My Fair Lacey
Chapter 4
Vulnerabilities
Lacey was seriously thinking of taking up drinking as her new hobby – there certainly was enough booze in the house. The man didn't drink beer, the beverage she was most familiar with, nor was there any tequila – always good for a quick drunk. But there was wine, some of which was pretty potent, she'd discovered that when she'd stood up after a couple of glasses. And there was whiskey, oh my word, there was whiskey.
He'd sometimes offer her whiskey in the late evening. She had turned it down several times before her curiosity got the better of her and she'd accepted a small glass. She nearly spewed. The damn stuff burned, made her eyes water and caused an uncontrollable coughing fit. He didn't laugh which made her feel better.
"It's an acquired taste," he'd told her, gently, getting her some water.
"How? I mean, how . . . why . . . did you go 'bout acquiring th' taste?" she asked him, trying to regain her composure. "I'd think gasoline wud taste better th'n that stuff."
"There's a smoothness, a subtle sense of flavors and power buried in the fire of the drink. It . . . it beckons me," he told her with a smile.
All right, so the man did have a certain level of charm.
She thought him handsome enough – certainly, the impression of old money he projected didn't hurt her perceptions of his attractiveness. But there was something else there.
Yes, he was brilliant – and having never been around brilliant people, she was fascinated. He was self-assured – and having never been around confident people, she was intrigued.
She also recognized that he was dangerous but dangerous in a different way from Keith, who was like as not to use his fists, or pull a knife or a gun on you. Not Professor Gold – although she did sense a level of violence in the man, tightly controlled, coiled, at the ready, but buried deep below the surface. But, more likely, Professor Gold was a man who could pull strings and turn you out of your apartment, cause you to lose your job, reduce you to living on the streets and eating out of dumpsters.
She considered. He was dangerous in other ways also. He was bitter and caustic and very much alone - a man not interested in relationships, love or friendship. She knew she should keep herself as distant as she could.
It wasn't hard.
He pushed her away at every turn.
A Vulnerable Moment
Ms. Potts had her evening off for the week (she actually got two days off each week plus three evenings). Lacey had fixed herself a hamburger and poured herself a glass of sweet tea and sat down in Ms. Pott's pristine kitchen watching "Tika and Monjo." Tika was taking her cat to his therapist and Monjo was considering if he should buy a cajun-fusion restaurant franchise – that . . . or adopt a man bun.
After watching her show, Lacey read, nearly finishing her book but suddenly becoming aware that it was after eleven. She put her dishes in the dishwasher and started it going before heading back upstairs. As she walked the dimly lit halls, she heard a snuffling noise coming from Professor Gold's study. She stopped and peeked into the darkened room.
He was there - sprawled on the sofa. He looked a mess. He was sitting on the big cushy sofa that was in the study, his jacket off, his tie off, his shirt half unbuttoned.
It was disconcerting. The man always looked so well put together and to find him looking like . . . well, just any other slob . . . meant there . . . there just might not be order in the universe.
She stepped into the room – it had never been forbidden but she didn't feel comfortable in the place. It was airless and stuffy, even more so tonight. It was clearly his private domain with stacks of papers, books and sundry in too many tidy piles. As she stood in the doorway, she considered asking if he was all right, but it was so clear that he wasn't all right. When he didn't order her out, she came on into the room and sat down beside him.
He sniffed good lord, had he been crying? He was cradling a glass of amber liquid in one hand, the bottle it had come from was at his feet.
She gently laid her hand on his shoulder, expecting him to flinch away, but he just sat there.
After a moment he laid his hand on top of hers.
"I fucked up," he said, his voice cracking.
Lacey waited.
"I fucked everything up. Big time. Can't go back. Can't fix it. Forever fucked."
Lacey still sat quietly, allowing him to share what he was comfortable sharing.
"She took him. I didn't think she'd come back for him, but she did and . . . there was enough stuff on me . . . against me . . . I couldn't get custody." He took a drink, draining the glass, and continued, "I kept up my end, you know. I sent money every month. I sent presents on his birthday and Christmas and - sometimes, just when I'd come across something I thought a boy his age would like . . . and I wrote letters."
He fumbled around, dropping the empty glass, and picked up the bottle, drinking directly from it.
"I wonder, I just have to wonder, if he ever got any of the presents, any of the letters. I have to wonder if she took the money I sent for him and spent it on a week in Cancun for herself and her paramour."
Lacey was struggling. He must be talking about one of the women that Jefferson had told her had hurt him. And there had been a child?
Professor Gold sniffed again. "He refuses to have any contact with me. I try every year. Let him know, my door is open."
"This is your son?" Lacey ventured a guess.
"Yeah. The most precious thing I've ever had in my life. And I let him slip through my fingers." He took another swig. "I should have had his mother investigated. Looking back, there had probably been a lot of other men, alcohol, maybe drugs, hell, I don't know what all. But," he turned toward Lacey, "I didn't want to make the boy think his mother was a drunken whore. What kind of father would do that to his son?"
"Not a father who loved his son," Lacey murmured.
"But he won't see me. He won't take a call from me. He's not even using my last name. Goes by Cassidy."
Lacey just sat quietly. There was certainly nothing she could say or do to fix this kind of hurt.
But whatever the problem, she knew that sitting all by yourself in a dark room drinking yourself shit-faced never helped.
"Can I help you get up to your bedroom?" she asked him softly.
"No. I don't think I can walk. This is my second bottle."
She nodded. There was a long pause and she was about to leave when she heard him whisper, "Stay . . . with me, please."
Oh, how could she walk away now?
She nodded and shifted so that she was sitting close to him, thigh to thigh. Her arm went around him and she rested her fingers in his hair.
She was surprised when he tugged her in so that she was resting on his chest. He shifted, pulling her down so that they were now lying on his sofa, his back to the back of the sofa and her back to his stomach and chest, spooning, cuddling.
He just held her and she allowed it. She sensed the man was in the throes of some past trauma-demon that had come back to haunt him. Companionship was probably the only thing she could offer him, the only thing anyone could offer.
It was much later when she felt his lips ghost her neck, causing nice feelings to pool between her legs. She felt the heat of his body and heard him whisper, "You smell like cookies."
Her plan had been to wait until he fell asleep or passed out and then slip away. But instead, she dozed off, not quite comfortable on the sofa, but not distressed enough to remain awake. It wasn't like she was having to fend him off or even stop him from copping a couple of feels. Nothing like that. His hand stayed solidly in the strike zone, resting on her waist, although in their close connection, she couldn't help but be well aware of his morning state when morning light began to filter into the room. She slipped out of his grasp and off the sofa. She went upstairs to grab a shower and change of clothes.
When Jefferson came over for breakfast, Professor Gold was still in his study, asleep on the sofa. Jefferson saw the state his friend was in and shook his head.
"I forgot it was that time again. Miss French, I'm sorry. If I had realized, I would have given you a heads-up. Every year he marks the anniversary of when he lost custody of his son by drinking himself into a stupor. I've managed to get him through about ten of these episodes but lost track when I moved to New York."
Jefferson considered his next move. "He's going to need to sleep this off. I'd say, let's drag his sorry ass up to his bedroom and put him in his bed. It has to be more comfortable than this sofa."
"Oh, I don't know," Lacey told him, helping him get the befuddled Professor into an upright position. "It was pretty comfortable last night."
"Oh?" Jefferson asked, putting Gold's arm over his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. He addressed Gold, "Come on, bubbala. Left, right, left, right." He began to guide his insensible friend out of the room and toward the stairs.
"I found him drinkin', an' jus' . . . well, I ended up lyin' down with him all night," Lacey confessed.
"I thought you told me he wasn't your type," Jefferson teased her.
"I was jus' bein' a friend. He really looked like he needed a friend."
Jefferson had gotten Gold to the bedroom. "You did well, Miss French. You probably did exactly what he needed. Now come help me strip him off to his skivvies and we'll put him to bed."
Lacey hesitated.
"I won't be totally stripping the man – although it is tempting. Just taking off his shoes, socks, pants, and shirt," Jefferson explained.
"All right then," Lacey moved in to take off the Professor's shoes and socks, averting her gaze from the man's trim form which was revealed as Jefferson pulled off the pants and shirt.
"Here now, we'll cover him up and check on him periodically," Jefferson told her.
Downstairs, picking over their breakfasts, Lacey asked, "He has a son?"
"Yeah, from his first marriage," Jefferson told her. "It didn't end well. I suspect that harridan fish-wife fed the kid a bunch of lies about his dad. Rumple's never been able to make any kind of contact with his son and it rips his heart out."
"Is his son in this area?"
"Yeah, which may make it even worse. So close, but so far," Jefferson shared. "Listen, he's going to be down for a while and Ms. Potts is around. She'll keep an eye on him. Are you up for house hunting with me? You promised," he reminded her.
Lacey agreed and went out with Jefferson. She'd done this with him before, gone out with him, given him her opinion of the different houses and apartments he was viewing, prior to him making some recommendations to Viktor. Jefferson and Lacey talked as they drove to the first house to meet up with the realtor.
"You said this happens every year?" she asked.
"Yup, he goes through this every damn year. When I couldn't be here, he would usually drunk dial me and recite this litany of how bad his life is, how every woman he's ever loved has left him, how he doesn't deserve a relationship with his son. It's pretty tough."
"I din't know the man had any real feelin's," Lacey confessed.
"Oh, he has feelings, my darling. Plenty of them." Jefferson paused, "Perhaps, too many of them."
Although they'd been out looking several times before, this time, they hit pay dirt.
"Viktor would love this kitchen. It's all stainless steel and glass – looks like something a mad scientist would have in his house," Jefferson walked around the generously sized room.
"He cooks?" Lacey asked.
"Yeah, always has brews and potions mixing up. And there's a little herb garden out back and the outdoor entertainment area . . . . He'd love all that. And that third bedroom would make a perfect study for me."
"It did have great lighting. The yard wasn't too small?"
"I don't want to have to do yard work. Having something the size of a postage stamp is more than enough."
"Well, you'll need to get Viktor over here right away. The price is good. This one won't stay on the market too long," Lacey advised him as they rode back to Gold's apartment.
"I think so. And, Miss French . . ." Jefferson hesitated. "I wanted to thank you. I was dead-set on an apartment when I started looking, but you encouraged me to at least look at houses and . . . well, with a house like this, we're getting more than what we would with an apartment for less money. Thank you for encouraging me to branch out and consider other options."
Lacey was embarrassed. "Oh, I din't do nothin'," she told him.
"But you did." Jefferson glanced over at her. "I can be kinda impulsive and you slowed me down, made me consider all kinds of things – locations, layouts, views, so many things I would've never thought of. And you've been a real lady throughout this. You have taste and innate class." He hesitated. "You have to know that when I first met you . . ."
"You wudn't've thought it of me," she finished for him.
"No," he admitted. "I wouldn't have. Thank you."
"No," she said softly, "thank you."
When they returned to the apartment, Professor Gold was still sleeping it off. Jefferson kindly suggested, since Miss French had taken the third shift with the man, that he would do the second shift – perhaps she could use an afternoon off.
Lacey realized that she'd not had time to herself in several weeks so she took Jefferson up on his offer. She decided to check in with her best friend. She walked down the street into Granny's Diner and got a big hug from both Granny and her best friend, Ruby, who also happened to be Granny's granddaughter.
"You look fantastic," Ruby told her. "The hair, the makeup, the clothes. Girl, I don't know that I would have recognized you if I'd passed you on the street." Ruby, in her Daisy Dukes and skimpy tank top, sat down across from Belle. "What you been up to, honey?"
Lacey felt herself blushing. Had she changed that much in such a short time? "I'm workin' with this professor on how I talks an' such an' he's been helpin' me with how I dress an' all," she told her old friend.
"Well, you look classy," Ruby told her. "Maybe he could work some with me."
"Oh, I doan think so. He's . . . rather difficult," Lacey told her best friend. And he's your landlord, the same guy you've been cussing for the past five years.
"Well, I don't need more grief in my life." Ruby smiled at Lacey. "But I have been missin' you so much," she shared.
"Thanks." Lacey agreed, "I been missin' ya'll too. How're things goin'?"
Ruby exhaled sharply. "Amazin'. You won't believe this, but, out of the blue, our old skinflint butthead landlord came by two weeks ago an' . . ." Ruby shook her head.
Lacey held her breath. What had Professor Gold done?"
"He lowered our rent! Can you believe that?" Ruby asked her.
"Lowered it?" Lacey found this hard to believe.
"We were stunned. He shrugged it off an' said he'd done some re-structurin' an' . . . well, we're payin' three hundred less now than we were. It's been a godsend! Granny figures I'll be able to make tuition next fall."
"That was nice of him," Lacey told her friend. So, after finding out that they were helping people, her cranky professor had lowered the rent for her friends. She would never have predicted it.
"Oh, he did ask that we keep it a secret since he hadn't lowered anybody else's rent, but I figured it wouldn't hurt anythin' to tell you," Ruby added.
"No, no," Lacey agreed. "I won't tell anyone."
Still blown away by Professor Gold's kind gesture, Lacey had quietly returned to the apartment. Jefferson, on his way out, let her know that Gold was beginning to stir.
Lacey took a deep breath and went into the man's bedroom. She opened the curtain, letting in the sunlight, and was greeted with a yowl.
"Oh no! Stop it! Take it away! What the hell is it?"
"It's the afternoon sun," Lacey told him. "It's time you were up and about."
He thrashed around in the bed. "Don't want to."
"I understand. But it's past time. What did you do, mix booze and pills?" she asked him.
There was a long pause, "Yes."
She shook her head, disgusted. "You s'posed to be th' smart one."
"I was feeling bad," he offered his excuse.
"Sounds like you were feelin' sorry for yo'self," she came back at him. "Jefferson's tole me, you had a shitty divorce an' you can't connect with yor son. None of that's a reason to do yo'self in and that's what it sounds like you was tryin' to do. Now get up, face the music an' come on downstairs. You need to eat somethin'."
"You don't know what it's like," he muttered.
"This isn't no contest, but if you want to compare shit lists, I'm yor girl." She folded her arms and stood glaring at him from the bottom of his bed.
He glared at her, "Growing up, I never knew if I'd ever get a kind word or a hug."
"Growing up, I never knew if I'd ever get a meal," she responded.
"I don't have anyone special in my life," he added.
"I used to worry if I was gonna be raped or killed by one of my customers," she came back at him.
"My father never wanted me," he admitted.
"You met my dad. He sold me to a complete stranger for one thousand dollars," she answered.
"My mother hates me," he then said.
"My mother's dead" she answered.
He studied her. She was gloriously defiant, sure of herself, and in no mood for any of his nonsense.
He capitulated.
"All right. You win . . . for now. I'll be getting up." Before she could leave so he could dress, he asked, hesitantly, "Lacey . . . ?"
She looked at him.
"Do . . . do I . . . do I owe you an apology?" he finally stammered out.
She realized he wasn't sure what had transpired between them the night before. She decided to answer honestly, "No, nothin' untoward happened. You jus' seemed to need somebody to keep you a little company."
"So . . . I didn't . . . take . . . uh . . . any inappropriate advantage of you or . . . anything?"
"No, not at all."
"I must have been really drunk," he muttered under his breath.
Lacey wasn't even sure if she had heard him correctly.
He did manage to drag out of his room, dressed casually, in jeans and a black t-shirt. He picked over the supper Lacey had pulled together for them - canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. She'd finished up the final chapter of her book and, after excusing herself from the table went to the library to find something new to read.
He'd finished his sandwich and had a little more of the soup when he realized that she'd gone. When he heard some displaced noises, he followed the sounds to the library. He stood at the door and caught his student fumbling around, tilting her head back to see what was on the highest shelves, touching and caressing some of his books like she might . . .
Oh, holy Mother Mary, pull yourself together, he told himself.
He continued watching her from the shadows. She was like a little ray of sunshine, flitting here and there. The dust she stirred up made her sneeze and he cringed when he saw her wipe her nose on her sleeve.
Lacey had not heard him come into the library. She had re-shelved Ivanhoe, thinking that Rebecca might have been better off going off with the bad boy Templar Knight Brian; she'd seem smart enough to straighten him out. She had been humming to herself while she looked for another book.
"Come in to find something to steal?" he asked her, startling her and she turned to look at him. "Or are you in here to play pool?" She wouldn't have predicted it, but he wore the jeans and tee-shirt well. It was a softer look than his usual formal black suit.
"I done told you, I ain't no thief," she answered quickly, recovering. "I'm not a thief," she corrected herself. "I plays . . . I play . . . a little pool, but if you got to know . . . if you have to know, I come in here 'cause I like to read and I wanted t' get a book."
He looked at her for a moment, "I didn't know you could read."
"I never had much time t' read 'tween workin' an' sleepin', but I would sometimes get books from the li-baree."
"Library," he corrected her pronunciation automatically. "Do you have a favorite author?" he asked.
She wiped her nose again on her sleeve. "You'll laugh at me," she told him. He was being nice to her – she couldn't trust him.
He smiled and sat down in one of the big chairs near the window. He looked at her a moment and seemed to soften, the hard, cynical shell slipping away for the moment.
"Well, I'll begin," he told her. "I prefer the classics which I'm sure you find terribly boring, but I also read an assortment of best sellers. Mysteries, politically themed novels, historicals, lots of non-fiction."
"Well, I'd say them all ware . . . they were all . . . borin' . . . boring, but I likes . . ." she bit her lip and rushed to answer. "I like Jane Austin. She kinda drones on and all, but I like her people."
"The characters, yes. Jane does well with her characters. But she does tend to be wordy." He gave her a gentle smile, then, "This, Lacey, this is a handkerchief," he handed her a white cotton one from his back pocket. "Its purpose is to wipe snot from your nose." He touched her sleeve, "This is your sleeve. Its purpose is to cover your arm. Don't get them confused again."
Back to being the shithead.
So much for a nice conversation.