didn’t torment you,” I say. I can’t picture Henri, this version, or the skinnier, younger one, in a lab coat looking into a microscope. In reality, I shouldn’t be surprised.
Daddy works for the state university doing genetic research in the agricultural department. He heads a small research facility only an hour’s drive from the plantation. His work involves the genetic modification of plants and animals, creating new disease resistant versions. He had worked with his father in the same department up until my grandfather’s death a few years ago.
Emily and I had grown up knowing of his work, but never really talking about it. Even as we grew older and went off to school, our father didn’t bother to share his research, much less try to get us involved. This always hurt me. I loved to learn anything and everything. But then, I didn’t know he already recruited Henri to carry on his legacy. Henri admired, or more accurately, worshiped my father. Henri following Daddy in the science field shouldn’t be a surprise, yet it is.
“Yes, you did. You two were terrible.” He smiles at some private memory he holds. It is strange to think this man that sits across the table, has his own version of life, one that involves me.
“What is it that you do?” I ask.
“My field of research focuses predominantly on genetic diseases,” Henri says. I watch his hands as he plays with his water glass, spinning it in small circles. They are strong, his fingers long, almost delicate. I had always loved the way his fingers played over my skin. I focus back on his face as he speaks, ignoring the pain that keeps needling its way into the dark places in my mind. “My research involves targeting the telltale markers in DNA that identify genes.”
“So you study the genetic makeup of people.”
“Yes.” He nods his head slightly as if to tell me that was ‘sort of” what he does. His eyes almost sparkle when he speaks. “Every person carries a DNA match of their ancestors. The scientific community can determine that all living organisms are in a sense related. When a person is born, the DNA from the parents is carried over into them. This is how we get hair color, or facial features that are similar. Or tragically, genetic diseases.”
“And you study these diseases.” I watch his reaction. It is no secret his birth mother had died of an illness, though what, I never knew. Now, my mother, his surrogate, has become ill.
“That is what I do primarily, yes.” Henri glances around the room, done with the conversation.
After we eat, or rather, I try to eat, Henri takes us down the trail behind the restaurant to the beach. Now I know why he wanted me to wear flip flops. I carry my shoes in my hand. Henri leans down to roll up the bottom of his slacks, he had been wearing flip flops that he now carries as well. His feet are the same, his toes long. It is a weird thought. Even as we get older, there are parts of us that don’t change. When he stands, he catches my eyes, and I have to look away.
The sand pushes between my toes and is cool under my feet. The heat of the day is trying to fade out, and a cooler breeze comes in off the water. The air is thick and still carries the slight rank smell of seaweed. Noise from the bars on the shore float out to us as we stand at the water’s edge. Waves lap at my toes, my feet wading in the water. I can barely see his face in the dark, but the moon washes over his golden highlights, making him look angelic.
He keeps brushing his arm to mine as we walk. “I have decided, the best way to convince to to return to France with me, is to court you.”
I laugh loud. His words are unexpected, but so very like the Henri I remember.
“Is that what this is?” I ask, my tone teasing. “Courting?”
“Yes,” he says. I can feel his eyes on me in the dark. “I was never able properly to do so.”
My stomach drops and I have to swallow around the lump in my throat. I decide to wait to tell him that I have already made the arrangements to leave, curious over his courting plans. This could be interesting.
“So I take it that you are not involved with anyone,” I say. I noticed no ring, but that doesn’t mean anything.
“No,” he says coyly. “You interested?”
“You never were one with subtleties were you?” I laugh.
“No, I am a man. We don’t inherit this gene you women carry.”
I shake my head. He hasn’t changed at all.
Chapter Six
The nightmare returns full force. It is always the same. I’ve tried for years to figure out what hidden message my conscience is trying to tell me, but fail. The dream focuses on Emily. She is trying to tell me something, but her mouth never forms the words in a way that I can interpret them.
I wake with a start, the cool, strong hands grabbing me as they always do at the end of the nightmare, pulling me back into the world. Light filters through the crack in the blinds. I glance at the clock next to the bed. Seven A.M. Thankfully the dream didn’t come earlier, leaving me to lay in the dark, the memories refusing to leave.
I unravel myself from the comforter, my body is sore and my head aches. I need coffee and lots of it. I stand and wait for the coffee to brew at the sliding glass doors, watching the ripples on the ocean. It is going to be another hot day. My thoughts quickly turn to Henri, a picture of his young face pops into my minds eye. Six years old and scared, putting on a brave face, moved from the only home he ever knew, to live with practical strangers. He had clung to my father. Adored him. It is no wonder he has chosen a similar profession.
While the coffee brews, I hop in the shower. The nightmare is slowly fading in the light of the morning, leaving only traces of unease tickling the back of my thoughts. I dress in loose shorts and a tank. My camera hangs from my neck and I grab my cell phone from my nightstand. Not that I have great service, but like every other tech junkie, I feel better knowing it’s on me. On the mornings I don’t work, I usually spend the time walking the beach collecting small shells and snapping pictures.
Coffee in hand, I hop down the stairs and walk across the empty road toward the rocks and flat beach. Carefully navigating over the sharp rock wall, I walk over the packed sand towards the water. Only a few other people are out on the beach this early. The elderly couple renting the house next door walk along the shore, and I wave in their direction. The wife, a sweet and quiet woman in her late sixties, returns my wave and starts toward me.
“Hello, dear!”
Great. Not wanting to be rude, I walk toward the woman. I only have to deal with them for a few more months at most and they will return to their homes up north.
“I wanted to tell you what I saw last night. It’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.” She looks at me, questioningly, with small brown eyes surrounded with deep wrinkles.
“Last night a car was sitting outside your house. A man got out, walked around and then left. I didn’t want to call the police, after all, it may have been someone you knew… but well, I’ve never seen any company there. Except, of course, the young man yesterday, but this was someone different.”
“What time was this?” I’m not sure which part to be more upset about. The fact my neighbor is incredibly nosey, that she thinks I have no life, or that someone was snooping around my house.
“Oh, I’d say about eleven-thirtyish?” Her brows turn down in thought, her head nodding. “The late late show was coming on, so a
round then.”
“Well, thank you for telling me. I’m sure it was a friend,” I say. At that time, I was still out with Henri.
She smiles politely, her face revealing she knows I have no friends. “Alright then dear. Have a good day.”
I walk further down the beach away from the road and my house. In less than forty-eight hours, my safe, quiet life has become suddenly very busy. People and memories I packed away are pushing themselves to the surface. Now someone is creeping around my house while I’m gone.
Just great. On top of everything, I have to worry about my house being scoped out for a possible break-in. This town isn’t exactly a hub for organized crime, but break-ins and the occasional drunken driver do occur. Oh, and bar fights, but Janice and I know nothing of those.
An hour later after combing the beach for whole shells, I climb back over the rocks toward the road in front of my house. Henri’s black SUV pulls up. Seeing me struggle to get my footing on the jagged rocks, he parks on the shoulder and walks toward me.
“Why don’t you just walk around?” He asks, leaning over the edge of the shoulder to offer his hand.
I glance toward the end of the road as I grasp his hand and he pulls me up. My house sits last on a dead end street, which gives way to large rocks and a wide sandy path to the beach.
“Cause this way is faster,” I say. Gods must have visited in the night and blessed him further; he is practically glowing.
“Always in such a hurry.”
“Not always. I remember when you wished I moved faster.” Flirting? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Do you have plans for today?” Henri follows behind me up the stairs to my house. I am glad I put on my short shorts this morning.
“When I agreed to see you again, I didn’t mean for breakfast,” I say to him.
“That ruins my plans for this evening.”
“Well, in that case ...”
I am shameless.
It must be the tight blue shirt he wears or maybe the cargo shorts that reveal his toned calves, but I can’t help but fall into the flirtatious banter we had. It is easy and natural. Cut it out! I need to get a grip on myself. Only two days after seeing him unexpectedly and I am already acting like a fool. If I’m not careful, I’ll be throwing myself at him by the afternoon. I don’t exactly have a shining history of making great decisions.
Without waiting for an invitation, he follows me into the living room. I watch as he walks around the open room, looking at my nick knacks. It is weird seeing him in my house, moving around, picking up the shells on the coffee table. Still surveying the room, his eyes land on the framed prints on the wall over the fireplace.
“You took these?” He points to the wall.
My photos are private. I had several published in magazines when I worked in the advertising company, but those were for work. The few I decided to frame are for my eyes only. Since no one other than Janice is ever in my house, it is safe to display them on my wall, a personal portfolio. I shift uncomfortably in place, not liking his eyes on my pictures. It leaves me feeling exposed, almost vulnerable.
“These are amazing. This one is stunning,” Henri says, pointing to a large print.
It was taken on one of my few trips to the neighboring city. I had decided that if I was going to live next door to a tourist town I might as well see the sights. After an entire day spent visiting the attractions, I had settled in the large square at the center of the town. Walkways lined with benches and old cannons framed the square.
An elderly couple came to rest on a bench in front of me, their backs to me. The woman had shifted slightly and rested her head on what I guessed was her husband’s shoulder. Between the thin slats, I could see their hands clasped together, resting between them. The print is in black and white. I had raised the aperture on the lens to allow more light to come through. The long exposure had created a halo effect, softening the hard edges and ringing the couple in light. It is my personal favorite. Its simplicity speaks volumes. An old love. An old friendship. Complete trust. Any bad times they had shared in their life together vanished at that moment. A silent story of sacrifice and devotion.
Henri reads my face and knows that I managed to catch in a single picture, everything I ever wanted. Desperate to break the silence, I move toward the kitchen, changing the subject.
“You have some explaining to do. First and foremost, how does Daddy know where I live?”
“Your credit card.”
Annoyed by my stupidity, I roll my eyes and turn to make a fresh pot of coffee. “OK, it’s not like I’m listed. How’d he know my address?”
Henri’s face says it all. Secrets are hard to keep from anyone with loads of money. Especially when your target makes it easier by buying camera lenses and take-out with the credit card Daddy still pays for. Working as a maid in a roadside motel doesn’t exactly leave me overflowing with cash.
“OK, dumb question,” I say.
“Do you enjoy working at the motel?” Henri leans forward, his muscular forearms on the counter. The only person Emily and I had ever told of our ability to feel people, so to speak, was Henri. He knows that I hate large crowds and rooms full of people so it would appear strange for me to be working in a place where I come in contact with so many faces.
“Yes, actually I do.”
He nods, like this answers something for him. “I saw one of your photographs in a magazine years ago. Abigail never told me you became interested in photography. Then again, she didn’t tell me much of anything.”
“But she told you why you both left for France,” I point out.
“No, Ashur told me that one. Abigail made me promise to keep it to myself.”
I picture my mother asking such a thing. She wasn’t one to take no for an answer. I want to ask what had happened. Why was it so terrible that we had started a relationship? Instead, I hand him a cup of coffee.
I glance at the clock on the microwave. “What brought you here so early?”
“I wanted to see you,” Henri smiles. It is the same smile he would give me as he led me to the storehouse. Small, one corner of his mouth turned up, his eyes holding a secret. “Really, I wanted to catch you in case you had to work. I was hoping to convince you to play hooky, and have lunch with me.”
“I have the day off.”
“Good, I have you all to myself.”
I bite my tongue holding back my anger. He had already had me.
“We can do lunch,” I say. Then I’ll tell him I will go. “But I need to get ready.”
“That’s fine.” Henri walks to the sofa and sits down. He really isn’t good with subtleties.
“And I have some phone calls to make,” I lie, something that seems to come naturally.
“Then I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Once again, I watch as he walks down the stairs and climbs into his SUV. The reality of the situation has yet to hit me. I know when it does, it will knock me down and steal my breath.
-----------
The floor creaks under my feet. I pace in my living room, my hands clenching the legs of the sage linen pants I wear. I keep checking myself in the mirror in my room, trying to convince myself, the white layered lace tank I wear looks just fine. That I don’t need to change. It doesn’t matter what I am wearing when I tell Henri the news.
I bite my lip and twist the ends of my hair between my fingers. I want to run to the store for a pack of cigarettes, but I am stronger than that. The sudden realization that I am going to tell Henri I will go with him is turning my stomach. Not sure if it is the idea of flying, leaving the country, or seeing Abigail that has me in a panic. It could be that I am leaving with Henri, that seems to be what my brain keeps focusing on. Henri. It took me many years to get over him. Too many.
My suitcases sit by the door, packed and ready. Really, I won’t need to say anything. When he walks through the door, he will see that I have decided to go. I hear his SUV pullup outside, and I want to run. The ide
a of leaving the safe little haven I have built up over the last five years is terrifying. I reach for the door and open it before he has a chance to knock. He brows raise but stands quietly, watching me.
“I will go, see Abigail, hear what she has to say, and then I come home.”
Henri nods slowly. “That sounds like a plan.”
We stand in silence for a few minutes. It seems like this huge change in my life should come with a more dramatic moment. Music or something to mark the change that is happening. Instead, it is quiet and simple.
“My bags are packed,” I say.
He nods again. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Seven
Different shades of green blur past the window. After we had loaded my bags, we drove out of town, headed west. I thought we would drive to the small airport to the north, but instead, Henri has driven us toward the central part of the state.
“Where are we going?” I ask, nervously.
“The airfield.”
My family owns a private jet that Daddy would use to fly to France to visit with Henri’s uncle, Ashur. After Abigail had left, he traveled only a few times in the months that followed, and then stopped. Emily had begged and pleaded to go with him, desperate to see our mother, but he never allowed her.
The jet is housed in a small airstrip near our home. I had figured Henri had flown into the larger airport since it was closer to where I lived. I realize now, he must have seen Daddy. I have not taken into account the relationship he had with Daddy or that they have kept it up over the years. The thought is unnerving. They have known where I was most likely the entire time I lived on the coast. And here I thought I was in hiding.
I watch the scenery as we drive. Growing up in central Florida, you learn to recognize where you are by specific markers; elaborate mailboxes and how many curves in the road there are before the next turn to your house. Acres of farm fields are often unmarked. Cow pastures with low hills for miles. The landscape becomes as familiar as road signs. There are endless stretches of asphalt, lined with pine stands, or acres of dense woods. It is only as you neared the small towns that signs of real civilization appear.
In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1 Page 5
