An Invincible Summer

Jean had gone to the sunroom to tend to her plants and to focus her mind on cultivating something she wouldn't so utterly fail at. Seeing Jack this week had been lovely; he was her son and she would always love him no matter what. But his presence, as always, did more to remind her of her failings than anything else. He had always been a boy with a wild way about him, like his father, and she had not been strong enough or good enough of a mother to lead him on the right path. He was still a boy when Doug Ashby had arrested him and sent him to Melbourne. Not even done with school. Fourteen years old when he was taken away from her. And it was only a year after that when Christopher Junior had joined the army and left her, too. She didn't like to think about it, but the truth was that Jean Beazley had not been a wife long enough to really be much good at it, and she'd not been a good enough mother to have sons who wanted anything to do with her.

And so she was here, in the Blake house, tending to plants because she could not fail them the way she'd done to her husband and her boys, and being paid to care for people she loved because she had been proven unworthy to have a proper family of her own. Such things she would never say out loud, of course. But in her heart, she knew them to be all too true.

Lucien came sauntering into the sunroom. He did things like that. Saunter places. It was an ease that she knew she would never really understand, but it was something she'd grown to admire about him. That he could live a life full of so much hardship and still find the strength to be kind and casual like that. She smiled to see him, hoping he could distract her from her melancholy thoughts.

"Jean," he greeted in that low voice she would not admit gave her a shiver.

"Lucien," she replied. "I should make you something to eat." Work would be good. Having a purpose.

"No, no" he protested, still maintaining his casual air. Jean took off her gloves as he crossed over to the window and gazed out of it, hands in his pockets. "Jack's gone, eh?"

Ah. Mattie must have been waiting for him. She'd said she was going out, but Jean had not seen her leave. "Yes," Jean replied to Lucien, wanting very much to not get caught on this particular topic. Not now. Not so soon.

"Oh he'll come back," Lucien said breezily. How easy it must be for him to say such things.

"No, I'm not so sure about that," she said, feeling the lump begin to form in her throat. Because that was the truth. Her Jack had always been a wanderer. And now there was a girl he'd gotten pregnant. She was nineteen. God in heaven, Jack was more like his father than Jean could have ever dreamed. Hopefully Jack would do what his father had done in the same situation and marry that girl. Hopefully God would not punish them as he had punished Jean and Christopher all those years ago. Either way, Jean did not expect to see her son again any time soon. If ever.

"We can't give up on them, can we?" Lucien replied, his easy tone tinged with meaning as he turned to look at her. "They'll always be our children." He turned back to the window. "And when he does decide to come back, well, he'll always be welcome here."

"This isn't his home, Lucien," she reminded him.

"It's your home, Jean." The fervor with which he said those words made tears bloom in her eyes. "This is your home. And that means it's his home, too." Lucien's own voice cracked at that, as he reached out and placed a comforting hand on her arm.

Try as she might to keep her heartbreak inside, holding her uninjured hand to her stomach to compress all those roiling feelings, Jean utterly broke at the touch of his hand. She steadied herself on his arm and covered her mouth to keep from sobbing, and Lucien pulled her into the circle of his embrace. She held him around his waist as those big, muscular arms of his wrapped around her. His hands were massive, spanning her entire back. She rested her head against his shoulder, crying into the collar of his shirt. Her free hand fidgeted with the lapel of his waistcoat and the knot on his tie.

Oh to be in his arms this way, to feel comforted and safe and wanted for the first time in so very long! How did he do that? How did Lucien fill her with so much of everything? She could feel the scratch of his beard on her forehead. It was softer than she'd imagined. But everything about his solid, kindly presence soothed her. Soothed her and filled her with something else to push out all the sorrow she'd been crying over.

"It's alright," he whispered, hugging her close. "It's alright."

There was a moment, then, when the both of them seemed to freeze. Jean lifted her head, and Lucien removed his arms from around her. She looked up into his eyes, and his hands came to cup her jaw. She put her hands on his wrists, ready to hold his hands or throw her own arms around his neck as his face leaned closer to hers.

The ringing of the phone inside the house jolted them out of the moment. "I'll get that," Jean said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Lucien replied, swallowing hard and turning away from her.

She wiped her eyes as she ran through the house to the ringing phone. Jean was, in equal measures, grateful for the interruption and cursing Alexander Graham Bell for even inventing the telephone at all. She was so lost in thought that she barely listened when she answered the call.

"Doctor Blake's surgery," she greeted as always.

It was Mattie calling to let her know that she would not be home for dinner that night. She was studying with one of her friends and they'd be going out to eat nearby the nurses' home.

Jean was trying to concentrate on the phone call and did not notice that Lucien had come inside. She hung up the phone and heard him behind her. "Jean."

She whirled around to find him standing extremely close again. "Lucien…"

"I didn't want to…I just…" His eyes were a bit wild as he stared into hers, and he was more tongue-tied than she had ever seen him.

Jean did not know what he was trying to say, but his eyes told her all she needed to know. With a shaky yet bold hand, Jean reached up to cup his cheek. "Lucien," she whispered.

And then his lips crashed against hers. He wrapped his arms around her again, this time holding the fabric of her blouse tightly in his fists. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him against her. Their lips moved together in the most perfect, passionate rhythm. Jean had never kissed a man with a beard before, and she did not mind it at all. At least when it was Lucien. She did not mind anything about kissing him. She felt as though her whole body were molten chocolate, bubbling and oozing into the floor. It was as though she ceased to exist. All that existed was Lucien. Kissing Lucien.

Oh no, she was kissing Lucien! Jean pulled back, gasping in surprise and panic over what she'd done. "Oh…I…"

Lucien let go of her as soon as she stepped away, but those brilliant blue eyes of his blinked in confusion. "Jean, I…"

Jean just shook her head, shocked and appalled over what she'd allowed herself to do in her weakness. She turned and ran up the stairs and shut her bedroom door behind her.