The lace curtains in the breakfast nook filter some of the bright summer sunshine. While I sit quietly enjoying the morning and my second cup of tea, my mind wanders over the ground of the past few weeks – traipsing by every small thing that has happened since I stepped off of the train at Penn Station.
I sigh loudly, shifting my right hand to support my chin as I lean into my palm, enjoying the ripe green of the backyard through the window. No one hears, however. Stephen has gone back to his post at the door; Sarah likely has found some remote corner yet to be dusted; and Francis set out early to run errands, or so Stephen tells me.
Errands? Since when does Francis run his own errands?
The thought nags at me, but I try to shove it aside. The unexpected opportunity to be alone gives me a rare chance to reflect on the fact I haven't often been alone since my arrival. In the routine of work and spending time with Francis, I wonder whether I've done what I came here to do – whether I've found myself at all in this city when I have failed in so many others.
Of course, I have to admit, I haven't really been trying. And, surprisingly, there has been freedom in that.
I haven't had to construct an identity. Sure, the engagement threw me at first, but re-discovering friendship with Francis has proven more natural than anything I've done in years. When I'm with him, I don't have to think about who I am. I just react to who he is and there's no anxiety, no strain. Simple.
When I'm around Greer or Kenna and they ask me how things are with him, I can easily shrug it off and say there's nothing there between us – but the moment he walks in a room, my entire body has a mind of its own. There's no denying the way I pull toward him, how I lean into his frame without cause. Since we've begun to make it a point to touch one another in public, it has gotten worse. The small trace of his fingers at my wrist; the pressure of his hand at my elbow; the light kisses he presses into my cheek or brow; the effortless way his arm loops around my waist at social functions – all have begun to cross over into our time alone together.
Some might say we're just particularly good at pretending, but I know better. I've pretended all my life.
This isn't pretending.
At least it no longer is for me.
A smile forms on my face as I recall the way he ran up to me last night to share the news after his meeting with Henry. So much joy filled his eyes as he told me he had bested his father. He found a way to keep me here rather than for me to move to San Francisco and work for Aviz.
And then he hugged me. That's how I know this isn't just a game. Sitting here in the Saturday morning sunlight, ten hours and a shower later, I can still feel the heat of his skin against the open back of my dress; the grin of his lips against my shoulder; the manner in which my heart nearly stopped beating as he held my gaze. The heat currently rising on my cheeks testifies only partly to my reaction last night. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, grateful no one can see me.
Somehow, this man has managed to look straight through all the layers of who I've been and see me, Mary – and, in spite of the mess of all those layers and the chaos that has been my life, he has still been willing to spend time with me, to try to make me laugh, to make sure I feel at home. It doesn't hurt that he also happens to be beautiful.
One question forces its way to the front of my internal musings: Could I ever offer him all of me, both known and unknown?
I shake my head and look at my watch, trying to retrieve some semblance of sanity after the rabbit trail I've followed for the last eighteen minutes. It won't do to entertain such wild ideas. I will need to rein in each and every one for the sake of being professional and for the sake of holding up my end of the engagement so I can help my father's business. It won't do to speculate whether the pretending has also ceased on his behalf.
Footsteps sound on the wooden floor in the hallway and I turn to see him enter. He hands something off to Stephen, gives him hushed instructions and comes to join me. Hopefully he won't notice that my tea has long grown cold as I've sat here.
"Good morning, Mary!" He's chipper, still basking in the delight of yesterday's victory. A little extra spunk marks his steps. Pulling a chair around next to my own, he perches on its edge and snags one of my hands. I try to keep my heart's rhythm slow, but I fail. His eyes find mine, an eagerness for something unknown to me set into them. "Do you have any plans for the day?"
Why did he have to grab my hand? And what is he doing with his thumb?
I attempt to overlook how his touch affects me. "No," I reply. "I thought I might spend some of the day reading or ask if Greer wanted to go shopping, but nothing definite." At least my voice doesn't shake as I expect it to. "Was there something you wanted to do?"
Anticipation builds at the thought of spending the day with him.
"Well," he begins. Somehow, his eyes twinkle. "If you're up for it, I have two ideas." I nod, indicating for him to continue. "The first is more business-related, but I think you'll find it a worthwhile endeavor. I'd like to come up with a strategic plan for resourcing your father's company to use in our pitch to the board on Monday."
An indefinable feeling wells within me as I look at the man before me, so willing to work on what I hold close to my heart. On a Saturday, no less. Tears begin to pool in my eyes, which he notices.
"I'm so sorry," he reaches his free hand up to sweep away a tear that has slipped out and onto my cheek. His blue eyes fill with concern. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I just thought it might be a good idea for us to be prepared."
A mangled, choked laugh erupts from my throat and I stretch my hand out across his jaw to assure him that I'm not upset. Inwardly, I curse my hand and its inability to stay away from him."That would be wonderful. Thank you." With this, his eyes return to their previously jubilant state while I remember that was only half of his plan. "What did you have in mind for the rest of the day?" I inquire.
"Ah," comes his response. "I was thinking we could go to dinner and then take a walk through the park. It's supposed to cool off once the sun goes down. What do you say?"
The proposition simple enough, I can't help but feel he has something planned that hasn't been revealed. The glint in his eyes is too mischievous for my liking, but he hasn't given me reason not to trust him. And, truth be told, I welcome the excuse to be alone with him and away from the staff and their prying eyes.
"That sounds fun." I watch his eyebrows quirk upward. Apparently, 'fun' wasn't quite what he was aiming for. "I'd love that," I amend. His expression softens.
"Excellent!" He stands up, excusing himself from the table. "Whenever you're ready to get started, come find me."
As I hear him retreat up the stairs toward his bedroom, I notice he seems happy. Considering our mode of operating usually involves staying in with a bottle of wine and a television show or going out with friends and family, I can't help but be curious at his desire for just the two of us to dine out tonight. And then it hits me and I wonder if I missed something.
Is this a date?
He's distracted as we walk, my arm strung through his. My mind buzzes from a little too much wine at dinner, which I had hoped might dampen my awareness of how close he is. Unfortunately, it appears that the opposite holds true. Everything seems slowed down, my senses heightened, so I can experience every piece of every moment and every touch.
I'm not in a hurry to speak, so I determine to give him some time while we walk. The night, as predicted, has cooled considerably and our stroll under the trees in the park proves lovely. I've never been here in the evening. The city, for all its press and chaos, somehow has begun to feel like a home – with this beautiful little island of serenity at its center.
When he does speak, he verbally confirms the plans we drew up this afternoon. Plans that have been committed to paper, which leaves me a bit confused. I don't know why he's rambling on about business items we have already discussed today. When I take a good look at him, he seems a bit jumpy, and for the first time tonight it registers that it was I who drank the majority of the bottle of wine at dinner. He merely had a single glass.
We near the lake and his chatter slows, settling us again into silence. He stops us and I attempt to sneak a glance at him. 'To sneak' implies the other doesn't see, which isn't possible when I find his eyes locked on me. His earlier joy has been replaced by something anxious, his gaze haunted. What did I miss this time?
Panic closes in on my heart, wondering what he knows that I don't. Before I give full passage to an unknown fear, however, I manage to utter a few words.
"Francis?" I take a deep breath. "Talk to me!"
All I want is an explanation, some reason for his worry. I don't expect him to fall forward and capture my lips with his own, his hands buried beneath my hair and warm against my neck. I don't expect the tug of his teeth or the gentle sweep of his tongue or the taste of him.
My mind spins blankly, my body humming as he pulls away. I can barely feel my feet, but I know my knees verge on buckling.
"You should take the job," he states. In my fogged state, I gape openly at him.
"At least to show my father that you're serious. That to keep you close, he and the board will have to provide for you. You need a second option, even with this meeting on Monday. From what I've heard, I don't think the board will be an easy sell."
"Franc–" Completely bewildered, I try to speak but he cuts me off.
"Can you say that I'm wrong?" he nearly shouts at me. "You need another option!"
"Yes," the word fights its way out. "Yes! I can say that you're wrong! I hate this plan of yours. I don't want another option." Anger surges in my chest. He looks taken aback by my outburst. Paired with the parts of me still grappling with the fact that he just kissed me, my fingers now finding their way to my lips, I recognize I'm on the brink of emotional combustion.
The storm clouds covering his eyes clear as he hears my words. "You don't?" he asks, suddenly quiet.
"No," I reach for him – my hand finding his jaw without hesitation, my fingertips floating through the curls behind his ear. "I don't." He exhales, drawing me into a full embrace.
"Are you sure?" I hear him whisper next to my ear. "Aviz's help would be sure. I can't guarantee Monday will go well."
"I'm sure," I murmur. "But can we talk about what just happened here?" I nervously query, leaning back a bit so I can watch him while he answers. A nervous laugh erupts and I can only see his blonde lashes as he squeezes shut his eyes.
"I've been wanting to do that for a while," he says timidly, opening one eye to peek out at me. I cannot hide the smile spreading across my face, the arrival of laughter not far behind.
As we come in the front door, Stephen greets us and politely asks how our night went. He glances at my ring finger, newly ornamented with a sparkly round bauble. I remember Francis handing something to him this morning.
"You knew, didn't you?" I chuckle as he grins.
"Yes, I did," he respectfully bows that little bow of his. "Now, may I find something for the two of you to celebrate with, perhaps some champagne?"
Francis nods. "That would be wonderful, Stephen. We will be in the living room."
"Champagne?" I question as we walk into my room so I can take off my shoes. "Are you trying to get me drunk? I have a bad track record with champagne … "
"No, I'm not trying to get you drunk," he shakes his head to emphasize the 'no'. "Though I do remember the story you told me about you and Greer after finals." He pauses to laugh. "I just thought it fitting to celebrate. The staff don't know this thing is a hoax – they just think we've been very self-controlled in my parents' absence."
"Of course," I wave my hand as I enter my closet to find some slippers. Re-emerging, I find an elastic to tie back my hair and pad back over to where he's leaning against the wall.
"When I woke up this morning, I never expected this," I stammer, the words spilling out before I can retain them. He reaches for my hand, tugging me closer. Luckily, he shut the door behind us and, hopefully, Stephen will not look for us here when he realizes we haven't yet made it to the living room.
"No?" he queries amusedly, his fingers grazing my hip.
"No," I return cheekily, though I opt not to smack him. "I didn't expect you to kiss me and tell me to go work for Aviz. And I most certainly didn't expect a real proposal for a fake engagement … "
"I just wanted you to be sure," he cuts in. "There's no turning back after this point. Tomorrow is a big day. Our announcement runs in the Times. My mother has a party planned at the house in Montauk. Everything will be fully public."
"And the kiss was because …"
"I figured we could use some practice before someone clamors for it," he teases before his expression returns to one of seriousness. "No, truly, I've been wanting to do that for weeks."
He catches my eye before his hand finds a resting place under my jaw, his thumb stroking circles just aside my ear. My body both relaxes and kindles under his touch.
"And the need for practice?" he drawls, leaning in and pressing a light kiss to my lips. "That's just an added bonus," he exhales.
Suddenly, the fatigue of the day washes over me and I realize the hour has crept past midnight. "If we are to have champagne, sir," I start, turning toward the door. "Then we should do so. It's getting late."
"It is, is it?" he asks, checking his watch. "We do have an early morning, don't we?"
"Yes, we do," I reply, twisting the doorknob and pulling him out into the hallway. "And I'm sure your mother has a few surprises up her sleeve."
"Ah, yes," he sighs, running his hands through his hair – something I now have experience doing myself. "I'm sure she does."
The train stops in Montauk and we disembark. I'm still amazed I managed to convince Francis to travel this way, rather than to take the car his mother would have preferred. Certainly, she'll make us take the car back into the city but I, for one, am glad to have had our hours on the train together.
After traveling across the country, the four-hour ride seems blissfully short. Just enough time to read, enjoy brunch and watch the various harbors and bays through the wide windows – and, of course, it proved delightful to experience such things with Francis at my side.
With one hand he deftly stacks his small overnight bag on top of mine and reaches out for my hand with the other. Apparently, we are going to be those people today.
In the Plaza, he leads us to a place where we can sit and wait for a cab. Catherine expects us delivered to her door, not requiring pick-up in town. When one appears, Francis quickly deposits our bags in the trunk and gives the driver directions to his parents' house.
I rest my head on his shoulder as the car lurches forward. All morning, I've tried to distract myself from the unfamiliar feel of the new metal circlet on my ring finger. But, here, in the quiet, I can examine it fully in the sunlight.
It's unlike anything we saw at the jeweller's, which I know to be especially true because Francis told me it didn't come from there. A family heirloom. Simple. Classic. Just right.
I don't know much about diamonds or their settings, but I do know that I like this one. If I'm to be falsely engaged to a son of old wealth, I suppose such things come with the territory.
Francis chuckles as we pull up to the house, making me aware of how little I've paid attention to our short trip from the Plaza. We step out of the car, retrieve our bags and make our way up the steps. Catherine and the boys rush out to greet us, Catherine crowing over how wonderful it is to see her grandmother's ring on a young hand. Somehow, I get the impression she suspects the nature of my relationship with her son has changed and is no longer fully a ruse. Mother's intuition, perhaps. Or maybe Francis has shared with her.
Our welcome is short-lived, as she immediately begins relaying details for the evening's festivities and directing us to where we will be staying overnight.
"This is the guest house, as Francis is aware. I assume you will both be comfortable enough out here. The main house can be a bit noisy with the boys running amok." I glance at Francis, unsure of how to react to her desire that we stay in the same room. Isn't that considered improper? He, however, remains unfazed, as if he expected such a thing.
"There are a few dresses and suits for you to consider, hanging in the closet. Mary, I got your sizes from Elisabeth. A few pieces of jewelry are in the box on top of the dresser, should you need something. If possible," she eyes Francis and wags her finger between the two of us. "Try to match a little. Everyone will love that." She steers us back toward the house along a stone path and we arrive at what appears to be the lawn. Preparations are underway in every direction, with hired staff working to set up and dress tables, beginning the early stages of food service, and assembling a dance floor off to one side.
"You remember my good friend, Nostradamus, don't you, Francis? He'll be setting up a fortune telling booth to add some whimsy to tonight." We nod to the man, who mutters some sort of greeting in return. To me, his presence seems less whimsical than mysterious. I will have to remember to ask Francis about him later.
Catherine pauses here, shrewdly checking off her mental to-do list as she scans the various vendors. "Speaking of Elisabeth, she and Philip should be arriving soon," she says quickly before disappearing and leaving us.
Francis guides me back toward the main house, hoping to give me a tour if it's not too crowded. The family has summered here for years, an old holding of Catherine's family that passed to her in the years after I left them as a child. Upon entering the back door, however, we find ourselves accosted by two young boys who appear antsy to get out of the house.
"Francis! Francis! Can you walk with us down to the beach? Please? Pretty please?" Little Henry's bottom lip sticks out in an impressive pout, one I'm not inclined to deny. I look to Francis, squatting on the floor to be at the boys' level. I can tell he's assessing the remaining hours of the afternoon in his head before he commits. He smiles.
"Only for an hour, okay? Mary and I have to come back to get ready for the party, and I'm sure it will take plenty of time to shake the sand out of your shorts, as well. Deal?" He holds out his hand and each brother takes a turn shaking it in accord.
"Well, Mary," he stands upright, this time offering me his hand. "How do you feel about an afternoon walk down to the beach? The Bay is beautiful at this time of day."
"I'd love to," I respond, twining my fingers through his. He gestures to Charles and Henry, who run a little ahead of us down a narrow sand path that leads to the water.
We've shared a house for months, but we've never shared so little space as this. The guest house has one bed, one bathroom. Granted, both are large, but neither allows for much privacy. Our attempts to get ready after our beach outing have been a complicated dance, stepping around each other to find clothing and make use of the one shower.
Knowing my hair would take longer to dry and put up, Francis let me shower first. Thankfully, spreading my hair through my fingers against the blow dryer's flow keeps me from focusing too much on the fact that he's now having his own turn to do so in the next room. While I have two perfectly reasonable excuses to be warm, neither are the cause for the heat on my neck.
I hear the water shut off and try to fixate on my nearly dry hair, deciding how to style it. The length makes a French twist difficult, so I settle on a classic bun. Simple enough to avoid having to touch up my curls, but intentional and elegant enough to be suitable for the occasion. Pins in hand, I begin to wind and fasten inch by inch into that familiar spiral. Nearly halfway done, I hear the door creak and Francis' voice through the opening.
"Why don't you just wear it down?"
Turning to look at him so I can determine whether he's joking, I find him peeking through the door. Only a towel adorns his waist. A smirk graces his features as he watches me. My tongue refuses to move and make sounds, my mind having petered out the moment it registered his bare skin.
"Mary?"
I snap to at my name, shaking my head from side to side, trying to re-engage with his inquiry regarding my hair. "Why would I wear it down? It's a formal event." My face must read puzzled, as he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.
"I just like it down, that's all. Besides, it's summer. No one will mind." He points to his overnight bag, laid on top of one side of the bed. "I forgot to grab that and I can't really get dressed without some things inside. Could you hand it to me?"
My hair forgotten, I retrieve the bag and hand it to him through the door. For what I assume is my benefit, he closes it quickly and leaves me to finish my primping. I pull out the pins, piling them one atop another on top of the antique vanity. I grip the handle of my brush and run the bristles back through my hair, unkinking the few twists that remain from my attempts at an up-do. My fingers snag a few pieces toward the front and weave a small braid, twisting it back with a few other loose strands and pin them all in place above my temple. It might be down overall, but at least there's a little something of interest.
I pull out some berry-colored lip stain, avoiding the heaviness of a traditional lipstick. Merely a hint of blush is needed to color the apples of my cheeks, as the remnants of my earlier flush indicate I likely won't need more than that. For my eyes, I follow the routine Greer taught me in college – lids that sparkle a bit more than they naturally would with just a hint of color, definition added with blended liner on my waterline. Simple and elegant. Hopefully Catherine won't be disappointed with how simple.
The door opens again, wider this time, and Francis emerges. His shirt untucked and unbuttoned, he wanders into the room, stopping just beside the vanity where I'm seated and offering me a hand to get up.
"You look beautiful," he reassures, noticing the frown on my face as I consider the possibility of Catherine's disapproval. "Don't worry. Everyone will love you, including my mother." We've made a habit of touching one another for weeks but, as his hands find my waist, I'm again in awe of how comfortable I am with him. Somehow, we have transitioned effortlessly from this crazy plan of his parents' to something we both actually want. I begin to work the buttons on his shirt as he fingers the gauzy material that makes up my dress. Reaching the last button, I secure it in place and move to wrest myself from his grasp, but he won't let me.
"Francis!" I roll my eyes. "Your mother will come looking for us if we don't appear in the next few minutes. We are running out of–"
He cuts me off with a lingering kiss, one that I feel down in the arches of my feet. The smell of him, clean and fresh and emanating the heat of his shower, overpowers my senses. If he can't keep that charm of his in check, tonight will be a long night. Pulling away, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I just wanted to do that before we were interrupted. Now, where are my jacket and tie?"
"Greer, have you met Jonathan?" I turn to look at her as he extends a hand. "Jonathan's family heads up one of the oldest and most reputed banks on the East Coast. Jonathan," my eyes return to him. "Greer is our PR director at Valois and a dear friend from college."
The two begin chatting and I excuse myself, hoping it will be the last introduction Greer requests of me this evening. Understandably, she's trying to find someone worthy of her family's definition of 'respectable', but I determine to let her know that if she wants to meet more than the five eligible bachelors I've introduced her to tonight, she'll have to tell me something egregiously wrong about each of them. Besides, I've seen more sparks fly between her and Leith than with any of these men. Is there no place in her life for love?
"Kenna," I tap my friend on the shoulder. She's distracted, her sight fixed on something. Perhaps she's hoping for a chance with the talent scout I know Catherine put on the guest list. "Have you seen Francis?"
"Ah," she replies. Her stare doesn't alter, her hand limply pointing to where Francis and his father are surrounded by business associates near the bar. "They've been there for half an hour or so."
I don't really want to know why she's been keeping tabs on how long Henry and his cronies have been by the bar. Or anywhere else, for that matter. "Thank you, Kenna," I mutter. "Can I get you anything? I was going to grab a drink."
"No," she says, holding up her recently topped-off wine glass. "I'm good. Have you seen Aylee or Lola?" she asks, half-heartedly, not taking her eyes off of the group at the bar. "I've been looking for them all night."
Shaking my head, I mumble something about how she should text them and head toward the bar. Most of the faces I recognize, many of them belonging to the board whom we'll stand before tomorrow to fight for my father's company. But tonight isn't about that, I remind myself. Tonight, they have come to celebrate.
As I step up to the group of laughing, half-drunk men, I realize the muscles in my face ache – likely from the smile I've worn all evening. I order a glass of wine at the bar, then lightly set my hand at Francis' elbow. He angles to get a better view of me alongside him and slips his arm around my shoulder, rubbing his hand against the topmost part of my arm. "You all know the reason for this grand occasion, don't you?" he addresses the men in the circle. "Gentlemen, you remember Mary?"
His words are greeted by nods and grunts of agreement. He turns back to me, a desperate expression in his eyes. "Did you need something, darling?"
I swallow a giggle. He has been here for a while, as Kenna said. Shaking my head, I respond, "I just stopped by for a new drink and figured I would see how your evening was going." I brush a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, tucking it gently behind his ear, and teasingly press a kiss near the junction of his earlobe and jawline.
"Mary," he nearly growls. "We can't. The party?"
Fighting the urge to pout, I see the bartender finish pouring my drink behind the bar. "Somewhere else, then? The garden; fifteen minutes," I whisper in his ear. Smiling, I excuse myself and retrieve my wine. I take a sip so I don't spill its overfull contents as I walk and set out to see if I can find Aylee and Lola.
I wander into the gardens, finding them bathed in moonlight and fragrant with the flowers and spices the gardener keeps throughout the year. The third and latest glass of wine has settled into my system, removing the fear of recklessness from my brazen request twenty minutes earlier. A breeze blows and I shiver against the night's incoming chill. I linger a while, enjoying the delightful hum in my head, before finally hearing someone come alongside me.
"I almost thought you weren't coming." My voice rings soft, coy.
"Tomás showed up just after you left us," he sighs. "When I think that you might have to go work for him, I – "
"Thank you, but you don't need to worry," I try to assuage the burden in his eyes. "I'll be fine. Now come, stand over here with me." We move toward the arbor in the back corner, knowing its leaves will hide us from anyone who might stray into the gardens.
"I don't trust him. There are rumors he's gone behind the back of his business partners to broker a deal with a larger corporation." Apparently, his concern hasn't been redirected. I snag his hand, tugging him toward where I'm leaning against the arbor's trellis.
"There are always rumors in business. Do you know what they say about you?" I can't help the way my head tilts up, reveling in the baffled look that appears on his face. "They say you keep so much to yourself that you must be sickly, disturbed." My ribbing results in a chuckle from him, encouraging further teasing. "And the fact you haven't been caught with a woman since that incident in the boathouse? Apparently, that's code for … "
He cuts me off, pinning me to the arbor and arresting my lips with his own. My train of thought has left, never to return. The only things I understand are the feel of the leaves at my back and some new urge never to let him stop doing whatever it is he's doing with his tongue.
Pulling back, he regroups, letting our lungs drink in the night air as they begin to scream their need. His hand reaches up to cup my face, gathering me to him again. His lips demand every ounce of attention I can provide before they move to my neck, nipping gently at my ear.
I gasp. All at once, every inch of me flames and gives way – none of my strength or earlier chill remains. 'Weak-kneed' doesn't begin to capture it. His teeth bite at my lower lip, taking his sweet time as he pulls it through them. His palm slips down the front of my dress, gliding over my breast and down to my waist, while his mouth returns to mine. Gentler this time, his lips tug at my own, reluctant to let go. Mixed with the wine, my mental state is heady at best.
Over the hedge, I hear a voice rise above the music, reminding everyone to stick around – that dessert will be served as soon as they can locate the couple of the evening.
My face flushes at the thought of what the 'couple of the evening' is currently engaged in. Somehow, our bodies have pressed themselves together – as close as they can be, I suppose, considering our attire. Certainly, my lips must be swollen, my hair wild. At the sound of the music resuming, Francis leans his forehead against mine.
"We should probably head back to the party, shouldn't we?"
"Yes, we probably should," I shakily reply. "But maybe we could stop off at the guest house first," I pause, catching my breath. "You know, to make sure we look presentable."
He helps me away from the arbor and picks a stray leaf out of my hair, laughing. "I think that might be a wise idea. Here," he points in a direction different from the way I entered. "We can hopefully avoid being seen if we go this way."
The morning light radiates through the guest house windows as my eyes strain to adjust. For twenty-three years, I have slept alone. The weight of an arm around my middle betrays the fact I can no longer claim such a thing. I assess my position and attempt to identify a means of escape without waking my bed-mate, but I fail.
"What time is it?" I hear a groggy voice behind me and feel his arm tighten. He must know I'm awake. Twisting my body to lay on my other side, my breath hitches at the sight of him. Previously sprawled out, he has managed to prop himself up on one elbow, his hand behind his head.
"6:30," I relay softly. Is this what it's like to wake next to someone you trust every morning? "The car should arrive at 9. I think your mother expects us for breakfast."
"I'm sure she does," he says, reaching out to push my hair back across my bare shoulder. "About last night … "
"Thank you for understanding," I hurriedly interject. My waking comfort has been suddenly displaced by the memory of how things ended as we stumbled in after the party, nearly taking full advantage of our intoxicated state, yet awkwardly stopping ourselves as we fell onto the bed. Reaching out my arm, I trace circles on his bare chest with my fingers. He stills their movement by grasping them in place over his heart.
"Don't worry about it," he asserts, never once taking his eyes from mine and offering me a smile of assurance. "Though I do understand now why Greer doesn't let you drink too much … " I reach up to smack him playfully as a grin spreads wildly across his face.
"Are you ready for today?" he asks cautiously; his expression sincere, sober.
I take a deep breath as I sit up, my back coming to rest against the headboard. "As ready as I can be, I suppose." He situates his body in an upright position so it faces mine. "I don't know what I'll do if they don't," I stammer. "If they won't … "
My face falls and I find myself fiddling with the bed-sheet, unable to complete the thought. He presses his thumb under my chin, redirecting my gaze upward at him once more.
"You can't think that way. We'll cross that bridge if we come upon it, all right?" His eyes hold mine, coaxing me to have faith in what the day will bring. Those eyes – such a sparkly blue first thing in the morning, like the sunlight as it dances on the water.
I nod. "Of course," I whisper, unsure of what else to say.
"Well," he begins. I glance over and he offers me a wink. "We should probably get out of bed, shouldn't we?"
"I don't understand." Francis ushers me into the waiting car and moves to get in on the other side. He's trying to get me out of here quickly, shocked and stunned as I am. For the last ten minutes, since we left the board room, all I've been able to say has been some version of the same thing.
He slides over so he can sit next to me and take hold of my hand. His warmth is the only thing about my new surroundings that registers.
"Mary?" he implores. "Come on, Mary. Look at me."
I slowly raise my eyes to meet his. Certainly they reflect my confusion and fear. His only return his own apprehensions, mostly for me. As soon as our eyes lock, mine brim with tears. What happened?
"I don't understand, Francis."
"I know you don't. I'm not sure I do, either. We'll just have to see when we get home."
"But what did they mean, 'a threat'?" I ask. "What kind of threat would require the authorities?"
His fingers try to soothe with their caressing of my palm. "I don't know, but we'll be there soon enough."
The car travels the several blocks to the Valois home and stops in the middle of the street to let us out. Normally, the driver would pull to the curb, but police and federal vehicles have parked there. Francis and I exchange a nervous glance. I'm pretty sure I'm shaking.
We timidly walk through the door, held open valiantly by Stephen – who I can tell is also shaken by whatever this most recent news happens to be. He informs us that there are men waiting for us in the living room and kindly asks if he can get us anything.
The men greet us as we enter and Francis invites everyone to take a seat. He makes a point to sit both of us down together so he can snake an arm around my shoulders.
"What can we do for you gentlemen this afternoon?"
"Well," says the first – a Mr. Grant, if I recall correctly. "There has been a threat that, for the time being, we are taking very seriously." Francis motions for the man to continue, so he does. "Someone called every Valois board member this morning and threatened your father's life if any effort was made to help Stuart Technologies, which I believe to be your inheritance – is that correct, Ms. Stuart?"
I nod mutely, my heart racing, my thoughts adrift. Is this even the same day I woke up to this morning? Surely, we cannot be sitting here, listening to men discuss what might happen to Henry should I receive the help I need? What if whoever is responsible were to follow through? What if it's just like what happened to my own father so many years ago? What if I'm the reason … "
The panic increases until I feel Francis nudge me with his hand. "Mary?" My mind circles back, clearing again if only for a moment. "Did you hear what they said?" he questions.
My head shakes back and forth, letting him know I haven't been listening as the men have continued to unveil plans for dealing with this particular risk. Francis sighs, raking his free hand through his curls. He appears exhausted, defeated. I try to piece the conversation together, to no avail. What did the men say?
"They're worried about the risk to the entire family, which includes you. They want to split us up and take us to safe locations for a few days until they have a better handle on things."
Fear paralyzes me. I've done this before, having been moved to safe places so many times over the last sixteen years. I don't want to be alone again.
"Mary?" he tries to garner my attention again, this time reaching for my hand and squeezing my fingers gently. My head snaps up to find his stare as intent as always. "I volunteered to go with you, if that's all right. We'll leave tomorrow morning."
Something within me breathes again at his words, though my own still fail me, and I nod once more to indicate that I'm all right with the arrangement. I sit and listen to Francis as he discusses the final details with the officers, accepting a mug of tea from Sarah as she makes her rounds.
The officers eventually disperse throughout the house to ensure its security for the night and Francis escorts me to my room, helping me remove my dress and my shoes and slip into something more appropriate for sleeping. Somehow, the excitement of the past few days has made me extremely drowsy – even though it isn't yet dark outside. He tucks me in beneath the covers, kisses my forehead, and reminds me that he will be just upstairs if I need anything.
And that's the last thing I remember.
Author's Notes: Thank you so much for your patience this last week and a half. My surgery went well, but recovery has been a bit more drawn out than expected, which delayed some of this chapter's writing. To be fair, some sections were initially written on painkillers, but hopefully with non-drugged editing, they still remain true to the characters and story.
This is where the story I'm telling diverges most from canon. Here, you find the first half of a 104/107 plot combo, skipping over the awful parts of 105/106. That's why so much of this chapter is fluffy, an extension of the bliss that was pre-Olivia 105. In my universe there is no triangle, no metaphorical paganism, no return of Olivia. It required some creativity, but I feel like I landed on a plot-line that works regardless. I'm sure you'll tell me if it doesn't! :)
Disclaimer: Again, this chapter borrows from several episodes for dialogue, mostly "Kissed" (103) and "Hearts and Minds" (104). I think those are all, but I might have missed a few others slipped in here or there. The alterations are mine; the genius belongs to the writers and the CW.