by Mj Fields
The sweetness in her voice, the kindness in her eyes, causes a sharp pain in my chest. “I broke a–”
She interrupts with a lighthearted demand for an answer to her question, “Did you sleep well?”
“It’s nine in the morning, I slept like a baby.”
Her eyes light up and widen slightly. “You do know what a ridiculous analogy that is, right?”
I only know one thing. I don’t deserve those aspen eyes to light up for me.
She smiles, and I have no idea how she sees that miniscule scar on her lip past the brilliant beam that’s nearly blinding.
She mistakes my awe for confusion and explains, “From the research I’ve done trying to prepare for the little ‘Bange’ baby coming, sleeping like a baby would mean you’re waking every two hours because you messed your pants and are hungry.”
“Bange?”
She smiles, “I’ve shipped their names. Cute, right?”
What the fuck? I shake my head and refocus the conversation.
“I promised you I’d teach you to ride a bike this morning.”
She shrugs as she walks past me. “And I may have implied I wouldn’t come in your room.”
Sitting with Maisie and drinking a cup of coffee, our typical routine, she restarted the movie that she and Natasha watched, Dirty Dancing, saying I needed to see it. Twenty minutes in and she’s asleep.
Feeling eyes on the back of my head, I turn around and see Bass leaning against the door.
I stand quietly and fix the fallen blanket so it’s covering Maisie before walking to him.
“I can’t get over how good she looks; believe how good she looks.” He smiles.
“Paris has been good to her.”
His hand clasps my shoulder as we walk out into the hallway. “And you’ve done one hell of a job with finding new suppliers, even Angela is in awe of you.”
“Is she now?” I joke as we walk down the hall toward the conservatory where I know Natasha is doing whatever it is she does. Draws, dreams, imagines.
“She’s just a bit concerned that you may piss off some of de la Porte’s longtime suppliers,” he adds.
“It was a shame that Jean didn’t use any US suppliers. Everything that was delivered this morning is from the US. Unlike the suppliers Jean used, they’ll take returns if de la Porte chooses not to use them.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m impressed.”
“If Angela’s not–”
“No, no, no, she just wants to see that Natasha’s talent and name doesn’t get soiled. With competitors and a board frothing at the bit for me to fuck up, we need to make this transition go as smoothly as possible.”
“I agree, but Angela owns shares that could–”
“We haven’t exposed our hand to anyone. Yes, we have a majority together and yes, it’s powerful, but it’s not necessary to divulge–”
“I get it.”
Bass pauses in front of the doorway and I look inside.
It’s certainly changed from last week’s appearance.
It is still the two-story room with floor to ceiling bookshelves on one side, the other side all glass, including the ceiling, but the once scarcely decorated room is now full of mannequins, fabric and people, all seeming to circle around her.
Natasha stands in the center of the room, aspen eyes full of wonder as she spins in a circle, not unlike the way I saw her on the plane after almost a week of trying to figure out a way to fix the fragile ties we’d begun to weave between us. It’s slower, but no less inspiring. She’s looking at her mother, and what I assume are seamstresses from de la Porte Paris.
“You see her?” Bass whispers and I know he’s talking about Angela who is looking at her daughter lovingly, as I’m watching Natasha. He continues, “Look at the way she looks at Natasha, like she’d do anything to make her smile, like she’d do anything to protect her, like she is the center of her world.”
I nod.
“Inside her, is another child she will no doubt feel the same way about. I planted that child inside her. I planted love that will grow and breed generation after generation of love. I am blessed with the honor of protecting and ensuring that love is allowed to grow.” He chuckles. “And you know what I did to ensure I didn’t have kids, yet still,” he pauses and thinks of what he will say, I already know what he’s thinking.
“You got your balls snipped and yet,” I shrug.
“All the things Maisie has always said,” he points out. “We end up where we are supposed to be.”
I look away, not wanting to piss on his happiness. Nor do I wish it away. Bastien was once loved, he was born to someone who knew love. Although I believe in a higher power, I don’t believe the all-powerful looks out for all of us the same.
Maisie calls life our journey, I call it a fucking joke.
But still, there is no denying something more powerful when you witness joy.
Bass nods to Natasha and when I look at her, she glances up and sees me. She stops and smiles briefly before another woman brings an armful of fabric for her to look at.
“And I need to protect all of it.” I look back at him now. “You know what that need feels like. You know what it feels like to need to protect others.”
I nod.
Bass pats my back. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
The entire day is busy, but I make sure to excuse myself and sit with Maisie when I can, after all that’s why I’m here.
I’m not here to be tended to or comforted, nor to see aspen eyes sparkling whenever they fall upon me. I’m not here to witness the strength found within to dance in circle in the light or watch childhood dreams become reality. I’m not here for her, I’m here for them.
But fuck if she isn’t something to behold.
“Shall we?” Bass nods and we enter the room.
I begin to gather the packing lists and make note of the inventory the best I can since more than half of the crates have been unpacked. It would normally grate on my nerves, but something about the excitement in the room lessens the need for order…or is it someone.
At lunchtime, I help Pierre, the chef who apparently came willed with the house, set up the buffet in the main hallway of the house. The amount of food set up for a lunchtime meal is almost baffling. Chicken, salmon, salad, several different vegetable dishes, and of course bread and pastries. In a thick French accent, Pierre told me, “Americans eat all wrong. Big midday meal to relax and enjoy refuels the body and soul. Smaller dinners keep the waistline smaller, and the evening activity level hungrier.”
I stand at the back of the line making a plate for Maisie and consider doing the same for Natasha, like she did for me last weekend, as she and Angela walk out of the conservatory.
“Hey,” she smiles at me. “The fabric? I just found out who ordered it. Thank you, Oliver.”
“Part of my job, Natasha,”
I glance out of the corner of my eye and see Angela looking at me. I know I made a shitty first impression when I met her briefly while working at the restaurant, and I’m sure she is questioning my every move, but it’s not something I care to address. If she has an issue, I’m sure she will talk to Bass.
“Not trying to step on toes, so let me know if–”
Angela interrupts, “They’re beautiful fabrics, Oliver.”
I hurry and fix Maisie’s and my plates before heading down the hall, away from the crowd, toward her.
22
Oliver
At midnight, I still can’t sleep, and it may have something to do with the fact I heard someone walking down the hall and down the stairs an hour ago, that someone being Natasha, and she’s yet to return.
After another fifteen minutes, I can’t help my form of wondering, worrying, to stop. I get up and toss on my sweats and head downstairs.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, I see light from the conservatory and hear Natasha.
“I wish I could be there for her.”
“You are, Fan
cy Face, she knows you are, so don’t beat yourself up over it. I just thought you should know there’s no way he’ll make it through the holidays.”
“It’s just not fair, Aaron,” she whispers.
“Clearly,” he chuckles.
“I think I need to come for a visit,” she sighs.
“With school, visiting your mom’s new place of employment in Paris every weekend, you sure you have time?”
“I’ll make time,” she says with conviction.
“Well, let me know if I can help make arrangements once you get into New York. You can stay with me and my grandmother.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” The way she giggles afterward rubs me the wrong way.
“I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He pauses and begins again. “Fancy Face, let me know what you decide, and I’ll get the gang together.”
“Thank you, Aaron, I’ll be in touch.”
As I’m about to walk away, I hear a small squeak that turns to near silent sobs and then the sound of something hitting the floor.
My reaction is instantaneous as I hurry in the room knowing I’ll find her on the floor. Her small frame is curled into itself as she shakes with silent sobs, her hands covering her mouth.
When I close in on her, her aspen eyes lift and meet mine.
I drop to my knees and pull her head to my chest. She buries her face against it and her shaking intensifies.
I say nothing because there are no words to comfort her. I just hold my hand to the back of her head and let her cry.
When she begins to calm, so do I. In doing so, I realize I’m stroking her hair, and her hair feels like silk.
It occurs to me that while she was crying, the only need I felt coursing through my veins was to comfort. But now, her skin against mine, her scent, and the comfort level I feel with her causes unwelcome thoughts.
As naturally as I can, I start to move away, which takes restraint, but not the need I feared.
She’s not Grace.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell her, sitting back, furthering the distance.
She nods as she wipes away her remaining tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“For whatever reason you’re hurting, so am I.”
She looks up and sighs. “Just overwhelmed.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk it through,” I suggest.
“Are you going to fake a sympathetic ear?” Her sincere smile is surrounded by tear stains.
I shake my head. “I’ll listen.”
She waves her hand around the room. “Look at this place, Oliver. It’s a far cry from Brooklyn. It’s Mom’s well deserved happy ever after, and my dream come true all in the wave of some invisible magic wand.”
She stands and turns in a slow circle. “Ten dresses today.” She stops when her eyes land on mine, holds up her hands while spreading her fingers. “Ten.”
I stand and nod.
“I wouldn’t have dared dream that my visions would ever come to fruition, let alone be hanging here before my eyes as a freshman in college. Yet here they are. Oliver, look at them.” She puts her hand to her chest, “Just look at them.”
“You’re very talented, Natasha.”
“But so is Stella.” Her voice cracks.
“Stella, your friend from school.” It’s not a question; it’s acknowledging I had paid attention, yet also an admission that makes me a little uncomfortable.
She nods. “Her dad is dying.” Tears well and threaten to fall. “She’s the one who dreamed of going to school in London, not me, and here I am living her dream. How is that fair?”
I know exactly how she feels, but saying those words to someone who is hurting is something I have learned doesn’t always help, but listening does.
“I’m sorry, I know this isn’t your thing.” She turns her back to me and walks to the wall of windows.
I walk toward her. “I’m listening, Natasha.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But.”
She stops and shakes her head.
“Whatever you need to say, I’m listening.”
“It’s stupid.” She bats at a tear.
“It’s feelings, Natasha. I may not be used to sharing them–”
She interrupts, “You’re not comfortable sharing them. There’s a difference, Oliver.”
She’s not wrong.
“The situation doesn’t call for it.” She looks up at me and looks as if she’s hurt. “Natasha–”
“It was stupid.” She walks away. “Poor me, right?”
“Absolutely poor you.” She stops and scowls back at me. “And lucky them that you give a damn.”
“Goodnight, Oliver,” she sighs and begins to walk away.
I want to stop her, I want to stop her with words that will comfort her. Hell, I want to do more than use words, and there lies the fucking problem, I can’t.
Once she’s gone, I stand looking at the ten dresses, three of them floor length gowns, all black, but completely different styles.
The first of the three is elegant and simple. Its bodice is form fitting with cap sleeves and a modest neckline. The skirt is full and without looking beneath, I know it lays on some sort of hoop. The second gown is less full, its bodice sleeveless and the neckline slightly revealing. The last, is form fitting, from top to bottom. The black bodice is shear and leaves nothing to the imagination.
“Are these a preview of your metamorphosis?” I whisper as if asking her.
I feel eyes on me and turn.
Maisie smiles at me from her chair. “Heard cries and had Adele bring me in. Since you were handling it, I didn’t interrupt.”
I sigh, and she smiles. “You remember when Bass first brought you to me, that first weekend? I told you all about my past, Ollie. I told you all about what brought me to become Maisie Josephs. I did it to establish trust. To show you I’d hide nothing from you, not ever.”
I nod.
“Took a long time to do that, pretty sure there’s still things I don’t know, but just a little bit of you sharing your past with me let me know, you and me, we were family.”
“We are.” I walk around behind the chair, bend down and kiss the top of her head. “I’m doing the best I can.”
She reaches back and pats my hand. “Then I know you’ll get there. If not for you, you do it for me, will ya?”
“Yeah, Maisie, I sure will.”
Once Maisie was in bed, I tried to tire myself out in the gym by going through my playlist three times. When that didn’t cut it, I found myself inside her room, that’s furnished exactly like the one I occupy when I’m here, sitting in the chair next to her bed listening to that damn song on repeat.
Half an hour had passed and although my body feels calmer, my mind won’t shut off.
“Little Warrior, I apologize for the fact I don’t like talking about the past, and I can promise, if you were awake right now, I wouldn’t be talking about it. Maisie always says look forward, it’s solid advice so that’s what I do. But you’ve opened up to me, so I know I should give you the same… trust. My parents were monsters. I can’t remember a day when I wasn’t hit for something I did wrong. And I can’t remember a day when I didn’t fear for the foster kids the state trusted them to care for. Bass was one of them. My mother pushed him down the stairs and he got hurt pretty badly. He wasn’t her first victim. Like the others, I made sure to tell him to turn their asses in. All the others did, but that pig-headed bastard came back. Said he wouldn’t leave me. I was so pissed at him. He came back for me, a pussy who, for most of his seventeen-years, lied to the social workers so his shitbag parents didn’t get thrown in jail. I never knew loyalty until Bass, I never knew love until Maisie.”
I sit back, look up at the ceiling, and sigh, “I fucking hate weeping willow trees. That’s what most of the scars are from.”
I open my eyes and lean forward. When I see she’s still asleep, I’m elated.
I pull up the comforter to cover her shoulders.
I left her room feeling exhausted and I woke feeling rested.
When I roll over, I grab the damn phone off the base and wonder what the hell I was thinking putting that damn song on repeat and look at the time.
Five thirty in the morning.
Having showered after beating the hell out of the bag last night, I hurry into my bathroom and brush my teeth, before looking closer in the mirror and realizing I need to fucking shave. It’s been nine days.
I grab a washcloth and scrub my face. Next, I apply some deodorant before heading out to grab some clothes.
Looking in my bag, I see a pair of jeans and a sweater. I look out the window, it looks cold enough to wear a fucking sweater, and decide it’ll do.
I dress in black jeans, and put on a black tank top to go under a charcoal gray V-neck sweater.
As soon as I walk out of my room, I look across the hall and Natasha is coming out of hers.
Her back is to me and I notice she has on damn near the same thing I do, except instead of jeans, she has on leggings.
As I’m about to go back in my room and swap my clothes out for sweats, I hear her giggle. I look back and she points to me and then her as she whispers, “Twinning.”
Shit, I curse at myself under my breath.
“Let me change and, if you have time, I can give you a lesson.”
“Why would you change?” she asks as she comes toward me.
I motion between us like she had. “Twinning.”
“Don’t be silly, let’s go, there are bikes in the garage.”
“Really?” I ask following her toward the stairs.
“Yep, I checked yesterday morning, but my teacher never showed.”
“Yeah, I apologize about that. I also apologize about last night,” I say as I follow her down the stairs.
She looks back. “Don’t be. I had a moment. I’ll figure it out. I was just overwhelmed.”
“Understandable.”
As I open the hall closet to get my boots, she asks, “Grab my sneakers?”
“Which ones?”
