Chapter 6
Patrick
Loss was all too familiar a sight. It grew flesh and bones in that narrow hallway and greeted me like an old friend.
Teresa embraced her childhood friend, both sharing their grief in dry silence, saving the actual tears for a moment of privacy. This they shared in common it seemed—the distaste for showing weakness, even at the death of a loved one. Though grieving they were—that much was evident in Teresa's hollow eyes and stiff posture. She turned her head slightly and met my stare.
I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. I felt like a trespasser suddenly. "I'm sorry," I said, for lack of proper words.
I retreated slowly and left them alone, lest the scene would awaken my own sorrow.
I spent the evening at the lounge, sipping on a plain juice, to the disappointment of the caterer. As I sat and pondered, sadness found its way into my heart. I found I wished I had met Lady Madeleine earlier. She had tracked me down, pulled on all her assets to enlist my co-operation, and she had done all of that for the sole purpose of keeping her granddaughter safe. She was an admirable woman and a competent ally. In a different life, we would have been comrades, partners in crime even.
In a different life.
"A dime for your thoughts," said a gravelly voice, pulling me from my reverie.
Bret Stiles took the seat opposite me and folded his hands over the table, wearing a calm look and a provoking smile.
"Let me guess," he continued, when I didn't answer. "You're wondering whether… Lorelai Martins is really the answer to your problem."
I froze momentarily, then nudged my chin. "Lorelai Martins?" I repeated, feigning ignorance.
Stiles raised his eyebrows, giving me an innocent look of confusion. He lifted his shoulders.
"Lorelai Martins is the woman that works for Red John, is she not? The woman that you're hoping to find in Boston. It's kind of a double life you're trying to lead there, don't you think? Building a new family while also avenging the last one?"
I leaned slowly over the table between us and pinned him with my gaze.
"What do you know about Lorelai Martins?"
"Oh please, Mr. Jane. I've followed the Red John case for years now, that man has murdered dozens of people—trust me when I say I would be more than relieved to see you catch him. And if I can help you do that in any way possible, I will cross desserts to do so—mark my words," he said with passion.
I studied his eyes. It was obvious to me that he was a man of secrets, a manipulator. He returned my stare calmly and slid his hand across the table toward me. A piece of parchment was trapped under his fingers. I scanned it with a swift glance—an address in Chicago.
"What is this?" I asked coldly.
"Just keep it close, it might come in handy."
"How did you obtain it?" I pressed in the same flat tone.
"Patrick," he said, as though we were friends now, "I'm sorry to see what chasing a monster has done to you. Honestly, you sound crazy. I wonder how that pretty lady of yours manages to put up with your... intensities."
I nodded, smiling. "Goodbye, Bret," I announced in all-seriousness, not moving from my seat.
He pursed his lips, as if hurt. "I see that I'm no longer pleasant company," he said and rose from his seat. He turned silently and left me alone in the lounge.
I finished the rest of my drink and rose on my feet, then headed for the staircase. Half along the way, I turned around, walked back to my table and pocketed the little parchment with the address.
When I returned to our bedroom, I found Teresa sleeping on the couch. She was in her nightgown, using her robe as a blanket. Her arm was stretched out, hanging off the side of the couch, a piece of paper crumpled in her fist. It was in telegraph form. I didn't need to check to know its content. I nudged the table in front of the couch out of the way and knelt beside her. I gently unfolded her fingers, placed the note on the table behind me, and lifted her into my arms.
The bed was hidden in a heavily draped alcove. I slid through the curtains shoulder-first, so that the silk wouldn't bother her and settled her in the middle of the sheets. As I tucked the covers over her, her hand curled around my wrist. I raised my gaze and found her large, round eyes wide awake.
"Patrick," she whispered, her throat sore, amplifying the raspy quality of her voice, "can you stay with me?"
I stared in silence, not sure how to react. She was in a vulnerable state, she would no-doubt regret her behavior in the morning. And yet, her request, spoken so softly, was entirely tempting.
"Please?" she said, looking the other way. I realized it was hard for her to plead. Even in her grief, she felt embarrassed. It was impossible to refuse her then.
I undressed swiftly, leaving my pants and shirt on, and slid into bed beside her. She remained still as I adjusted my position, making me wonder whether she was already regretting her request. Slowly, giving her enough time to reject any of my advances, I turned to my side facing her and slid my palm across the mattress until I found her wrist. I tugged and she let me. I pulled and she easily rolled into my arms. I waited as her breath became more intermittent, coming out in large chunks of air. When it finally grew quiet, I buried my face into her fragrant hair and let her scent drive me to sleep.
Teresa
Madam had made me swear not to wear any colors of mourning. But I made my appearance at breakfast dressed entirely in black, my hair bound up in a knot behind my neck. I almost smiled at the thought of how she would express her disapproval. Then I almost cried.
I bit back the sorrow. No more tears.
There was only one color I had allowed in my outfit. I had been surprised to find the emeralds on my bed that morning. A set of earrings and necklace, along with a note.
Please accept this as a product of your good karma - Patrick
I had discarded the necklace, but decided that the earrings matched the occasion.
Patrick and Grace lifted their heads when I arrived. Grace greeted me with a radiant smile, Patrick with a casual nod which turned into a full-on stare. I conjured as much joy as was left in me to greet my friend—which was really rather a sorry excuse of it—and acknowledged Patrick with a furtive glance. Kissing him had certainly fared lower in embarrassment than weeping in front of him had. How had I let myself show such weakness? Never again, I promised to myself.
"Is there something wrong?" Grace asked in concern, as I received my seat next to Patrick.
When I didn't answer, Grace turned to glare at the man at my side.
"What did you do to her?" she demanded.
Patrick raised his palms. "I swear I'm not to blame. She is upset about something else."
Grace studied him for a few seconds, weighing his honesty.
As much as it pained me to bring up the subject, I quickly informed Grace of Madam's passing. After she finished giving me her condolences and after I managed to convince her I was going to be fine, we returned to our breakfast.
I ordered a plain black coffee. Patrick examined my choice a full minute and then started lecturing me on the salutary effects of tea and sugar on grief. I ignored his rant and announced our schedule for the day.
"We have to meet the lawyers at ten o'clock for the reading of Madam's will. Their offices are only a couple of blocks from here. Then we should visit the bank to open new accounts. Mr. Jane, are you listening?" I complained as I caught him using two of the rings of sweetened dough, the so-called dough-nuts, as lenses. Several men and women were giving us curious glances. I posed a smile for them and nudged Patrick with my foot.
"Ow," he remarked, dropping the cakes back in their dish. "Yes, lawyers, bank," he said, answering to my previous question.
Kimball appeared under the arched entrance of the restaurant. He scanned the diners until he spotted us and started pacing in our direction. It was still difficult for me to process that he was here. The news of Madam's death hadn't left much room for any other considerations, but seeing him now awoke the sting of his betrayal.
He was a detective. Damn it, he knew how passionate I was about the trade and yet he had never considered sharing his secret with me. Madam had made him swear not to tell me. For my protection, she had said. I knew that she was the one I should blame, but she was not around, and hence Kimball would have to answer for it.
"Good morning," he announced curtly, as he pulled the chair next to Grace.
"'Morning," I said, staring at my coffee.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"Excuse me," Grace sounded then, smiling politely at Kimball, "I don't think we had the pleasure of meeting."
Kimball returned her smile. "No, we didn't. Kimball Cho, I worked at Lady Teresa's estate," he said, extending his hand.
"Among other places," I muttered.
Grace gave me a look of confusion.
"She aims, she shoots," Patrick said under his breath.
I threw him a glare, which wiped all humor from his expression.
"Grace Van Pelt. Pleasure to meet you," Grace finished introducing herself.
Kimball nodded, then straightened his head to look at me.
"I contacted my friend in the police. We need his clearance so that we can go retrieve your niece. He will be in Boston by tomorrow. Meanwhile, I've sent a letter to the nanny to prepare the girl's belongings," he announced.
My niece. I was finally going to see her. Suddenly, nothing else mattered.
"I will come with you," I told Kimball.
He hesitated. "Alright."
There was nothing to be said after that.
After a while, I noticed Grace's attention settled on me. She seemed to be making her mind up about something or other.
"Out with it, Grace," I encouraged her.
"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you should know that your grandmother isn't truly gone. My cousin, Yolonda, who was a true psychic by the way," she added that part looking at Patrick, "let me speak to my grandfather after he died," she said with conviction.
"Your cousin is deluded or dishonest or both," Patrick deferred.
Grace's expression turned grim. "You're entitled to your opinion, of course, Mr. Jane. But you're wrong. She has power."
"You wanted her power to be real, so it was."
I sipped my coffee quietly, watching the two quarrel. In all honesty, it was entertaining to see Patrick try to change Grace's well-settled notions and getting irritated in the process. Why, I doubted I'd seen anything or any one capable of cracking his calm nonchalance.
"Just because you're pretending to be a psychic, it doesn't mean everyone else is," Grace defended.
"Okay, later after breakfast, when you inform Teresa here that you decided to go on your own way, she will ask you what changed and because she is quite persuasive when she demands answers, you will finally confess that you worry because you have no money in your name. Then, Teresa, will inform you that she in fact intends to open a separate account in your name and grant you part of her fortune."
"Excuse me?" Grace and I both echoed at the same time.
"You will, of course, try to refuse politely. After all, you can't accept charity. But then she will remind you of your responsibility and of course you will have no other option, but to accept."
Grace's look was incredulous. "My responsibility?" Her gaze turned on me, full of accusation.
"I swear I didn't say anything," I ensured her.
"You don't have to worry about your friend's trustworthiness," Patrick explained. "It takes but one look at the rosy color on your cheeks, the faint shine of sweat on your hairline and the subtle signs of fatigue in your eyes for one to make the conclusion. You, my dear, are either sick," he leaned his head to the side, "or pregnant."
Kimball coughed, then tried to look elsewhere.
Grace lifted her napkin, wiped her lips and placed it down on the table. Finally, she met Patrick's gaze.
"I hope you never lose someone dear to you, Mr. Jane. I can't imagine how horrible one's life would be thinking their loved ones simply ceased to exist."
With that, she pushed her chair back and walked away.
"Horrible, indeed," Patrick muttered at no one in particular.
"Are you happy?" I asked him. "Was this really necessary?"
He looked at me and shrugged. I shook my head. He didn't avert his eyes.
"What?" I asked.
"Those emeralds look lovely with your eyes."
The compliment left me disoriented, wiping whatever argument had been nestling in my head. I shook my head incredulously. Gathering my hair up had been a bad choice after all. There was nothing to hide into, as my face turned scarlet.
"Kimball, are you finished with your breakfast?" I asked then to divert the attention from myself.
He gave me a nod.
"Great, then let's get going."
"Yes," Patrick agreed. "I have an appointment at noon. I would like to be there on time."
I turned to him. "Oh?"
"Don't act so surprised. I do in fact have a life of my own."
I relaxed back in my seat. "When will you be back?" I wondered.
"Probably later tonight."
I nodded.
Of course he had a life. And when his business with me was over, it was that same life he would return to. I knew that, I was prepared for that. And yet, why did I suddenly feel like I was being abandoned?
Patrick
"Mrs. Jane, are you all right?"
The lawyer, Mr. Abbott, had finished reading Lady Madeleine's will several seconds ago, but Teresa had yet to pose a reaction. As I observed her from my seat next to her, I genuinely thought she'd become ill.
"I'll go search for witnesses for the signing of the documents," offered the younger lawyer of the two, Mr. Wylie.
"Fetch a glass of water for Mrs. Jane as well," Abbott ordered him. There was genuine concern in his voice. As I had found out, Abbott wasn't in fact just a random lawyer. He had been Madeleine's legal adviser and dear friend for long years. He also had plenty of chance to meet her family members back when he used to live in England.
"No, I'm fine," Teresa said, shaking her head. "It was just a surprise, that's all. Madam changed the will?" Her voice was calm, composed. But I could see the terror in her eyes.
Abbott nodded.
"Has the will been read in London yet?" Teresa asked.
"The reading is scheduled for tomorrow."
Teresa shook her head. "When uncle Volker finds out what his mother has done, the ocean won't be an obstacle to him. He will have to come after me and my niece."
The lawyer sighed. "Yes. I tried to warn her of the ramifications, but she wouldn't listen to reason."
"Are you certain she has left nothing to him and his family? It doesn't sound like her."
"Well, your uncle will receive a small monthly stipend. It isn't much, but if he adopts a frugal lifestyle, he should get along all right. In addition, Lady Madeleine paid off all his debts, an amount of fifty thousand pounds and counting, Mrs. Jane. She wanted to give him one last fresh start. If your uncle chooses to run his credit up again, his mother's estate won't bail him out."
"Oh, he'll find another way," Teresa muttered. "Uncle can be very creative."
"Now, now, don't borrow trouble," Abbott advised. He threw his gaze at me. "You're married. He cannot touch your inheritance."
Wylie returned with the witnesses then. Teresa took a measuring look of them, before she turned to Abbott once more.
"What if I don't sign?" she asked, her voice trembling a little.
I reached out and gently placed my hand on her arm.
"Teresa, everything's going to be fine," I reassured her, speaking softly. In truth, it made me unhappy to see her in such agitation.
Her eyes fixed on mine. She was fighting fear. I had the sudden desire to take her in my arms like I had done the previous night.
Wylie chuckled, as though he found Teresa's question amusing—who would wish to refuse such a fortune, after all? One glare from his superior silenced him though. The boy cleared his throat.
"It wouldn't matter if you signed or not," he informed Teresa. "It's really just a formality for the bank's records. The money will stay in trust, earning you a handsome figure in interest."
"And if I die?"
I squeezed her arm, pulling her attention.
"You aren't going to die," I promised her, surprised at how much I meant it. I wouldn't let anything happen to her.
"Your uncle still won't get the money," Abbott reassured her. "Your husband is the only one who stands to gain." He paused to smile. "From the emphatic way he just spoke to you, I can only surmise he'll do whatever it takes to make certain you live a long, healthy life."
She glanced at me, then feigned a smile for the lawyer.
I knew what she was thinking, of course. I wouldn't always be around. Somehow though I knew I was always going to try to save her, no matter where I was.
Teresa signed the documents and after that, we visited the bank to open our new accounts-a shared one for me and her, and, as I had predicted, a separate one for Grace.
We walked back to the hotel. It was almost noon, but I didn't feel like leaving her for my appointment. Not until I did something to lift her spirits up. It was unsettling how important it was suddenly to see her smile.
I escorted her up to our bedroom, using the excuse that I wanted to change into fresh clothes. Once we were inside, I pulled her arm, forcing her to turn around. She looked up at me, a tint of red spreading on her cheeks.
"What?"
I grabbed hold of her shoulders and held her gaze firmly.
She glanced at my hands, then back upwards. "What are you doing?"
"Making the stress leave your body," I explained, modulating my voice to the proper soft, level tone.
"What, are you a magician now?" she teased.
"Doesn't require magic, it's simple science," I dejected.
She frowned, then gave me a serious look. "I'm not stressed," she claimed, though it was obviously a lie.
I dipped my head to match her eye-level. "Please, humor me?"
" Are you going to hypnotize me?" she teased, though I could read her terror at the thought.
"No," I lied.
She rolled her eyes, but I could sense her relaxing. Her eyes softened, opened up, giving me full access to their depths. My gaze inadvertently lowered to register her slightly parted lips. It would take but one movement to kiss her.
"Aren't you going to be late for your meeting?" she mumbled then.
"She won't mind waiting a few more minutes," I said absentmindedly.
Teresa's back arched. Alertness returned to her face at full force. Whatever calm I had worked toward vanished in that second.
"She?"
I glanced to the side, confused by her reaction. "Yes."
Her chin shot forward. "What kind of meeting is it?" she inquired.
I narrowed my eyes. "It isn't a meeting exactly. I agreed to meet Sam at the coffee house down the street. Why?"
She shrugged. "Just wondered. Do you have a business matter to discuss with this woman?"
"Not really."
Sam was the woman that had pretty much raised me. She and and her husband, Pete, were the only people I could trust. Naturally, she had been the first I had contacted to follow up on the clue about Lorelei Martins. And after the suspicious exchange I had with Bret the previous night, I had become more eager to hear what she had found.
"Will there be others joining you?" Teresa continued her casual interrogation.
"No."
"And?" she prodded, a bit more sharply this time.
Her questions made no sense.
"And what?"
Her eyes sparked with anger, before she averted her gaze altogether.
"Nothing," she said.
I tried to read her expression, but without access to her gaze, her secrets would remain hers. Slowly, I placed my hand under her chin and raised her head until I could read her eyes. Her anger briefly subsided to give way to longing and bitterness. And then the truth dawned. I was too surprised to say anything for a long while. Surprised, and arrogantly satisfied.
"You're jealous. "
Teresa
I wanted to kick him. No—I reconsidered. Kicking him would be too merciful. I wanted to kill him.
I shouldn't care who he was seeing or why, but I felt bloody furious. Kim's words—which strangely felt as though they'd been spoken ages ago—flashed through my mind suddenly. Rumor has it he takes a different woman to his bed every night. I shouldn't care, but we were supposedly on our honeymoon, and it was damned rude of him to seek out the company of another woman.
I pulled back from his touch. "Don't be ridiculous," I answered.
He smiled. "I'll be happy to explain about Sam," he offered.
My temper flared. "I couldn't care less about the woman," I reassured him. "I don't give a hoot what you do with your free time."
"Teresa—"
"But," I rose my voice, "marriage is like pregnancy. You either are or you aren't. There aren't any shades of gray. Until the annulment papers are duly executed, I believe both of us should try to respect our vows. We should be…"
"Faithful?" he supplied.
"Yes, faithful. It would be the polite thing to do."
We stared into each other's eyes for a long moment.
"Teresa…" he started, shaking his head. "I haven't been with another woman since my wife died. How could I?"
I frowned, astonished by the sincerity in his eyes.
"Men usually don't need intimacy for such matters," I defended, still not entirely believing the fact that he had been celibate ever since his first wedding.
"Oh, and let me guess, women always do?" he returned sarcastically.
I raised my chin. "We don't exactly have much of a choice in the matter."
"So what you are saying is that if you did have a choice, you would let your lustful urges guide you."
I smiled. "I don't have lustful urges."
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't?" he challenged.
My smile slowly faded. His look made desire simmer in my stomach.
"Not the kind you think," I managed to mumble.
His expression was completely humorless now. "What kind do I think?"
I raised my eyebrows, as I didn't trust my voice enough to utter an answer.
Patrick calmly held my gaze for a few more seconds, before he reached over and cupped my chin in his hand, just like he had done at the ship. The thought that he would kiss me had barely registered in my mind, when he leaned down and took my mouth into his lips.
Suddenly I understood the expression of knees going weak. My heart started pounding in my chest. At the same time, all my nerves were on alarm—he was dangerous, he would leave me the moment Red John beckoned at him. I would never be his priority. I had to push him away.
I let out a thin sigh of pleasure and grabbed hold of his jacket, pressing myself onto him.
He wasn't immune to my reaction, wrapping his hand around my waist. His other hand slid behind my neck, where he released the pins that bound my hair one by one, letting my hair cascade all over his fingers. I heard the last piece of metal hit the floor at the same time that he took a step forward and cupped the back of my head with his hand, pushing me to deepen the kiss.
His tongue thrust inside my mouth, clashing with mine. I suckled on it, taking control of the kiss. He let me explore his mouth for a while, growing still around me—so still that I half-opened my eyes, disoriented. His own eyes were tightly sealed, drawn together in a look of devastation. His grip was firm on my waist, my neck. He half-opened his eyes, took sight of me, and re-assumed control of our intimate exchange.
He kissed me as though I was air to breathe, and when our lips parted for air, he still held onto me, using the time to simply incline his head to take my lips from a different angle. I'd never been kissed like that, not even by him. Our first kiss paled in comparison.
Part of me vaguely noted that we were taking small steps toward the bed. It wasn't a conscious action. Neither was my hands sliding from the collar of his jacket to the buttons of his vest. I knew that normally I would shy away from such boldness, but the only thing that occupied my thoughts as I unbuttoned his vest and shirt, was how much I hated women's fashion and how duelling it would be to remove my own lace blouse, waist belt, skirt and petticoats.
It turned out my worries were trivial, for a moment later I was standing in front of him in nothing but my undergarments—a white lace dress that barely covered my knees.
He paused our kiss, our lips smacking as they separated. His eyes roamed down across my body, a gape that would have prodded me to cover myself in other circumstances. But instead I smiled with satisfaction, which turned into suggestion, as his eyes met mine again.
I did not recognize the woman I was in that moment. So sexual and liberated. So eager to touch and feel and love. Later I would blame my brazenness to the fact that we were married and hence there was nothing unethical about the situation. But in that moment, as his arm curled around my waist and lifted me and as he rounded the bed to lay me on the side and climb on top of me—in that moment, ethics was the furthest thing from my mind.
A/N: Thank you for all the comments again, I really appreciate them. Regarding the M territory not fitting this story, I want to mention that the book actually has very explicit romance scenes and I tried to tone them down a bit as the Mentalist is more subtle in that sense, but I don't want to take them out entirely, as I think the show was wrong in not letting Jane and Lisbon express their inner passion. For now, I still didn't include anything too explicit in this chapter, but this will change in the next one, I'm sorry if this ruins it for any of you.
