IV. Beautiful Mind
Until I felt the soft whisper
Of Your lips on mine, truly,
After eternities in death,
Did I breathe oncemore.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked harshly.
"What do you think I'm doing?" her look was defiant, a Joan of Arc with those eyes, "I'm coming with you," they'd swerved into the hospital driveway, and he had been surprised as she stood beside him firmly.
"No, you're not," he said mulishly. "Al will take you back home."
"Van Fanel, I may be your ex but I'm still human," she arched a brow, "and I happen to care about your father." She folded her arms around her chest, "Whether you let me come or not doesn't matter."
He buried his hands in his pant pockets and giving her a long look, turned around towards the emergency doors. She followed suit, struggling to keep pace with the long-legged man, and noticing for the first time, the true length of his frame. His gait had a confident allure, brisk steps evidencing his youth, but his speed gave a certain aura as if the man was running away from everything, too busy and caught in the fast-paced motion of life.
The smell of hospital was an intricate wreath of freshly bleached floors, of drifting cafeteria food, the sickening air of tension as some paced, and others sat on plastic chairs brooding over a beloved.
Hitomi let a shudder race through her spine and then shook her head to calm her mind.
The events happened in a blur, a fast forward motion of a television screen and not so much later, they found themselves confronting the entry to the hospital room.
He paused, pondering over what to say, what to do—what to feel. That unquenchable anger, vibrant like a spring flower blooming madly was still present; yet—there was this part that tugged at him, made him weak, made the thought of his father gone sound so… alone, awful.
His face stony, he pushed the door to his father's room and both entered, somehow knowing that they'd crossed a threshold where the form of language was silence.
His father was asleep. Blinking, he observed the man, Hitomi sinking into a chair beside him. The man—he was alien to him, honestly. When had the wrinkles brushed upon his face? Skin stretched over him in odd places, while it sagged in others; his hair was a peppered version of the lustrous locks, his body haggard, as if a spirit had lifted the life out of him.
The brief squeak of a chair, and he slid into a chair, the silence permeating in the room.
"Van?" she asked softly, her eyes looking blankly ahead of her, "What happened to Merle, your sister?"
A smile fought to play on his features, finally succeeding, with a insignificant tilt of his lips, "She's in Europe right now…she's an artist." He let his long legs slide on the floor leisurely, slowly, precisely, "Merle's taking the first flight back to see him."
"You haven't made up with him, have you?"
There was no question who they were talking about; Gaou. "No."
"Why? So many years…it must've been hard to stay angry."
His nostrils flared ever so slightly, "It's been ten years, Hitomi since I've last met you," he met her eyes for the briefest second, "…are you still angry with me?"
There was a slight change in her note, maybe a sign of a croak, "I don't know."
"There's your answer."
"It isn't," she gazed thoughtfully at the bed where the old man lay vulnerably and wondered whoever said that a certain age, old men became young children made a very valid statement—atleast, Gaou looked it physically. "The answer depends on whether you want to forgive him or not...whether you can." She shrugged, "I suppose both of you have to identify your problems, confront the issue, and forgive and forget."
The irony of her statement was not missed by the couple, Hitomi realizing a fraction of a moment after the words had spilled out. She still hadn't decided if she wanted to forgive him.
He smirked at her sarcastically, "Oh yes, aren't you a fine piece of philosophical thoughts? It's easy to preach," he sought her eyes, his look gentled just a bit, "but always hard to practice." Perhaps Van Fanel was feeling generous with his thoughts and he'd rarely engaged in such musings, "Take the idea of love." His eyes darkened a shade, the white curtains blowing gently as the air conditioner vent blew on it, "So many people want it all; yet they don't do the one thing that's necessary." He looked at her, "They don't love those close to them while trying to grasp loves that don't exist."
She gave an ironic chuckle, "I suppose there's enough 'love' going on in this world…sex scandals, unwanted preganancies…"
He looked at her oddly, halting her speech, "I wasn't talking about the selfish pull between two people whose inevitable conclusion was a memory best forgotten."
"Clarify," now, this was getting interesting.
He inhaled deeply, as if mentally breathing into a new dimension, "Love isn't about physical loyalty with a mixture of general affection. It encompasses more than physical desire, more than a spark. It is a loyalty of the senses." He smoothed his hair with his palm, "Your sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch—all of it. You're not loyal because your beloved is perfect," he expounded, "but because she's not—and therein lies the attraction. Conventional beauty lasts for a while, but," he smiled gently, so uncharacteristic that it had a startling affect, "the flaws proclaimed by society are truly what binds us."
She arched a brow, her lips smiling cynically, "Admirable sentiments—I think I read that somewhere." She didn't notice the slight paling of his face as she'd admitted the latter part, "but do you apply this?" She frowned, "And about loving the imperfections, I hear of it so much, that I don't believe in it anymore."
"I'd thought you'd be the last one to say that." He didn't mean it in a maliciously way and went on to make it lucid, "Like the way you get angry—sort of in that ubridled fashion. It's quite a sight."
She bit her lips. "Angry. Is that what you enjoyed making me?"
Oh, he would die to make her his, just once more if he could. A devilish smile curved, "Yes, a rare pleasure."
"Van," her voice was different, as if coming from a distant, haunted place, "did you—what did you do with Lia?"
"It wasn't anything like what everyone thought." His father coughed loudly and for that moment, their heads jerked to watch the figure. Mutely, they gazed, the old man's eyelashes blinking rapidly as a bird's flight, then finally opened.
The previous conversation was forgotten. They turned to him, "Van," the voice rasped.
He stood beside his bed and whispered softly, "Dad."
His gnarled hands, slow in their journey, traveled across the valleys and planes of the bed, to grasp his son's. "You look well."
"Can't say you do the same."
A tired smile crossed his proud face, "I didn't make it today."
Van Fanel, feeling charitable, was still not affectionate. It would take more than an incident such as this to melt the block of ice that separated his father from the citadel of his heart. Thus, he made no move to squeeze his father's hands, or dote on him like a dutiful son. "You never made anything for me."
Goau's lashes swept into a seal, "I'm sorry."
On cue, a nurse rushed in. "I really should say," she looked across at both of them, "you must be heading back. He needs to rest."
Van slipped his hand away from his fathers, the cool ones that should've held when he was young. "I'll be back tommorow morning, to check on him."
"Yup, that'll be fine."
His eyes swept across to Hitomi, her back straight, her figure still, staring. "You alright?"
"Yeah," she blinked.
"Let me drop you home."
He didn't even glance back at his father—though the thought had briefly crossed his mind.
OOO
Their ride back was quiet.
But, the memories of years in high school kept rushing back to her, kept screaming to be stepped into, felt once more. It wasn't merely the confrontation about Lia…it was everything. The days, slow, stretching had been awful. He had ignored her, not a glance in the hallways, not a word in the classes.
Nothing.
It was as if she had been terminated, wiped away from the face of the earth. She simply did not exist.
And nothing felt worse. She'd spent the prom with Celena and Dilandau, feeling every moment as if she was intruding, as if she the thirdwheel—which she was. That was it; she felt like an extraneous solution in a math problem, left out, not needed. And she was proud, and her pride jabbed her, refused to let her seek him, and it said nay to glances, or to the initiation of conversations.
And the night. Oh, the night. She couldn't begin to explain it, to define it. It had been as if she was reborn, as if she had finally crossed into another realm where the only thing existed were her senses: touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing. The friction of their flesh, his exquisite taste, the fragrance of his skin, the look in his eyes, his melting whispers …
…they were stolen moments of the fragile heaven she had constructed.
But what did it prove? Physical intimacy did not extend toward emotional sentiments; his cruel indifference, his cool, dismissive behavior, all went to evidence it.
"We're here," he interrupted her reverie smoothly.
"Oh," she grabbed her purse, "Thank-you." Going to get the door, it opened when she grasped it. She smiled at Van Fanel, his stance so austere, so taut as he waited for her to step out.
If she thought he was going to leave her then, obviously, she had made a mistake. "I'll escort you."
She arched a brow, "I'm not handicapped."
"Pretend you're crippled, then," he retorted.
She shook her head and stumbled onto the steps, slicing the card through the machine and automatically, the door opened.
The lobby was pleasantly lit, with a huge Christmas tree grazing its ceiling. They climbed a flight of stairs, not bothering with the elevator (Hitomi had always thought it had been a good form of exercise.) She turned right, very much aware of the male just a hair away from her.
She paused at her door. He met her gaze, "I'm sorry about tonight. Maybe another time?"
The corners of her lips turned, "I'll hunt you down, you bet."
"Ah, the article." She quirked a brow; why else would she hunt him? Not for other purposes, surely.
The lights were glaring casting shadows on his face, making Hitomi Kanzaki realize that the man before her looked exhausted. A raw frankness lingered in his eyes, his face becoming a mask for emotions. His teasing, his humor, all of it had been a cover-up, so that she'd not notice, she'd not pay attention to the hollowness that grew within him spreading like a cancerous disease.
"Hey, Van?" her voice was soft.
"Yes?"
Trying to hide a smile and not succeeding, she queried, "I suppose it would be a bit forward of me—but, do you think I can kiss you good-night?"
His eyes widened. "You're not obliged to; this wasn't a date." If a woman had to ask him whether they could kiss him, truly, Van Fanel should retire into an old-age home.
Yet, he wasn't sure he wanted her to kiss him, to tease him with a mere whiff of her essence.
Where was that address for the old-home?
Patience was a virtue the green-eyed woman valued very much in all individuals—but one that she'd always been short of.
Planting her hands firmly on his shoulders, she went on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his in what she'd hoped was a friendly brush.
It was a momentary spell, a whisper of yesterday that made them halt, let the memory melt over their lips.
His lips instinctively, hungrily, caught hers ever so gently, trying to sate the starvation in small portions.
When he blinked, she felt his lashes rake her cheeks in a sweet caress, in a kiss of remembrance.
It was as if she was getting sucked into him, one more moment later and she'd forget the purpose of her kiss—
She pulled away, her eyes bright and incredulous, "Good night, Mr. Fanel. I hope your father feels better."
He stared at her for a second, a deep sort of gaze that made her want to seek a hiding place, yet she met his gaze unflinchingly.
He turned…
..and jerked his head back, just as he'd taken a step towards the stairs, "You should let your hair down—it looks nice."
She blinked rapidly, a half smile on her face, her mouth slightly agape, not sure how to respond as the man continued walking ahead.
Shaking her head, a smile still playing over her lips, she entered her apartment and threw the keys onto the table.
Removing her coat, she shoved a hand through her hair.
What was she in a mood for, what was she in a mood for? Ahh, poetry. Make that romantic poetry. Definitely.
Almost in wonderment, she brushed her fingertips on her lips.
OOO
After promising herself a last cracker from the Wheat Thins box, she decided, woefully, that she was fatally addicted to them. Too lazy to cook or order out, she had changed into pajamas and gotten under layers of blankets, cozy with her favorite book of poetry.
The gold letters were elegantly written on the red, deep burgundy hued hardcover, Hitomi.
It was an odd occurrence, one that had given her a good laugh over when she'd gotten the book for a birthday present when she'd turned twenty. A poet using her name for the title of book that was a collection of love poems? He must've been insane.
Perhaps she had thought of it odd at that time, but Hitomi was a common enough name. She had two other employees with the same name. Who knew? Did they go to bed sighing over the musings of some random poet that had named a best-seller Hitomi, pretending it was written for them? Maybe, or maybe not.
She knew she did.
So, she was a romantic after all; she couldn't help it—no woman with a heart could help getting pulled by the raw intensity of the poems. And somewhere in the world, there lived a man/woman (who knew? The poet could be a female) whose loving words had swept the female population into fantasies. That was the other magnetic attraction; they were published under no name with just a bare "For you, princess. Always," in the dedication.
Oh, the world was full of princesses; the commonality being proven that she herself had been called one by Van a few ages ago and also by others she'd briefly dated.
Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, playing the game she had always enjoyed with the book. Not peeking, she opened a random page, then promptly cracked her eyes open, letting her green irises skim the page.
You ask me when I need You?
I need you in the hiss of a violent storm,
When another sort of tempest rages within me,
In the unhurried, lingering days of summer,
As I let the night of loving You melt over my tongue.
I need You…
When autumn leaves whirl their farewell,
When my arms cage You in this eternal moment,
When the breath from your laughter clings to my skin,
When the snow kisses the tips of my lash.
She inhaled deeply. Reading things such as this reminded her why she'd fallen in love with the idea of romance. His writing style (Hitomi had decided that the author had to be a he) wasn't particularly original, neither were his images like the famed Neruda with his sonnets, but this—this piece had this unrefined, naked honesty that made everyone's heart waiver, shiver. It's power wasn't in the style, but the amateur, pure, glow the words reflected—even as some poems took an erotic turn, they were sweetly so—as if they were desperate longings of a man who wasn't a poet or even a wordsmith, but one who'd become thus for his 'princess.'
It tugged, it pulled, and the little snippets wove into a complex story, a romance.
She continued onto the next page, her thumb on the sheet, her mouth in a perpetual gasp as her eyes traveled over a stanza.
Your tears were waywardFallen constellations,
Imprisoned within the galaxy
Of my lips.
She smiled; she would kill for a guy that thought remotely like that. In her experience, many renownked poets she adored who wrote beautiful love poetry were, with a few exceptions…well, targeting a particular male audience—take Michaelangelo for example.
His compositions were breathtaking.
He also happened to be gay.
Ahh, the losses for women; she grinned hazily at a memory… Didn't Van write poetry once?
She chuckled.
Him writing sentimental love poetry was about as likely as a frog turning into a prince.
With words swirling in the mists of her mind, a generally warm feeling permeated through Hitomi Kanzaki ensuring her good dreams. Hmm, maybe in her heart of hearts she wished frogs did turn into princes.
OOO
"Sir, you have a call on line four," the operator chimed to Van Fanel.
"Thanks. Who is it?" He shuffled the papers into a stack, and continued his doodle from yesterday.
"A Ms. Kanzaki." The tip of the pencil broke and he blinked. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No, that'll be all." He promptly jabbed the number four button, and waited, "Hitomi?"
The voice teased, "Thought you'd forgotten me." Had she realized she that'd never been forgotten by him?
"So, what do you want?" He leaned back on his chair.
"If I could get access to the database in your brain that would be excellent."
He sighed, "Where are you?"
"Outside your building," she grinned. "In my car."
He almost fell off of his chair and had the idiotic urge to look out the window, which he did—but it was only a peep, "Wait, there. I'll come to you."
"Perfect," she inhaled, "let's have a long chat."
"See you in a bit." He hung up, quickly grabbing his dark coat. He wasn't sure he was willing to chat with her about the matters she chose.
OOO
"You know, you still surprise me." She laughed lightly, "I would've never guessed that you liked ice-cream in the middle of December."
He quirked a brow, "Among other rare pleasures that I enjoy all year, one of them is ice-cream." He continued to take big bites from the container that fit his palm.
She sipped her vanilla coffee. They were sitting on a bench that overlooked the sea, on the brick-pathway that had been a favorite meeting-place for lovers. Rocks in various shapes and sizes stretched for a good distance, then met the dangerous, intimidating waters.
"You refuse to talk about your monetary issues. Fine." She asked calmly, "What about personal? I hear you're dating someone."
He chewed the ice-cream purposely to stall (and Hitomi had faintly wondered why anybody would chew ice-cream—didn't it just melt on his warm tongue aided with just a bare usage of his teeth? Oh, she groaned inwardly, she wouldn't even want to think of tongues—or teeth, for that matter—around him!) "What about her?" He shrugged in indifference. He was cautious, she could tell. Nope, he was not going to offer any information to her, not unless she'd purposely asked, and pushed him to spit it out.
"Well, for one, it would be nice to know her name." She slid one of her hands into a pocket.
"It's Diana," he said hoarsely.
"Ah, nice name." She purposely fixed her eyes on him, "There are a million Dianas—a last name would help."
He smiled faintly, "We value our privacy." She could only guess at the private matters the two conducted, she thought wryly. "And plus, she's not ready."
"Not ready for what?"
"She doesn't like being in the center of attention—not the glamorous type."
She mmhmmed in understanding, "And her occupation?"
His hand jerked, "Writer. She's a writer."
"What does your Diana write?"
He actually smiled, and if her observations weren't wrong and in typical male-style, replied again with a nonchalant shrug, "I haven't a bloody idea."
"What do you do that doesn't bring forth the subject of her job?" she asked exasperatedly. "You're not aware of elementary things such as what she writes."
His eyes were twinkling, and apparently, he'd grown comfortable. He leaned in towards her, his breath warm. Too comfortable, she corrected herself, "Let's just say this…our activities do not have to involve a lot of talk."
She pulled away disgustedly, getting up from the bench, "Just when I think you were likable…"
"What?" he yelled in outrage, standing up, "She's a very active person, she's very physical!"
"Ohh," she groaned in pain, shielding her face with her hands as if it could block the rapid images that slid across her mind.
He threw back his head and laughed, his eyes glowing wickedly, yet his voice was the epitome of innocence, "I was talking about skiing, playing tennis, and sky diving." They brimmed with mirth skimmed over her frame, "I'd suggest you get your mind checked—it's been rusting in the gutter for too long."
Despite herself, Hitomi Kanzkai's shoulder's shook in hilarity, and when she turned around, she met his gaze…
…and they were both caught with the sincerity, the silver encrusted moments of the past that clung to them like mist.
Waves molded themselves passionately on the shore like desperate lovers seeking to be sated.
A crooked smile played across her face when he spoke, "More than anything, you could say Diana is a secret romantic…"
She was all ears.
OOOO
He paced as his father sat calmly on the seat, drinking cooled tea. "Would you talk to me?"
Maroon eyes met his own dark ones, with a mixture of confusion and rage, "Oh yes, Dad, you're too many years late to get involved in my life."
He placed his cup on the table, "Van, I never meant it to be that way," his voice was quiet, grave. "I-I," he coughed, "I was always proud of you."
He turned away disgustedly. "Sure you were. Did you support me when I decided what I wanted to major in? You always were looking for your damned successor to take over your practice."
"I admit, that was my fault."
"And in all these years nobody told you that you were a slow learner. You've made so many repeated faults that my accountant couldn't count them." His eyes, oh his eyes, they were fire, angry fire that threatened to burn down everything its gaze struck.
A flush rose to the old man's cheeks, "I never had the luxuries you had when you grew up, whether you realize it or not, Van. Your mother—when I first married her, we had close to nothing between us. All I did…" his words faltered, "it was for all of you."
He ran a hand through his jumbled locks, and recognized the danger that was growing. He was loosening his fortress, getting swayed by his father's words. Oh no, it couldn't be. "What about that? You didn't care about us! Mom died just because of you!"
His father didn't answer with a scathing remark, but with such simplicity, such stark, naked truth, that it undid Van, made him falter ever so slightly, "I loved your mother. I always did."
But not for long.
"Sure you did," he smirked faintly with despise, "But you worshipped your goddamn job more."
He swallowed the burn in his throat, "Van," his voice was firm, yet frail, "I didn't come here to blame you or deny taking it on my shoulders—but precisely to take it all." He met the rebellious eyes of his son, "A father would have to be lying or be the filthiest creature on the universe to say he didn't love his children. You could be a damn criminal, and I would hate your deeds, but never you, the boy I fell in love with, in whose eyes I glimpsed the reason for my living, for my work."
"Stuff all your sentimental shi—"
"Listen to me!" he raised his voice. "I've always damned myself!" He fisted his hands in frustration, "I would want to talk to you but you and your ways," his eyes were wild, darting about, "your eyes, they would push me away, lock you so far away that I could never reach you!" He heaved, the feeling swamping him, the desperation lacing his decree.
Van's voice was emotionless with the barest shrug of his shoulders, "So, talk."
The old man sealed his eyes for a moment, "I loved your mother, love her even now…but somehow, as things went along, I forgot," he opened his eyes, "I forgot the reason for my ambitions, got carried away in the lust for wealth and your dear lovely, mother, oh she knew exactly what was happening to me. But," the admission was painful, "I was in denial; thought she couldn't understand me that I was doing for her, for all of you. Somehow, somewhere, all of this got warped and I didn't realize how the situation had skittered out of control."
"Out of control would be an understatement."
He gulped, "Yes, it would." He ran a hand through his hair, "Do you know why I could never stay for Christmas?"
"No."
"Your mother told me on Christmas eve that she was pregnant with you," he inhaled nostaligiactally, "and every Christmas, I thought of her, thought of you—thought of what could've been." His eyes crinkled with such tenderness, his smile curving with such a gentility, "She was a delicate woman, didn't even look pregnant at five months—and by God, when you were born prematurely, so small, so frail," he smiled, "she clutched you and swore that she hadn't seen anyone so fragile to claim her heart so completely."
"So, she loved me," he shrugged, yet a chord in his neck leapt.
"And she left something for you." Reaching into his pocket, he revealed an envelope. "A letter, Van. A letter for you that I kept from you because I was a damn selfish man."
He slowly took the envelope, his brows in a furrow. Silently opening it with his father's gaze traveling over his figure, he unfolded its contents.
Dearest Van,
It's snowing here and I think of you; yet, I don't need the snow to be reminded of you. Your laughter, your quirks, your love, are still lodged in my very breath, and with every breath, I think of you, how much I love you.
Maybe you're angry at me, maybe you felt as if I didn't love you and chose Merle over you. It was never so. I needed you to be with your father. He loves you, but he also needs you…desperately. The last thread of his family is in you, honey. In you, he sees himself; in you, I see him, his beautiful, young self whom I fell in with.
The words were blurring, his eyes were stinging, the little pearls of tears threatened to spill out of his eyes, yet they didn't after the years of practice. Only a hoarse whisper came out of his lips, "Why? Why didn't you show me?" All those days he'd pondered over what his mother thought of him, whether she'd truly forsaken him, cast him off as someone like his own father, because the resemblance was pointed too many a time during his youth.
His father's answer was equally hoarse, cracking in places, "Because I didn't want you to leave me alone." His voice was heartbreakingly remorseful, stripped of all pride, "Your mother displayed her affection more naturally than I did. I didn't want you to go like everyone else."
The thought startled him, how it had mirrored his own.
"Tell me honestly," he met his father's eyes that were only a darker shade of maroon, "why didn't you try to meet Mom after the divorce?"
"Van, we men are seldom worthy of the women we love and marry. And I was disgusted with myself," his lips turned cruelly, the cruelty directed towards himself, "and I didn't think she'd want me back, accept me. Maybe," his stare was hard, "I was a coward, even, afraid of rejection."
There was a gaping crack in his perfect fortress.
OOO
"How's that article coming along?" Milly grinned at Hitomi.
"Oh," she sighed, "I've gotten a good portion on his girlfriend," she ignored the slight stab in her heart, the little ache that she had refused to let grow, "But, he's zipped his lips about his monetary issues. Don't know whether he contributes to charities etc."
"Aww," she filed the paper, placing it in a manila folder. "And," she winked, "is he as gorgeous as they say?"
She whistled low. "Gorgeous would be an understatement, Milly. You would say 'no' to Achilles," she referred to Brad Pitt from Troy, "to have wild sex with you, if Fanel offered you the same." She was smiling widely; she knew the effect it would have on Millerna.
The blond squealed girlishly, her hand dramatically lying on her heart, "If that Dryden doesn't freakin' give me that proposal, you'd better introduce me to this Mister…unless you want him for yourself, of-course." She winked.
"Oh, no thank-you!!" A peculiar heat infused through her cheeks, "You can keep him for all eternities, as far as I'm concerned."
Milly particularly loved to tease Dryden, sighing over movies, loving the outrageous look in his eyes as he tried to reason that her liking or admiration for an actor was not worthy. But Hitomi knew this to be true; Dryden was Millerna's Prince Charming, the man she'd take over any.
"Oh," she shook her head sympathetically, "the man beneath the sexy surface not good enough, huh?"
She tilted her chin upwards, "Maybe."
"Why not have a little leap of faith?"
She shrugged, "Beautiful people tend to attract more, and the attraction sometimes leads to unfaithfulness. Simply speaking," her eyes were obscure with a touch of loss, "I don't trust him."
OOO
She had seven days left, precisely a week. For one whole week, she'd not been able to reach him; he'd always been away, or a message had been left that he'd get back to her.
Van.
She began to worry, her mind began to wander towards him, but the strangest thing was that she had an awful feeling it didn't relate even faintly to the deadline coming up for her article and the information she needed from him.
It was irritating how much a person began to care for another…even when they didn't fully like the other, even when they were flashed with all their tarnished antics; thus this illogical feeling became almost a nuisance to Hitomi Kanzaki.
So, it was with a startle that Hitomi Kanzaki found herself answering the call of Michael Reynolds. "Michael! How are you?" She mixed sugar in her vanilla tea.
"Fine," he answered brusquely, "Van wanted me to e-mail you the details of his financial records."
"Oh." The spoon was forgotten. "Where is he? I rather wanted an interview."
There was a pause.
"You know he contributed to charities. Most of his money went to charities," the man ranted, ignoring her question, "the guy had so much money that a generation wouldn't have to lift a finger and still live like kings."
"Michael—where is Van?"
His voice was hoarse, "He met his father. He's left the office after a few days later. Gone up to the mountains."
"Where? Is it something he's doing with his," she gulped slightly, "girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend?" the man asked incredulously, "What bloody girlfriend?"
Her hands trembled, her knees weakened, "Diana. He has a girlfriend named Diana. She's a writer…they go—"
"Sorry to say Ms. Kanzaki," he spoke firmly, slicing her words short, "that's a load of bull crap."
Her lips curled, her heart raced, her head hurt as she almost felt dizzy. Two hours. Had their talk been all lies? Well, he was one heck of an accomplished liar.
"Where the hell did he go?"
The man barked his laughter, "Not a clear address to where he disappeared."
Her body was alert, tense, "Email me the directions as best as you can."
"Why?"
She took a deep breath.
"I'm going after him." Her face was set in determination. "Your Mr. Fanel has some questions to answer in person."
It was just a matter of time, now, to when she faced the man she had so loved ten years ago.
A/N: First off all, a great big thanks to all those who have extended their condolences towards the unfortunate accident-situation. Sadly, the third friend also passed away. But, call me sentimental, foolish—whatever—but my brother was telling me that he'd never seen his friend look even more peaceful, never seemed to glow as he did. My thought? I think he went to Heaven. I hope so, truly. You guys are juuust wonderful! I think your prayers and good wishes have really been helpful. His fourth friend opened his eyes from the coma today but he's still in shock, doesn't speak. :sighs: I'm just praying each day that he gets better. Once again, thank you, thank you, thank youuu!
As for other things. :P I hope all of you had an excellent, safe and love filled Christmas and an equally great New Year! Well, shortly after I posted the last chapter I was whisked away in an impromptu plan to D.C to spend the 31st there. So, we went to D.C and eventually spent the 31st in Georgetown, with my family and ohh goosh, it was soooo much fun! Well, we drove up there (we had five hours!), so :muffles laughter: my mother thought it was a great time for confession time and confrontations, so she was asking us all of anything we wanted to confess! And we had a round of checking the guys' wallets :bursts out laughing: to see whose pics they might be keeping there. xDDD Thankfully, nobody kept anybody's… As for confessions, like any one of us would confess anything!!!...I would DIEEEE before I told her I wrote romances and read romances (I think though she knows…never could hide anything from her) but who would want to talk about that in front of three brothers?!! But yeah, basically, the whole experience was really bonding.
But I did miss all of you guys. I DID miss my writing!!
:grins: As for the next chapter. I have a little SPOILER so do not continue to read if you don't want to find out. The next chapter will end with this: "Take off your clothes." :wicked grin: Dooon't worry about the rating!!!!
END SPOILER!
Oh yeah, thanks soooooooo very much again for the reviews. Sleep with the angels (hmm it's about 11:37 p.m here).