Bernard and Phelan: Future besties?

CH 37

It was difficult to decide who enjoyed the lessons on self-defense more: the girl of thirteen who grew increasingly more confident with each strike or the gruff boxer grumbling out both praise and criticism.

Montlaur was a natural when it came to teaching, despite his colorful language and the way he accidentally patted his student on the back hard enough to make her cough.

"Girl," he said, stepping down from the ring with the padded trousers slung over his shoulder. "You ain't bad. Ain't bad at all."

She seemed quite pleased with his assessment and bowed, earning her a hearty laugh from her instructor.

"Is there payment due for her lesson?" I asked, patting my trouser pocket.

"Yeah," Bernard said. "I want to hear the bird sing."

Celeste appeared pleasantly surprised by his request. "Right now?"

"Yeah, right now," he said as he grabbed a folding chair and sat heavily, grimacing as he stretched out his right leg. "Get up there and sing your little songbird heart out."

She hopped up the stairs like a rabbit and turned her back to us, taking several deep breaths while she whispered something to herself.

"What should I sing?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I know nothing about music," Bernard grumbled.

"You don't know any songs?" I asked, finding that hard to believe.

"The only songs I know are raunchy and ain't for girls to be singing."

Celeste gasped and giggled to herself while I eyed the boxer with a shake of my head.

After a few moments of walking back and forth across the ring, the girl came to a halt and raised her hand.

Bernard and I exchanged looks.

"You don't need permission to speak," he growled.

Celeste pursed her lips. "Pretty Poppy?"

"I know that one," Bernard said.

"Are you going to sing as well?" I dryly asked. "A duet, perhaps, between Bern and Celeste."

The boxer glared at me. "I'm Monsieur Montlaur to you and ain't no way in hell you'll hear me sing."

"Professor, Bern," Celeste said in her light, sweet voice, causing us both to cease speaking. She pursed her lips, body swaying back and forth. "Are you ready?"

"Sing it!" Bernard barked.

"My God," I said under my breath. "Do you not hear yourself?"

Before he could reply, Celeste began singing, her voice carrying through the gymnasium. Bernard turned his full attention to the girl in the center of the ring with her dark eyes focused on the banners gently swaying from where they were hung along the walls.

I was certain I had heard the simple folk song hundreds of times, but hadn't paid much mind to the lyrics until Celeste sang it for her audience of a boxer and an art professor.

"'I went down to my garden to gather rosemary,'" Celeste sang. "'I hadn't picked three sprigs when a nightingale landed on my hand.'"

Bernard leaned toward me, "The damn birds again," he grumbled under his breath.

"'It told me three words in Latin. That men are worthless and boys are even worth less,'" Celeste continued.

Bernard's lips parted in horror while I chuckled to myself at the unexpected lyrics that were bellowed in taverns and at festivals and often sang to children bouncing on the hips of their mothers.

"'It told me nothing about ladies, but a lot of good things about maidens,'" Celeste finished. She curtsied and took a deep breath, gazing down at us in anticipation of our reactions.

"That is certainly an opinion on men and boys," I said.

Celeste's expression sobered. "Oh. I didn't mean to offend."

"That ain't an opinion," Bernard argued. "That's the truth. Men and boy are worthless and if they give you any trouble, what did I teach you?"

"Kick straight up or yank straight down," Celeste said.

The imagery in my mind made me pull my knees closer together.

"Or?" Bernard prompted.

"Thumbs into the eyes."

"And?"

"Crush the windpipe?"

"That's a good little songbird," he praised. "Or perhaps more of a lammergeiger," he said, growling out the last word.

Celeste eyed him curiously. "What is a lammergeiger?" she asked.

Instantly the boxer crossed his arms. "It ain't nothing. Just some stupid bird."

"A very large and dangerous raptor, if I am not mistaken, although I've never seen one," I said to Celeste before I turned my attention to Bernard. "Your knowledge of avian is quite impressive for someone who doesn't like birds."

"You're the one with the bird, not me," he grumbled.

Celeste gasped. "Bern, you've seen Elvira?"

"No, I ain't seen the damn bird, but it's all he ever talks about," he said, gesturing toward me.

"That is absolutely false," I groused.

"Enough talk about birds," Bernard said, waving his arms around. Take your shoes off and get on the floor."

Celeste scurried between the ropes and lept from the ring onto the floor. For such a slender girl, she landed on the thin floor mat like a bull dropped from a cliff. "Meditating?" she asked. "Are we all going to meditate?"

"You know how to meditate?" Bernard asked.

Celeste shook her head. "But I want to learn."

"Good, 'cause you're learning right now. Shoes off and sit on the floor. I ain't telling you again."

Unlike the session that I had interrupted where I sat with my feet together, Bernard instructed Celeste to sit or lie down in whatever manner she found most comfortable. She attempted several different positions, eventually deciding to lie on her back, arms and legs extended like a starfish.

I laid flat on my back with my knees bent and hands folded across my abdomen, but found the light from the domed windows too distracting and sat up, assuming the same position I had tried earlier in the day.

Bernard sat with his right leg extended and left leg bent. He rolled a towel beneath his right knee and instructed us both to breathe in time with him, four seconds in, four seconds held, four seconds released.

"No dwelling in the past, no worrying about the future," he said. "Be where you are and that's it. Everything you got resting on your shoulders or squeezed around your heart, you let that sit beside you. Don't look at it, don't touch it. Know it's there and it ain't got to be part of you for the next twenty minutes. Now, close your eyes and breathe."

The breathing was the easiest part. Acknowledging every burden I carried and imagining that it was stacked beside me proved to be nearly impossible.

If I release my sorrow, I release Erik, I reasoned, and letting go of my brother was not something I would do voluntarily. I didn't care if thinking of him was painful. I didn't want to forget him, not any part of him, good or bad, joyful or filled with melancholy.

I envisioned a rock in my hand, smooth and shiny from being tumbled in the sea and washed ashore. I thought of the oval-shaped stone with its waves of beige and gold glinting in the sun as Gyda, the woman who had birthed two boys when she was still very much a girl.

I imagined my hand closed softly over the stone, its surface cool to the touch, the weight of it barely noticeable in my palm. I carefully laid it beside me in my mind, a little part of the past I rarely thought about, but that was there nonetheless.

Bjorn was jagged and gray, the type of rock that would slice through flesh with ease and leave a gaping wound behind. I imagined myself hurtling him as far as I could throw a stone, turning away before it hit the ground. Good riddance.

Valgarde. He was like granite; hard and unyielding, a square slab, cut with precision, that showed no flaws. And yet still I found myself admiring him, even when I placed him beside me rather than tossing him over my shoulder.

Val was the only person who had known me from the time I was three and a half years old, the person who should have been like a supportive older brother to me, but instead had become a reminder of all the ways I fell short.

If repairs could be made to our damaged relationship, I was willing to put differences aside, especially if it meant I could still be an uncle to my niece. I placed the granite stone closer, hoping that one day we could enjoy each other's company.

I gathered Valentina, Luciana, Guin, and several other women from recent months and placed them gently together, thinking of them as volcanic rock; more significant in size and shape, but fairly weightless compared to the dense nature of a stone washed up by the tide.

Abigail flitted through my mind, but I decided not to envision her in a pile with others. She deserved better, even if it was only as a lovely little pink rock that I placed into my shirt pocket.

"Breathe," Montlaur gently said. "Leave it beside you."

I wanted to tell him I was trying, almost desperately, to make my piles of individuals, to sort through what could stay and what needed to be temporarily set aside.

My mind returned to Erik. He was not a jagged rock or a smooth, shining stone. He was still himself, a toddler on my back, arms tight around my neck and legs wrapped around my hips.

You need to get down, I would tell him as I plodded up a hillside consisting of tree roots and sand that made every step laborious. You're heavy and I'm tired.

It was rare that he protested my request as he wanted to race me up the side of the hill when he returned from the beach.

Most of the time I had told him to leap onto my back for protection when the sun faded and the trees appeared bigger and thicker around us and he would launch himself like a squirrel onto me.

When I asked him to walk on his own, he would unwrap himself from me and slide to the ground, prepared to bound ahead with his energy restored. Barely able to catch my breath, he would look back at me, grin in devious fashion, and announce we were racing home.

Just for a little while, I would tell him when we heard animals in the distance. My legs shook from the extra weight I hauled up the hillside, screaming in protest. And then I will carry you again if you want.

Lynx were the most likely creature roaming about, but bears were also a possibility and I felt more brave when I had Erik on my back, pretending he was a shield and I was a soldier. If some beast were to charge from the trees, I had already decided I would throw myself over my brother, protecting him from harm for as long as possible.

Sitting on the floor of the gymnasium, I touched my left forearm and felt the burn from the nerve damage, physical pain temporarily replacing the emotional agony. I started to press deeper, but noticed my breathing change and pulled my hand away.

Erik, you have to get down. Just for a little while. You're heavy and I'm so tired. I've been carrying you for thirty years.

It felt like betrayal to ask him to leave, as if I had pushed him away when all I truly desired was to have my little brother back.

I tried to imagine his voice as an adult, deep and elegant like a song he had composed.

I have two feet and I'm perfectly capable of using them, Lan. You needn't worry about me.

But I worry about you constantly, day and night.

I felt myself physically lean to the right, away from the pile of people I'd made into rocks and toward my brother that I couldn't bear to be without. I wanted the pain of him, the aching and longing, the torment of loss. I wanted to reach for him, to demand that he climb back on because the weight of sorrow was easier to bear than another layer of emptiness.

I cannot be without you. I don't want to put you down.

I know, brother, but I am here.

I can't see you. Erik, I cannot see where you are.

The thought felt like a blow to my abdomen. I wondered if Erik would reluctantly take his place on my back again or if he would refuse. I held my breath, deciding for him when the pain became unbearable.

"Breathe, Professor," Bernard reminded me. "Leave it beside you."

I sat rigid, resisting the urge to gather up everything that I had mentally placed beside me.

"You can do this," Bernard said quietly. "Breathe in, hold, breathe out."

My legs tensed, toes curling as I began to lose control of my thoughts. I wasn't certain how much time had passed, but I was confident I would not be able to complete twenty minutes of medication.

"Breathe, Professor." He inhaled and I did the same, holding it for four seconds, then releasing.

I took another breath, held it, and exhaled, repeating the exercise until I found my rhythm and imagined Erik simply sitting beside me, lost in his own stillness, breathing in and out in time with the three of us.

There was peace in feeling Erik sitting beside me, a calm that I had not recalled experiencing even when we were together. Every waking hour of the day I dedicated myself to caring for my brother whether it was feeding, dressing, or entertaining. He watched my every move, determined to keep up with me when I ran or climbed trees.

I imagined him asking if I recalled being chased by a bear, how we scrambled home in the dark after lingering too long at the beach, both of us on our hands and knees, arms around one another, the fear in our voices as we urged each other through the brush and mud. Neither one of us had been willing to look back, to face the bear at our heels, until we reached the doorstep. Then we had both looked back together and found a raccoon bounding after us, chattering to itself in hopes of consuming whatever food we had stuffed into our pockets.

We had both tossed berries, dried meat, and crumbs on the doorstep and locked the door behind us, fueled by adrenaline and grateful for the barrier keeping the raccoon away from us.

You thought we were going to be eaten, Lan.

We both thought we would be eaten, Kire.

But you know I would never have allowed you to be eaten.

Yes, yes, I know, your plan was always to be eaten first, as if somehow that would make it better to be eaten second.

You would have a chance to run away and save yourself.

No, Lan, I would not have left you behind.

I held my breath again, longer than necessary, waiting for Erik to say he would not have left me unattended as I had left him. But I knew in my heart he would not speak cruelly to me. We had been good to each other, kind in a world where there had been immense cruelty.

I sat in silence with Erik for as long as I could, near but not attached, together but still separate. I imagined him as an adult, not a child, allowing the past to fade while I focused on myself at present, the lonely, empty man I'd become in his absence.

There, releasing the past, I wanted to be filled with something more than remorse and regret, to feel a sense of belonging rather than relied upon. I wanted Val as my friend and not a relative who picked apart my faults. I wanted to know my brother for the person he had become. I wanted to be part of Marco's life. I wanted…

I inhaled, held it, and exhaled.

I wanted companionship. I wanted more than what I had allowed myself for years, more than meaningless, forgettable nights. I wanted warmth and tenderness, conversations that were deeper than weather and the latest entertainment, to feed the emotions that had been starved, to be more than one-dimensional when it came to physical relationships.

But not like this, not a broken disaster of an individual. I would not force or expect anyone to gather up the shards and glue them back together on my behalf.

Where Val was granite, I saw myself as marble, softer than granite and formed under colossal pressure. In its raw form, marble was not polished; straight from the quarry it was dull and sugary in appearance.

Erik would have to sit beside me for a while longer if I wished to heal and trust myself to care for another the way they deserved. The burden of carrying him around day and night had taken a significant toll, one that would not allow me to be anything but stagnant and raw and dull.

"Exhale," Bernard said.

The breath in my lungs slowly exited past my lips. I remained still for a long moment, allowing myself to be without the stone people or the weight of my brother for a moment longer.

For the briefest moment, I felt untangled in my mind, no longer relying on the physical pain that kept my emotion in check. It was uncomfortable, but still welcomed compared to the numbness.

"And on your feet," Bernard said. "I'm starving."

oOo

"If you ain't got to be nowhere, I would like a moment to speak to you," Bernard said to me as we exited the gymnasium. His gaze flashed toward Celeste. "In private."

I nodded, feeling quite certain he wished to discuss my disruption to his meditation.

"Why in the hell are you looking at me like that?" he grumbled.

"I was not aware I looked at you in any particular way," I answered quite defensively.

"Yeah, you were," Bernard said, stepping closer, his head turned to the side. "You think I'm going to rough you up or something?"

"No, of course not. Why would you?"

He answered with a scowl. "I got a match tonight. I couldn't sock you in the face if I wanted to."

"Fortune smiles upon me," I said under my breath.

"Girl," Bernard snarled.

Celeste jumped when he acknowledged her.

"I'm buying you breakfast," he said. "But I got to talk to this one alone. Scramble out of here."

"Where am I going?" Celeste asked.

"Nadine Narcois," he answered. "Make a left out of here, cross the campus, two, maybe three streets down where it curves left, I think, and a sharp right. Can't miss it."

Celeste stared blankly at him. I was certain the gears in her mind had come to a grinding halt.

"Go through the park and it'll be in front of you," I said. "Dark green awning with a black sign. There's a statue of a waiter holding a tray at the door."

Celeste readily nodded and asked for permission to wash her face first, which I granted while Bernard used a towel to dry his armpits. He waited for her to disappear into the back of the gymnasium before he decided his groin was in need of the same attention.

"I've failed twice at meditation," I said before he spoke.

Montlaur tossed the used towel into a large canvas bin and looked me up and down. "Failed, eh?"

"I am aware of the disruption I caused both times and for that I apologize. It will not happen again. If you allow me a third attempt, that is."

Montlaur appeared increasingly disgusted, but didn't speak.

"I appreciate you bringing attention to the matter in private," I offered.

Montlaur crossed his burly arms. "You think I'm grading you? No one fails at meditation. Hell, the girl spent five minutes with her arms and legs straight up like a dead roach," he grumbled. "And before you ask, I ain't going to tell her to put her arms and legs down. She's a kid. She ain't supposed to sit still and I ain't going to yell at her when she's wiggly." He took another step toward me. "And before you say anything, I didn't yell at you, either."

"I never said you did."

"I didn't remind you to breathe because you was a disruption," he said. "It was because the girl had her eyes open and you kept reaching for your arm. She don't need to see that."

My breath hitched. "I…I was not aware that I…."

Bernard nodded once. "I got no problem embarrassing you in front of the girl," he said. "But I ain't going to shame you in front of her. She likes you and I ain't letting her think poorly of you, Professor."

"I appreciate your concern."

Celeste cleared her throat loudly. "May I come out now?" she asked.

"Yeah, get out here." Bernard shifted his weight and inhaled. "That wasn't what I wanted to discuss," he said to me. "My match is at seven-thirty. Come here at eight-thirty and I'll tell you then."

"What about before your match?" I asked, finding another night awake after eight intolerable.

"I don't talk to no one before matches," he answered. "The people who interrupt me tend to get a punch to the back of the head."

oOo

It was nine when I returned home and uncovered Elvira's cage. She greeted me with whistles and bobs of her head, signs of affection from a bird to her caretaker.

"Oh, how I missed you!" she said, imitating my voice.

I allowed her onto my shoulder and showed her the morning newspaper.

"Once I'm done reading, you may shred every single word. How does that sound?"

She bobbed her head again, stepping back and forth on my shoulder in anticipation. I wasn't certain if she understood what I said to her or if she was simply accustomed to tearing apart the newspaper every Saturday and Sunday.

For many years I had taken out a spot in the newspaper searching for Erik. The ad ran Saturday and Sunday, twice a month, in the same place: the corner of the first page of advertisements, second listing from the bottom in the right-hand corner.

I hadn't placed an ad in a year or so, but I still looked for it–or perhaps I hoped there would be a reply, one decades in the making, that would state Erik Kimmer, aged thirty-two, answering Phelan Kimmer, with an address of where I could find him.

I imagined him living around the corner from me, a street away in a direction I rarely walked. I imagined him living in New York or London, happening upon the ad on accident while visiting publishers or performing with the symphony.

For years I would sit at home every weekend and wait for a knock at the door, followed by Erik breathlessly appearing on my doorstep, newspaper in hand, relieved that I had been looking for him.

The weight of him returned, heavier than I remembered. Elvira nibbled on my earlobe, impatient to start her morning of destruction.

"Here," I said, giving her the ladies fashion section.

The moment she had the newspaper in her beak, she slid down my arm, hopped off the chair, and took the paper to the canvas sheet beneath her perch where she could rip the pages apart until it looked like it had snowed.

Christine Daae graced the front page of the paper with a half-page article detailing how she was destined to be the greatest soprano to ever sing for Europe. She was charming, her voice blessed by God, and she was young with many seasons ahead of her thanks to her vocal coach, who was certain she would dazzle audiences on opening night.

The new opera was written for someone like Christine, who was the embodiment of the main character, a flawless rosebud waiting to bloom. Hers was a garden of wonderous flowers waiting to be pollinated and show its true beauty.

I paused and chuckled to myself, wondering if Raoul de Chagny had written the article to praise his fiance and hint that her 'flower' had already been pollinated if the rumors were true and she was with child.

There was, however, no author listed, which I found unusual. I doubted the vicomte, gentleman that he was, would hint at the rumored scandalous condition of his fiance.

The ghost, perhaps, I mused, praising his protege and her vocal coach. With the opera finished and awaiting its first audience, it was possible that he picked up his pen and wrote verbose praise to Christine.

The rest of the article seemed to incessantly describe Christine's beauty. With my interest lost, I folded the paper in half and read the article beneath it.

'Prizefighter Bernard Montlaur Attends Art Show Prior to Match'

Instantly both of my eyebrows shot into my hairline as I read that Montlaur, who had not stepped foot in Paris in two years, attended Edgar De Gas's art show. I huffed at the description despite De Gas being the most well-known of us, especially since Edgar had not stayed until the end.

'Montlaur, who was disqualified from his first scheduled match last week, was graciously given a private gallery tour by Goupil & Cie artist Phelan Kimmer, who is represented by Theo Van Gogh.

'Kimmer, said to be a friend of the boxer, shared his knowledge of technique and color at the private event reserved for the athlete.

'Montlaur, who was born outside of Paris, is said to have thoroughly appreciated the art show and will be adding at least one painting to his private collection.

'The prizefighter is facing Irish James tonight at seven-thirty, Honore Gymnasium, University Campus.'

"Art collector and friend indeed," I said under my breath, wondering what in the world Montlaur would have thought if he read the article.

With a roll of my eyes, I flipped to the section detailing the newest plays and operas to open for the weekend as well as reviews for the performance that would either entice crowds or drive them away from the theater.

There were two main reviewers for the newspaper: Luc Testan, who hated everything and everyone, and another critic who was called Il Santo.

Luc Testan was impossible to please. Dionysus and Apollo could have teamed up to write an opera and Testan would have found it dreadfully long, the actors wooden and instruments out of tune. It was painful and amusing to read his reviews, and while on occasion his cantankerous words were justified, for the most part I found I disagreed with him on almost every point, particularly when he criticized the set designs.

Il Santo, on the other hand, doled out praise and seemed particularly fond of set designs, even the most gaudy backdrops. I had long since suspected the critic was a woman as the individual seemed to dedicate a full paragraph to certain tenors as well as the garments and wigs of the sopranos. Whoever was behind the reviews was always in stark comparison to Testan and perhaps a bit too forgiving of flaws.

I secretly hoped Testan and Il Santo were husband and wife, bickering during intermission and passionately disagreeing on the carriage ride back home until they reached their bedroom and found mutual agreement that they could make up behind closed doors.

Unfortunately the only dress rehearsal for Don Juan took place Thursday night, the day before the official opening, which meant there was no mid-week review as was typical before openings.

Il Santo looked forward to a brand new opera by a mystery composer and found the lack of details enticing while Testan was certain the anticipation was certain to lead to disappointment.

"Another page, my sweet?" I said, offering Elvira the reviews.

She ran over, took the paper from me, and flung it aside, and continued to meticulously dissect the paper she had started to tear into long strips.

"You have twenty more minutes to shred the paper before I am leaving," I announced, as if Elvira understood my words. She didn't bother to acknowledge me, and while she continued with her task, I made myself coffee and gazed out the window at the streets below, thinking of my plans for the end of the school year.

Most of my plans for traveling to the quarry were already set with train tickets purchased and three weeks at a nearby inn booked with permission in writing that Elvira could stay with me.

The inn was described as being an artist's paradise, nestled amongst vineyards and gardens ripe with inspiration. There would be an opportunity to stay for a full month if I desired, and given the income from the paintings I had sold to both Raoul de Chagny and Florine, there was a possibility I could stay for the summer, rowing a boat along the river, strolling down the hilly boulevards, and indulging in fine cuisine.

By necessity I'd always been quite frugal. Even when I had a steady income at the bank, I was careful to live within my means, trading adventure for stability. My only true indulgence was morning and often afternoon coffee, an expense I was willing to spend for my own sanity.

The only section of the newspaper I had left was the advertisement section, with its wants, needs, sales and rentals.

I returned to my chair and scanned through the paper, always hoping to see Erik searched for me, when I paused, wondering what would happen if he came to my apartment while I was gone for a month.

I should stay home. I should wait. I should…

Breathe in, hold it, exhale. I forced myself to remain still, to harness my breathing and clear my mind with my brother beside me. Once my thoughts were no longer erratic, I stood, washed out my coffee cup, and straightened the canvas beneath Elivra's stand.

I placed her onto the perch, secured her tether as I didn't trust her not to shred my chair, and laid the newspaper over the wooden branches that she could access in my absence. She had plenty of room, entertainment, food and water at her disposal as well as the street below to observe.

"Three errands and I shall return," I told her.

OoO

"I heard you sold another painting last night," Jean said as I slid into the chair across from him for brunch at a restaurant near his home.

"How do you hear these things?" I asked, reaching for the menu despite already knowing what I would order: cheese crepes.

"Spies," he said dryly. "An entire fleet of spies I have at my disposal with their sights set upon you."

"Not a very glorious job," I replied.

"But a necessary one as I am certain you are too modest to tell me that you've now sold two paintings."

"I've been seated across from you for five entire seconds. At least allow me a moment to exchange pleasantries."

Jean sighed to himself. "Go on, then."

I grinned to myself. "Jean Moreau, my dear friend, how are you?"

"Phelan Kimmer, what a pleasure to see you this morning. Aside from starving, I'm well. How are you?"

"Famished," I answered.

Jean raised a brow. "Any news?"

"I've sold another painting."

Jean smiled back at me. "Ah, I had no idea," he replied. "Tell me everything."

"Florine purchased it," I said.

"Fabienne?"

I nodded. An older waiter came to our table, took our orders, and filled beverages quite efficiently before he walked to another table, leaving Jean and I to speak.

"You and Florine were…?" Jean said, gesturing in no particular way to indicate his thoughts. He leaned toward me, "frequently crossing paths?"

"That was a very long time ago," I answered.

"And many lovers ago," Jean commented. "For both of you, if I've heard correctly."

"I don't indulge in spreading rumors. You already know this."

Jean inhaled. "I've struck a nerve, I see," he said. "Does the artist think perhaps a flint of interest was also struck?"

"No," I answered quickly. "Far from it."

"Merely a question, no need to be upset."

"I'm not upset," I replied.

Jean studied me for a long moment. "Good. I just…"

I studied him as well. "You 'just what'?"

"I always heard the two of you were quite compatible and that perhaps if she hadn't wed and had a child, you could have, I don't know, settled down."

"That was never a possibility," I answered dismissively.

"A shame what happened, Madame Fabienne losing her husband so briefly after she was a bride." He shook his head in dismay. "But I suppose you were wise in not pursuing a woman burdened with a small child, given that you are far from the fatherly type."

"What type of person am I, Jean?" I asked.

Silence lingered between us for a moment. I half-expected Jean to say I was the type who would not claim his own child, a selfish individual who was clearly the father of his former lover's child, but who would never own up to caring for the burdensome boy, as Jean had put it.

Jean lifted his cup of tea and smiled brightly. "One who is free to do whatever he desires," he answered, toasting my status. "And I should mention that you will be glad to know Daphne has canceled her visit."

"Daphne?" I questioned. "I'm not familiar with that name."

Jean frowned at me. "Come now, Phelan, I told you about her. My cousin."

"Ah, yes, the cousin who is not a blood relative. It's probably for the best."

It was Jean's turn to appear annoyed. He opened his mouth to speak, but the waiter approached with our meals and Jean held his tongue. Once the waiter left the table, Jean eyed me.

"Plans for this evening?" he asked.

"Sterois, I think," I answered, deciding not to make mention of the boxing match earlier in the evening.

"The tavern?" Jean questioned. "What on earth is taking place at that miserable, grimy little crack in the wall?"

I took a bite of my crepe before replying, enjoying the flavor until I realized it contained caramelized onions and nearly gagged.

"Val is playing," I answered, gulping down the rest of my coffee to erase the abhorrent aftertaste of onions seeping into my tastebuds.

Jean furrowed his brow. "Ah, yes, I forgot he plays the piano. I wasn't aware that you attended his shows."

"They're not shows," I insisted. "They're…"

I paused, arranging my thoughts so that my words didn't emerge as an insult as the most apt description was Val played as background noise to a roomful of people drinking and talking.

"They're underappreciated performances."

Jean snorted. "That seems quite generous."

I shrugged. "He's a good pianist."

"For a tavern where no one is evaluating his skills."

"No, but Val has always been fond of music and it's been a while since I've heard him play."

"A while?" Jean questioned.

I was certain the last time I had walked into Sterois, Elizabeth had been toddling around in a diaper that padded her behind as she fell walking down the steps to the piano. Carmen had brought Elizabeth to sing for her father's birthday, and before the end of the night, I'd taken a seat at the rear of the pub with Elizabth on my lap while the two of us nodded off.

"Too long," I answered.

"Has your cousin attended your art show?" Jean asked.

I shrugged. "He hasn't said."

Jean regarded me again. "You know, Phelan, it's quite honorable of you to support Joshua and his music despite him never making time for you and your art in the same manner."

My jaw tensed.

Breathe in, hold, exhale.

"It's not a contest," I said firmly.

"No, of course not," Jean agreed. "It's merely unexpected considering the two of you never agree on anything and he wished to send you to an asylum when you were in my home."

"And he has since reconsidered."

Jean looked away. "Good."

I cut apart my crepe, removing the onions one by one like the intestines of a creature made of cheese. "Are you certain?"

Jean gave a single nod. "Of course. I hope you understand I would never allow him to remove you from my home and send you away. You're like a brother to me, Phelan, and I will always treat you like family."

I arched a brow. "What are your plans for this evening?" I asked.

Jean smiled brightly. "There is a new show at Cabaret Menagerie," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "An all-female cast of young, beautiful women, and I know the owners of the club. Do you know what that means?"

"They let you in free of charge?" I asked.

"With full access to the club, including…backstage."

While Jean shared the details of the show, I ate the rest of my crepe in silence, deciding his views on how to treat family were far different than mine.