CH 20
I had completely forgotten the note left under my door that simply stated, 'I'm in town' until I saw Luciana Tetrino walking out of a perfume store Wednesday evening, several bags in hand.
She caught sight of me immediately and paused, greeting me with a simple smile that was warm, yet casual. I paused on the corner of the street as she crossed to meet me, pausing momentarily to give two children on the street a banknote each.
"Phelan Kimmer," she said, looking me up and down once she approached.
"Luciana Tetrino," I replied, taking the bags from her while kissing her on the cheek.
Her skin was smooth and pale, her eyes the color of sage, and her hair dark as espresso. She was absolutely stunning, and the world around her paused to take a sip of her freely flowing beauty.
"I didn't think I would see you," she said.
"Your note didn't give me many details."
"No?"
"You didn't sign your name."
Her smile turned more devious. "Why, Monsieur Kimmer, how many ladies do you see from out of town? And why did you think it was me?"
I raised a brow, deciding it was best not to answer her question. "How long are you visiting? Or shall I say shopping?"
I pretended that her bag were far heavier than I could possibly carry and she giggled, playfully slapping my shoulder.
"Early morning," she answered. "I'm staying at The Gold Medallion. Of course."
"But of course."
There were nice hotels, and then there was The Gold Medallion, a place that was as exclusive as they came and far out of my price range even from the time I spent at the bank.
Her hotel most likely cost more for one night than my apartment rent for a month. Every time I had seen her, she was in their most prestigious suite on the fourth floor with views of the city's tree lined street and a park on the opposite corner.
"I'm ordering supper in my room," she said as I escorted her toward a large red lacquered carriage with a team of two gorgeous black horses outfitted with shining brass tack and matching headdresses with feathers. "You're welcome to dine with me."
I would have said yes regardless as I was famished, but the meals at the Gold Medallion's supper club were second to none. Their recipes for their menu were said to be secrets passed down for three generations, their signature bread and butter made with a combination of spices that no one could duplicate.
My university salary didn't allow for such extravagant meals as offered by the hotel restaurant, but for Luciana, no expense in her life was spared. She most likely didn't have to lift her own finger as someone would come around and do it for her.
A footman took the bags from me and placed them into the trunk at the back of the carriage that also served as his seat. He offered Luciana a small stool covered in velvet while I helped her inside.
Seconds before I stepped inside myself, I caught sight of Guin swiftly walking past with another woman. Guin looked directly at me, but her expression didn't change, and once she was halfway across the street, I hopped into the carriage across from Luciana, assuming Guin was lost in thought and didn't truly see me.
The footman closed the door, and before the carriage wheels made a full rotation, Luciana was on my lap, her lips pressed to mine.
"Touch me," she insisted between urgent kisses. "Touch me everywhere, Phelan."
It amazed me how swiftly Luciana went from a demure lady walking to her carriage to a hot-blooded Italian woman. Normally she asked me to kiss and to never stop, but this was much more urgent and dramatic–even for her.
"Now, now, Luciana, you promised me supper before I unbutton my trousers," I said lightly.
She paused, panting heavily with desire. "Take me, take me this instant."
I managed to settle her onto the cushion beside me. "You are quite scandalous, Mademoiselle."
"Are you worried about my father?" she asked, raking her fingers through my hair in a way that made it difficult to resist doing whatever she wanted.
"Am I worried about a man who could have me deported from the country I've lived in my entire life?" I questioned. "Slightly, yes."
Her father was an Italian dignitary in his late seventies, whose fourth wife, a woman well under half his age, had surprised him with a daughter.
Luciana was born six months after her father divorced his third wife and wed his mistress. While her mother was no longer married to Luciana's father, she had apparently been his favorite wife–until the fifth one came along. Out of five marriages, Signore Tetrino had two children to show for it: a son who was in his fifties and impotent and a promiscuous daughter in her thirties who had no need or desire for the role of wife and mother.
I wasn't certain what her father did for a living, nor was I certain his employment was legal, but I knew he was quite persuasive– and he pampered his only daughter as if the moon and stars were hung in the sky for her. I couldn't begin to imagine the size of their estate and where she stowed all of the dresses, jewelry and perfumes she acquired each time she spent a few days in Paris.
Luciana placed her hands on my shoulders and swung her legs around my hips. "Haven't you always wanted to make love in a carriage?"
"We are two streets away from the hotel. That would hardly be satisfying."
"How can you think at a time like this?"
"I can do multiple activities at once."
"Ask me to marry you."
Despite her father's untold wealth, the only thing he could not purchase for his beloved daughter was acting lessons. For as long as I had known her, she wished to be on the stage, showered with applause and drowning in a sea of bouquets.
The roles she wished to play in my company, however, were not suitable for a proper Parisian stage, but she certainly approached intimate moments with enthusiasm.
"Ask me to marry you and then we can run away together," she suggested, kissing me again. "And you can make love to me daily. Twice a day if you'd like."
"Twice daily?" I said, lifting a brow.
She was only a few years younger than me, but her flair for the dramatic made it seem like she was in her early twenties. I enjoyed her company for an evening every six months or so; I couldn't imagine a lifetime with her.
"Yes," she said. "I will surely spend every year of our long marriage in a family way."
Again I managed to place her onto the cushion beside me, whatever spark she attempted to ignite in the carriage immediately snuffed out by her comment. "If I die at the age of eighty, that gives us over forty children. You wish to have your womb occupied for forty years?"
She lifted her chin and fluttered her eyelashes. "You drive me mad with desire. Ask me to marry you and I will do anything."
"Luciana Tetrino, marry me," I said quite blandly.
As I expected, she turned her face from me and released a breath. "Oh, Phelan Kimmer, you know my father would never agree to our union."
It was the only part of her script that seemed true. Her father would never have agreed to our marriage. I didn't have the name or the fortune to provide a suitable life for his beloved daughter. Nor did I have the desire to spend a lifetime with her.
"We shall have to keep our affair private," I said, keeping my voice low. "And in the hotel."
She pressed her forehead to mine and smiled. "Yes," she breathed in the most seductive fashion. "Oh, yes, we shall keep our tryst between the satin sheets, the fabric whispering our maddening love."
I wasn't certain if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but the carriage door opened. The footman didn't appear surprised in the least that his employer's daughter was attempting to mount me yet again.
"Shall I deliver your…acquaintance to his destination?" the footman asked, appearing annoyed by Luciana's indiscretions.
Luciana lifted her chin. "After supper," she said, taking his hand.
The footman looked past me. "Watch your step, Monsieur," he said.
OoO
Luciana's attempt at acting only lasted until I removed her jewelry and the pins in her hair. It was fascinating to kiss the column of her neck, one jeweled pin at a time coming loose from her thick head of perfumed hair, and hear the cadence of her breath change.
She was silent and shy once her dress was hung on the bedroom door, the hands that had raked through my hair with such urgency now tenderly caressing my chest.
"Are you still painting?" she asked.
She asked me every time I saw her if I was still creating art. I wasn't sure if it was because I was not wildly successful or if she hoped I hadn't quit.
"I am." I kissed her throat, inhaling the scent of her perfume. She lifted her chin and sighed, one hand on my shoulder, the other at the back of my head.
"You know, I auditioned for a play," she said.
I took her hand, leading her to the enormous four poster bed with sheer curtains surrounding the mattress and at least two dozen pillows against the headboard.
The kisses became harder, my hand caressing down the length of her body. I drew back the sheer curtain and she sat, her thighs parting.
She shivered when I trailed my hand along her inner thigh, her fingers pressing into the muscle of my shoulder. I heard her inhale sharply as I drew nearer to the apex of her thighs.
"Did you get the role?" I asked, touching her intimately.
She didn't speak. I looked up and her sage green eyes met mine. The look of pleasure and anticipation had vacated her expression and she bit her lip. With a shake of her head, she confirmed what I had already suspected. "No, I did not."
"Next time," I said.
"I don't know about that," she said.
Luciana remained perched on the edge of the bed, but her head bowed and ankles crossed to preserve her modesty. There was a long moment of silence between us, one that I respected despite an obvious and quite visible desire to continue.
The decision, however, was not exclusively mine; it was mutual.
When I was not quite twenty, I'd had two different women decide that they were no longer interested in sharing their bed. I'd heard plenty of men grouse about similar situations, how women had the audacity to change their minds when certain male desires could not be stopped.
If you just keep going about it, they'll settle down.
Once you've started, they'll realize how much they enjoy it and be grateful you didn't stop.
It annoyed me that men spoke of women like they were nervous horses that needed to be taken by the reins and forced into calming. Neither of the females who had suddenly pushed their hand against my chest or took a step back and gathered their clothing wanted to continue, and the thought of forcing them to do so reminded me of being pinned to the ground by Alak, his fingers pressed into my damaged forearm.
He had been far bigger and stronger than me, and I knew when I struggled to breathe with his full weight atop me that I was at his mercy–and he had not been merciful.
The lack of control over my own anatomy, the pleas gone ignored in that one terrifying moment stayed with me. For as long as I lived, I had no desire to take away another person's ability to control what happened to them.
Luciana stared at my rib cage and swallowed. Her right hand reached out and brushed against my side, trailing down to my hip, then fell away. She crossed her arms over her chest, bottom lip quivering.
"I'm sorry–" she started to say. "I'm so sorry–"
"You shouldn't be," I replied, keeping my voice soft and low.
"I've gotten you…" she sniffed. "In quite the state, it seems."
"Nothing a little talk of forty children won't remedy," I said lightly, reaching for a blanket at the end of the bed, which I draped over her shoulders and spread down to her knees before I grabbed my trousers.
"Are you certain?" she asked.
"Positive."
"You won't despise me?"
"Only if you deny me supper, Luciana." I paused and regarded her for a moment. "You know I am incapable of despising you, correct? Supper or not?"
Her beautiful pale eyes searched my face, her expression strained. I hadn't seen Luciana in Paris for at least seven months and wondered what had happened in the time since we'd last seen one another. Whether it was her heart or her spirit, I swore some part of her was broken. I supposed being broken myself I saw fractures within others.
"I shall leave if you want to be alone," I offered.
"I invited you for supper," she said.
"I will not force you to extend the invitation," I said. "Nor will I leave offended if you want your privacy."
She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the wall behind me. "I would like to dress alone," she said. "And I would like you to stay. If you wouldn't mind."
I sat in the parlor of her suite, admiring the vase of flowers while she dressed. After twenty minutes of sitting on the sofa, an employee from the hotel knocked on the door with room service.
"Monsieur…Tetrino?" he said, reading the card on the service cart.
"A friend of your esteemed guest," I said.
The cart was left behind, near a small wooden table near a window. Eventually Luciana appeared, her eyes puffy and complexion mottled. She walked the length of the room, sat at the table, and said nothing as I uncovered the plates and served our meal.
I was certain the food would have tasted better over conversation, that the delectable butter would have melted with greater ease if there had been something to say to one another. Mostly I met her eye before she quickly looked away until we both stopped making eye contact at all.
Halfway through supper, she inhaled sharply and buried her face into her cloth napkin.
"Luciana," I said gently. "What is it?"
"The director," she said. "He said if I read at his home, I would certainly get the part. His wife was away for the weekend, visiting their children in Vienna. I should have known better when he offered me a drink, but like a fool I stayed with him, just as he requested…" She swiftly wiped away the tears before they fell. "He didn't want me to read. He wanted me to…and he wouldn't stop."
My blood boiled. "Did you tell your father?" I asked.
Luciana shook her head. "Father would ask me why I stayed and put myself into that position."
"You should tell him," I said.
"I can't. The director is one of his friends. They've known each other for thirty years. Father won't believe me. No one will. And besides, I know what they will say about me if I speak a word."
I took a sip of wine. "You should know that I believe you," I said. "And the only thing I have and will ever have to say to you, Luciana, is that you are an absolute gem."
"Because I'm pretty," she said.
"No," I said. "Well, yes, but beauty isn't the first thing that comes to mind when I see you."
She eyed me, her bottom lip still quivering. "What comes to mind?"
"Your generosity, for one, such as the act of kindness you showed to those children on the street when you gifted money for a meal."
"It wasn't much," she said.
"Perhaps not to you, but to them it was."
The slightest of sunny smiles broke through from her overcast expression.
"Your smile," I added. "Pure radiance. Like an upside down rainbow."
My words made her snort.
"Your laugh," I teased, finding that I snorted as well. "Like we are in a barnyard."
Luciana rolled her eyes.
"Your horses wear the most adorable little hats," I continued. "And given their lack of fashion sense, I assume you picked them out."
"You are terrible at compliments," she said. "But wonderful at being utterly ridiculous."
At last she sucked in a breath that could have been from tears or laughter, face crumpling with emotion.
"Why are you so kind to me?" she asked, dabbing her eyes with the napkin.
"You give me no reason to be cruel."
"I did–"
"No," I firmly said. "You absolutely did not and I will not argue over it. You do what is necessary for yourself. To hell with what others want."
At last her chin lifted. "May I ask you to do one thing for me?"
I hesitated, but still nodded. If she asked me to try taking her to bed again, the answer would be a firm 'no'.
"Of course. You may ask me anything."
"Would you just hold my hand?"
I smiled and nodded. "I would like nothing more than to sit and hold your hand."
oOo
It wasn't a terrible evening spent in her company. Certainly not what I had expected, but salvageable and sweet in a way few women desired my company.
We spent an hour seated on the settee, playing a game of cards while she talked about her recent travel to Cypress and an upcoming trip to Belgium where she wanted to visit her mother, who had apparently moved outside of Brussels a year earlier.
"If you ever want to visit, Mother loves company."
"I see."
"Not that kind of company."
I smirked. "That was not what I was thinking, but your clarification is appreciated."
I told her about the rocky quarry, which she decided sounded like far too much labor and not enough relaxation. By the end of the night, I did as she had requested, simply holding her hand in mine while she sat with her eyes closed and gently stroked the backs of my fingers. It was as much intimacy as she could truly tolerate, and I was glad to sit with her, no expectations between us.
"Safe travels," I said once she saw me to the door. "When you are back in Paris, make certain whatever note you leave has your name on it."
"I will," she said with a soft chuckle.
I offered one last smile and turned.
"Phelan," she said before I reached the lift.
I paused, turning to face her.
"Thank you for tonight," she said.
"It was a pleasure seeing you."
"You know…Whenever you choose to settle down, I hope the woman you marry realizes how wonderful you truly are."
oOo
"You again?" Hugo dryly grumbled when I walked into his bedroom.
"Me yet again," I said.
"Don't you have classes to teach?"
"It's Thursday," I said to him. "I've enhanced young minds for two hours and now I have the rest of the day to bother you."
I had seen Hugo twice since his amputation and his spirits were high despite his energy level being alarmingly low. He could barely keep his eyes open for more than thirty minutes and appeared to be in a great deal of pain, but his maid assured me that the surgeon was quite pleased with his progress.
"Don't you dare throw out any of my books," he said with his eyes closed.
I wasn't sure how he knew I was thumbing through his bookcase, but I smiled to myself. "Do you honestly need six copies of the same book?"
"Yes," he answered, obstinate as ever.
I looked over my shoulder. "Why?"
"What if I lose five copies?"
"You are only in danger of losing five copies to this absolute disaster of a bedroom," I argued.
"You realize that arguing with me raises my blood pressure? Shame on you, Phelan."
"I'm not arguing, I'm removing the clutter."
"Will you just sit?" he groaned.
I sighed and took a seat beside his bed.
The room was coming along nicely as far as removing his collection of odds and ends. After our visit, when he fell asleep and rested soundly, I gathered up discarded clothing and placed them in a wicker basket kept in the hall, organized his collection of sketches into neater piles, separating by year, and arranged his paints by color.
"I'm sitting. Are you satisfied?" I asked.
He glared at me. "Yes, as a matter of fact I am."
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"What have you brought me today?"
"Mutton."
"Phelan!" he snapped. "You know how I dislike lamb."
I took a breath and rolled my eyes. Yes, I am aware." I brought you some unreasonably expensive aged brie," I said.
His eyes lit up. Hugo ingested so much cheese that I was somewhat surprised he hadn't turned into a moldy hunk of aged dairy product or a gigantic, glutinous mouse, naked tail and all.
"Well, then, give it to me," he impatiently said.
"Where are your manners? I bring you a gift and you act like a barbarian. I'd eat it in front of you if I liked rotting cheese."
"It's not rotting."
"It has mold. Of course it's rotting." The very thought made me want to wretch.
"You are impossible."
Dorothea walked past the bedroom door, which was wide open, and shook her head. "Like an old married couple," she said under her breath.
"No we are not," Hugo and I said in unison.
We exchanged looks and smiled at one another, both of us making our best attempt to contain our amusement.
"You were telling me about the theater the last time," he said as he unwrapped the cheese I'd handed him and took a ravenous bite. The marbled bloom turned my stomach and I held my breath, nose wrinkled from the pungent odor that reminded me of the university gymnasium.
"Yes, I should have a reply from the theater by tomorrow," I said.
"They had better not stick us in the last row," Hugo said, biting off another piece of cheese.
"There is a chance they will not be 'sticking' us anywhere," I reminded him.
"Do they know who we are?"
"Apparently we are not important enough to know, my friend."
"Are you still attending the dress rehearsal?"
"I have to give a head count by tomorrow," I said.
Raoul de Chagny, being unable to provide nine extra tickets to the opening night, had used his authority as the theater's top donor to convince the managers and ballet mistress that the students who had graciously painted their backdrops should be able to attend the final dress rehearsal that was scheduled for the following Friday night.
"Are you bringing a lady friend?" Hugo asked.
"To a university function with half of my class? Absolutely not," I said. "Besides, I am not the kind to have an illicit affair with my wife bedridden."
Hugo scowled, holding his fists up like a prizefighter. "I beg your pardon? Wife indeed!"
"You'd think I'd have married someone prettier," I teased. "And without a beard filled with crumbs of moldy cheese."
"You had better mind your manners," Hugo warned. He brushed his fingers through his scraggly beard, sending an avalanche of crumbs down his blue pajama shirt. The buttons had not been done correctly, the top uneven and middle left with a gaping hole.
I looked him over as he continued with a smaller nibble of cheese.
"Have you been out of bed yet today?" I asked.
"No. The surgeon said I need my rest."
"Not for twenty-three hours," I argued. "Finish your cheese. We're going outside."
Managing to convince Hugo to leave his bed was nothing short of coercion, and I regretted not luring him from the bedroom with the cheese he continued to stuff into his mouth like a starving rodent.
"My portfolio is downstairs," I said, grabbing his crutches from where they had been left propped against the wall.
"Don't walk ahead of me," Hugo complained.
I moved to stand behind him.
"Don't walk behind me," he grumbled.
With a sigh, I stood beside him, prepared to steady him if the need arose.
"There isn't enough room to walk next to me," he said.
Finally I took a breath, my hands on my hips. "Shall I stand on the roof?"
"Quit talking, I am trying to concentrate."
I stood on the landing of the staircase and tried to look anywhere but directly at him as eye contact was strictly forbidden. His crutches thumped the stair, followed by his shoe. He grunted, then muttered several curses under his breath.
"If I fall–"
"You won't fall," I insisted, realizing he was exceedingly nervous when it came to misjudging the distance.
"Bull butter, Phelan. You cannot predict whether or not I will slip down the stairs."
"I can guarantee if you lose your balance, I will not simply watch you fall down the stairs, Hugo."
"I suppose I'll fall on you," he said under his breath.
"That's why I'm standing here," I said in the same manner. "To cushion you."
"Indeed," he complained. "Not an ounce of extra flesh on your bones."
Hugo managed to reach the landing. He hobbled past me and started down the last six with me behind him.
"Hugo–" I admonished in the same fashion as a concerned father chasing an adventurous toddler.
I slipped past him and made my way to the bottom of the stairs ahead of him where he managed to make his way down and across the length of his home to the front door. Dorothea waited for him, door open and a heavy blanket in hand.
I had not yet grown accustomed to seeing Hugo's trouser leg pinned in place at the knee, nor the empty space where the lower portion of his leg should have been.
Thankfully his maid covered the lower portion of his body with the blanket before she returned inside, leaving us on the small porch.
"It's cold," he said.
"I'll light the porch on fire to keep you warm," I dryly said.
Hugo grunted. He nodded toward the portfolio I had grabbed on my way out. "Let's take a look."
I handed him the leather folder with its worn edges and a part of the front bearing a large scratch from Elvira deciding she wanted to see if it ripped as easily as paper.
Inhaling, Hugo patted his breast pocket and pulled out his glasses, which he perched on the end of his nose and pulled out the first sketch, a charcoal on cardboard.
Hugo had the same expression for every critique he'd ever given my art: bushy brow furrowed, bottom lip jutted out, and an expression that from my point of view looked like utter disdain.
"You make me want to paint again," he said, turning to a small watercolor.
"Why did you stop?" I asked.
Hugo glanced at me. "I suppose I stopped seeing the world how I wanted it to look and started seeing what was truly there. I didn't like the way it appeared and lost interest."
He reached the third of the four pieces I had brought with me and smiled. "This one," he said. "Theo will most certainly purchase this the moment you show it to him."
It was an older painting on a wood board that I had worked on for a number of years, finding myself dissatisfied with the way the little shack looked from the bridge. The light never seemed to be the correct balance, the trees too dark despite looking precisely as I recalled from childhood.
"This is it?" he asked, holding up the thin board. "Where you grew up?"
I nodded.
"Conforeit?"
I nodded again.
Hugo brought the board closer to his face. "Ah, yes. I see," he said.
He didn't specify what he saw, but I already knew he spotted the figure I'd painted sitting on the wooden step, the one that had rotted away by the time I returned to the village where I had been born.
After Bjorn had died and before I took possession of his house, I had weaved my way through the woods, spending several hours aimlessly walking, compass in hand, desiring to see the house that had belonged to my uncle.
I had been certain that Alak lived north of where his brother had settled, but after two hours of being eaten alive by numerous flies and mosquitoes with no trace of the shack, I walked east and suddenly found the end of the woods and the start of the ocean. From there I found the hill, an overgrown trail, and a leaning, rotted structure where I had lived from the age of three and a half until I turned fourteen.
I stood on the bridge for a long time, staring at the shack, my emotions mixed before the numbness returned.
"You don't want to part with this, do you?" Hugo asked.
"I've been asking myself that for a week," I said. "Already I've sold a painting that feels like…" I stared across the street at the stately houses on a street that was lined with old trees that were still barren. "It feels like I sold part of myself."
Hugo nodded. "Sometimes it feels that way. You have to hope that whoever purchases those intimate feelings walks past it every day and admires your work. Or that they notice some little detail they never saw before and feel a sense of delight or wonder." He tapped his finger on the figure in my painting. "If you decide to sell it, that is."
"I don't believe I will."
Hugo studied me for a long moment. "You know, I have an entire bedroom filled with moments I didn't want to share with others. And now look at them; left within folders and stacks, the charcoals blending together or bleeding through the pages when I was foolish enough to leave them stacked in front of open windows on rainy days. They aren't appreciated like they should be."
"You think I should sell this?" I asked.
"That isn't what I said."
"Very helpful," I muttered.
He scoffed at me. "I think you should allow your vision to be appreciated."
Neither of us spoke for a long moment, preferring to gaze across the street. It was a comfortable type of silence, the kind I could have only enjoyed with Hugo.
Or Erik. If he had finally learned to be contemplative rather than asking a hundred questions, one after another, from the time he woke until he fell asleep, his sentence half-finished.
"Did you take my stamp and stationary?" Hugo asked suddenly.
I turned to face him. "No, I did not."
"Hmm. Why not?"
I inhaled. "Because…"
"Because I am no longer actively dying?"
My eyes widened. "Why would you say that?"
He shook his finger at me. "I know what you thought," he said. "Because I was under the same impression. If you will not take the stamp yourself, then I will write you a recommendation for your son."
"And what if he has the art skills of a toddler?"
Hugo grunted. "That would be a shame. But I am certain he has taken after you when it comes to artistic talent."
"I appreciate your misguided optimism."
Hugo smiled to himself. "You know, Phelan," he said. "You are like the nephew I never had."
I furrowed my brow. "I believe I met your nephew. Gregoire, isn't it?"
Hugo scoffed. "He was here for the same reason as you."
"I was not here because I thought you were…dying." Saying the word aloud left a bitter taste in my mouth.
He regarded me for a moment. "How long have I known you?" he asked. "Thirty years now?"
"You have no idea how old I am, do you?"
"Fifty?"
I narrowed my eyes. "No, you senile toad. We have known each other for closer to twenty years."
"Old toad," Hugo grumbled with a shake of his head. "You came to visit me out of concern. My so-called nephew paid a visit in hopes of inheriting my house and seizing my bank account. He was rummaging around for jewels and checkbooks when he thought I was asleep."
My gaze lowered. "You know that I was not rummaging around for anything of the sort."
"No, you simply cannot help yourself when it comes to tidying up around yourself."
"My apologies for my organizational skills."
Hugo offered an appreciative smile. "I suppose I was incorrect. You didn't visit me for the same reason as Gregoire." He placed his hand on my knee. "You make a most excellent nephew, Phelan. And if I were your bed-ridden wife, which I am not, I'd be the luckiest damned woman in Paris."