CH 49

"Professor!" Celeste and Bern exclaimed once I walked into the restaurant, my hat and coat dusted in snow.

"Cleaning Assistant, Pugilist, how was your afternoon tea?" I asked.

"Tea was wonderful," Celeste said as I shrugged out of my coat at the booth and hung it onto the rack along with my hat. "The sandwiches were cut into little tiny squares–"

"Which were barely half a bite," Bernard interrupted.

"The tea was delicious," Celeste said, gesturing in quite animated fashion.

"Tea is tea," Bernard grumbled.

Celeste looked at Bernard from the corner of her eye, earning an apology from the boxer for his interruptions.

"And there was a man playing the piano and a woman singing and the flowers were so beautiful it was like being in a garden," Celeste continued. "It was very lovely, Professor."

Bernard wore his typical frown while the girl seated beside him finished reiterating every detail of their afternoon tea, scarcely taking a breath.

"Wasn't it delightful?" Celeste asked Bernard.

"It was fine," he answered. "For a lady's tea."

"There were other men attending," she argued.

"No, there was one, and he was elderly and sitting behind the piano, so he didn't have no choice," Bernard grumbled. He cleared his throat. "Or I should say, he was the pianist and didn't have any choice in the matter."

"And I almost forgot. Bern gave me this!" Celeste said, producing a doll that had been placed on the restaurant booth between her and the window.

I looked from the girl to the doll and back again. "The doll looks identical to you."

"Uncanny, ain't…isn't it?" Bernard asked, making a face.

Both Celeste and I briefly looked Bernard over.

"I beg both of your pardons?" Bernard snapped.

I shook my head and Celeste pursed her lips briefly.

"How did you happen upon a doll that looks exactly like you?" I asked, resuming the conversation.

"Bern found it at the train station when he purchased our tickets for Thursday," Celeste proudly answered. "I don't play with dolls any more, but I used to collect smaller ones. I've never had one that looked like me."

"There was other girls in the tea room the other day with their dolls," Bernard explained. "I didn't want her to be the only kid who didn't have no…nothing…" Bernard gave a sigh of frustration. "I didn't want the kid to be left out is all. Didn't think about a doll being something for younger girls when I saw it."

"It was very thoughtful," Celeste assured him.

"I couldn't pass up nothin'-I mean something– that looks just like you even if you is–are–too old for dolls."

My brow furrowed.

"What are you looking at?" Bernard grumbled.

"May I ask why you're speaking like that?" I questioned.

"Like what?" he snarled.

"Unlike yourself, I suppose," I said, attempting to be as polite as possible.

"What's wrong with the way I'm speaking?" he growled.

"Nothing, I–"

"Bern had an interview with a newspaper reporter," Celeste announced with giddy excitement as she combed her fingers through the doll's hair. "I got to sit at the piano and look through the music while the reporter asked Bern questions."

"Ah," I said. "An interview concerning your match, I assume?"

"Yeah, the match, what I got going on for the next one, and some other stuff."

"Wonderful, I look forward to reading the interview."

"The reporter said there were certain words he couldn't print," Celeste whispered, "so Bern had to think of more polite ones."

I raised a brow and to my amusement, Bernard glowered back at me. "Next time I'm gonna let the reporters talk to the kid on my behalf," he groused.

"How do you like the executive suite?" I asked Celeste, deciding it was best to change the subject.

Immediately she sucked in a deep breath, eyes wide and a grin taking over her expression. With the same exuberance she had in detailing their afternoon tea, she began to describe the luxurious suite.

"It is the most lovely place I've ever seen in my entire life. I almost feel as though I could become lost while wandering around. The two bedrooms are gigantic and there is a bathtub with feet like a lion. Did I mention the flowers? The hotel has their own greenhouse and they have roses in bloom all year long."

"It is quite spacious," I agreed. "The robes are luxurious as well."

"Have you stayed the night there, Professor?" Celeste asked.

"I've been inside previously," I answered.

"Before you lived here?" Celeste innocently questioned. "Or did you stay the night…" her eyes narrowed as she studied me. "Did you stay with someone? Or did you spend the night by yourself?"

Bern elbowed her in the arm. "Leave him be, kid. He's a fancy artist. He can stay in the executive suite if that's what he wants. And he can even jump on the bed like you did."

Celeste blushed. "You gave me permission."

"If I didn't have a bum knee, I'd jump on my bed too."

Celeste wrinkled her nose and smiled back at him. "That would be quite amusing." She straightened her back and held her chin up. "But no more jumping on beds. I shall conduct myself like a proper young lady from now on."

"You got the rest of your life to be a proper young lady. Be a goofy kid a while longer," Bernard said.

Outside of the restaurant, a man placed a wooden box on the ground and used it as a seat. He picked up an accordion while another man opened a case that held a marionette of a wooden boy, which he began walking in front of the window, garnering the attention of people passing by.

The moment the music started, Celeste stared out the window, lips parted and light eyes wide with wonder as the two performers began their show.

"I haven't seen a puppet show in ages," she said.

"You ain't been alive for ages," Bernard pointed out. "But you can go out there if you want," Bernard said as he scooted out of the booth and stood. "You got a few minutes until our food is delivered. That way you don't got…" He winced at his own words. "You don't need to listen to us old men talking."

"I like listening to you old men speak, but I would love to see the show."

"See the show," Bernard insisted.

Celeste wasted no time exiting the booth. She promised to return after a few songs, leaving Bernard and I seated together.

"Smoke?" he asked, offering me a cigarette.

I shook my head. On occasion I enjoyed a cigar, but I had not made a habit out of smoking as I disliked the stale smell penetrating my wardrobe and apartment. "Tobacco bothers Elvira's breathing."

Bernard paused and returned his cigarettes and matches back into his overcoat pocket. He picked up the doll Celeste had left behind, his expression unreadable.

"That was kind of you to bring her back a doll," I remarked.

He shrugged. "For a girl seven years of age, not thirteen."

"Given that she is currently mesmerized by a puppet, I do not believe the doll is a poor choice of a gift."

Bernard inhaled, held it, and slowly exhaled. "Bothers the hell out of me that the kid's been treated like she's older for far too long," Bernard said under his breath, looking out the window where she stood. "Like she's some little coquette."

"Mistreated," I said. "By men who should know better."

"Bastards," he snarled. "Don't they got sisters and mothers? They should be ashamed of themselves."

I waited for Bernard to correct his manner of speaking, which he didn't. The two of us stared out the window, watching as Celeste cheered alongside several other people who had stopped to watch the show. Most were younger children accompanied by their parents or grandparents, but she didn't seem to notice or mind that she was on the older end of the children.

"She appears quite content resuming her life as a girl for the time being," I commented. "I am hopeful that the longer she is treated like a young girl and not a woman she will be able to enjoy what is left of her childhood."

"Yeah," Bernard said under his breath. "It sure as hell don't last long enough."

I nodded in agreement. My own childhood had felt as though it lasted for a season. There was very little I recalled prior to Erik being born and after I'd brought him inside, I had gone from a toddler to a caretaker tasked with caring for a newborn.

It wasn't until Erik was three that he was a playmate to me, and while my brother still relied heavily on me in many ways, Val had watched over both of us while his father was away and we were feral, inseparable forest imps dashing wildly through the trees, not a care in the world other than what sort of trouble we wanted to find ourselves in together.

And then in the heat of summer, when Erik had been only three and a half years old and I'd been seven, my childhood had ended quite abruptly. There was no toy offered as consolation, no adult to sooth my rapidly escalating anxiety and assure me that I was not at fault for what had transpired.

There had been no warning that life could change so abruptly, that my little brother who had consumed every waking moment of my life could disappear and leave me unable to cope with being on my own. Three decades later and I had never recovered from the horror of that dreadful year, the ache that would never leave me.

For years I had fantasized about being taken in by a different family, a mother and father who doted upon their adopted children. I imagined Erik and I reunited, the two of us raised by an affectionate mother and gentle father who saw the talent in his children rather than their faults. They had a dozen children whom they loved equally and who loved one another, a home filled with laughter, an abundance of food, and a roaring fire in every hearth.

Absently I touched the burn on my arm and thought of the cold, empty house where I had been born and the absence of physical and emotional affection.

I watched Celeste, who had gone from a loving family to a runaway to an orphan in under a year. She would carry the burden of that time spent on the streets with her for the remainder of her life, but I was hopeful that the more distant the months spent in the beds of men became that she would be able to live in a way that brought her true joy, not the pantomime of normalcy I felt on most days.

"She's got company," Bernard growled.

I blinked, staring out the window to find Marco had approached Celeste, who looked quite delighted by his presence.

Bernard started to stand, but I held out my hand. "He isn't going to abduct her, for pity's sake."

"He better not put a hand on her," Bernard grumbled.

Marco stood with his hands in his coat pockets while Celeste stood with her arms crossed. I saw him offer her his scarf, which she declined. They exchanged words, both of them glancing at one another while continuing to watch the puppet show.

I expected nothing less of Marco than to conduct himself like a gentleman in the presence of a young lady. Florine would not have accepted poor manners or disrespect toward a female acquaintance from her only son.

"That man better not touch a hair on her head," Bernard warned.

"He's seventeen. Hardly a man."

"Yeah, well, there's a big difference between thirteen and seventeen."

I didn't disagree with Bernard's assessment and simply shrugged, doubting Marco had much experience when it came to speaking with girls, let alone anything else.

"You said you know his mother?" Bernard asked.

"From a long time ago," I answered.

"Long time ago? Like eighteen years or something?"

My jaw immediately clenched and I looked away from him.

"Seventeen." Bernard whistled. "That's the worst age. What was you doing at seventeen?" he asked me.

"Nothing I wish to discuss at the table," I answered. "You?"

Bernard huffed. "I was wrestling three days a week," he said.

"After your school studies?"

"I quit attending school at the age of fourteen," he said. "My pa got injured and couldn't work, and he was old already anyhow and couldn't do nothing else, so I made sure my ma and pa didn't have to worry about nothing."

"That's how you became a fighter?" I asked.

Bernard shrugged. "Didn't like the wrestling, but it kept my folks from losing everything. After a year I convinced the fellow who organized the matches that I was old enough to fight and went onto strictly boxing."

"I would think wrestling is easier than boxing."

Bernard shook his head. "My first match they had me wrestle a mule," he said.

I'd never seen it in person, but I heard that there were matches in which men were in the ring against different types of animals from bears to kangaroos.

"Felt like hell after that one and refused to do it again. I'd take the burliest man over another animal."

"Was it mean?" I asked.

Bernard shook his head. "Old," he said remorsefully. "Couldn't hardly walk and it shoulda been put out of its misery, but the farmer got fifty franks for the damn thing." He sniffed. "I just had to pin him, but I knocked him over and his leg bent the wrong way and cracked the bone. They shot it right in front of the whole crowd 'cause it was braying something awful and then they had to put a bullet in its skull twice too before it died."

I inhaled sharply. "That sounds quite horrific."

"I used to feed that mule apples every time I walked past the farm. He'd scream at me too until I gave him his treat, then he'd keep following me until I reached the end of the field and he couldn't go no further. I'd throw him one last apple and take off running and I swear it sounded like he was laughing 'cause he got his way." Bernard lowered his gaze. "Felt like the worst person in the world cracking his leg like that. He didn't deserve his last moments screaming in pain, poor old man."

"It wasn't intentional on your part."

"No," he agreed. "But it didn't change the way I felt."

I shuddered at his words, knowing the feeling quite well.

"I thought maybe after the match they'd let me take him home and I could give him a whole bucket of apples from our tree, but…" He shrugged. "That ain't what happened."

"You have no shortage of compassion," I said, noting the strain to his bruised features.

"Surprising, I know," he said.

Despite always sounding irritated, I was certain Bernard was offended by my observation.

"There is a lack of compassionate individuals in the world," I said quietly.

Bernard turned his face from the window and stared at me. "That's a real shit way to view the world."

My mouth dropped open. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said–"

"I heard what you said," I snapped. "And I stand by my words. There are countless nefarious individuals out there preying upon innocent people."

"There's a hell of a lot more good people out there than bad, is all," he said. "And sometimes good people get overlooked 'cause people expect the worst from them."

"I am aware."

"I don't mean no disrespect, Professor, but you sure as hell ain't aware what it's like for someone to look at you once and decide you ain't no different than a dog or an ape."

"I am more aware than you think." I looked away from him, tongue lodged on the inside of my cheek.

Bernard scoffed.

"My brother," I blurted out. "He was…"

Plagued by hideous scars at birth. Born with a face so terrible most people would shriek when they saw him. Disfigured in such wretched fashion that few would consider him human at all.

But he was more than his terrible scars. Erik was born the most curious and affectionate little brother ever to walk the earth. He was always on top of me, always clinging to me, always right within reach and I wanted him beside me. He was the most perfect sibling I could have desired and I would be damned if anyone spoke ill of my brother.

"My brother was born with a significant scar to the right side of his face. I have no doubt in my mind that strangers would have treated him poorly the moment they saw him, sparing no consideration that he was no different than them on the inside."

Bernard remained quiet for a long moment. "He's the one in the drawing, yeah? The little boy on the steps?"

"The first piece in your anonymous art collection, I presume?"

"Second," he said.

I grunted at his reply.

"You got a problem?"

"No, I do not."

"You sound like you do."

I chewed on the inside of my bottom lip. "I asked you directly if you purchased the drawing and you told me no."

"I told you it was anonymous and to stop questioning me."

"Don't pretend to be daft. You knew what I was asking you and you decided to be untruthful."

"It wasn't intentional."

"You accidentally lied to my face?" I asked, growing more annoyed by the second.

Bernard took a breath and briefly closed his eyes. "My manager wanted me to show I was serious about being at the gallery the other night, so he asked your dealer to show me what they had, so he made me wander around all the rooms. Turns out, I bought the first scribble he showed me."

"Because you recognized the name?"

I didn't think it was possible, but Bernard looked annoyed. "You didn't sign it 'The Professor.' How in the hell would I know it was you?"

The moment my expression changed, Bernard released a hearty belly laugh.

"Relax, I'm messing with you, Professor."

"Why did you wish to remain anonymous?" I asked.

"Because I did." Bernard made a sour face and shook his head. "Look, I bought it 'cause I liked the way the kid was sitting on the stairs. He looked like he was up to something."

I took a deep breath, the fingers of my right hand grazing my left forearm. "And then you knew it was mine and decided you didn't want anyone to know," I said under my breath.

"That ain't how it is with me," Bernard said.

"Then how is it with you?" I snapped.

"You want to know how it is? I'll tell you how it is," Bernard grumbled. "I liked the damn drawing. I don't know what it was about it, but I thought it was the best one in the gallery. Thing is, I didn't like the frame, so I told your art dealer that it got to have a better frame, so he's having one commissioned." Bernard leaned back against the bench, bottom lip protruding. "I didn't want him to say nothing to you 'cause after a while when I thought about it, I figured maybe you'd want it back being your brother and all."

I blinked at him. "You–you want to return it?" I questioned.

Bernard looked at me and frowned. "No, I ain't returning it. I didn't say nothin' to Theodore 'cause I was going to give it back to you in private with the new frame."

"But you paid more than the asking price," I argued.

"Yeah, 'cause it was worth double what they had on the card," he said. "And I'm good with numbers, but I'm still a brainless fool who ain't good with money and don't know nothing about some dumb scribbles, so I paid more than I should have, maybe. I didn't mind, though, 'cause I liked it and then I saw your name and found it amusing that the only drawing I liked in that whole damn place was yours." His scowl deepened. "And I don't know why we both sound pissed as hell right now because I didn't think I did nothing bad." His frustration became more apparent. "I mean to say I didn't think I did anything…hell, I forgot what I were–was –trying to say. Point is, it felt like something real personal so I wanted it to look nice. And I didn't want you to know 'cause I wanted it to be a surprise. Are you happy now?"

For a long moment the two of us stared at each other.

"If you would have said something–" I started to say.

"I said it was a surprise," he growled. "You got something against surprises?"

"I wanted the drawing to find itself in good hands."

Bernard looked down at his clenched fists. "Good hands, eh?" he said under his breath. "It'll be back to you in three weeks."

"I don't want you to return it," I insisted.

His blue eyes narrowed. "You want me to keep it?" he asked incredulously.

"I want the drawing to stay in the hands of someone who will appreciate it," I said.

"Why do you sound pissed at me then?"

"I'm not angry with you. I was insulted the buyer was anonymous, but quite honestly I'm glad it is in your possession and in a new frame. I would have placed it back into a folder and looked at it from time to time."

Bernard scratched his chin. "I'm gonna have a whole room in my house with nothing but your damn scribbles and stupid brush strokes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I got three words for you. Flame. Colored. Tanager," he said, counting off each word on his fingers.

My lips parted. "You're the one who asked Florine to return the painting and purchased it for yourself?"

"You're damn right." Bernard smirked. "But I didn't ask."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"It means I told her I wanted it and I wasn't leaving until she agreed."

"Good God," I said under my breath.

"Yeah, that was her reaction too," Bernard said, sounding quite pleased with himself.

"Why were you at her home?" I asked.

"Because that one invited me," Bernard said, gesturing toward the window where Marco stood still chatting with Celeste. "Figured I'd make good use of the card he gave me and talk to his ma."

I couldn't begin to imagine Florine's reaction to a brute of a man on her doorstep with his swollen face and blackened eyes.

"She only let me in 'cause of the kid."

My eyebrows shot up. "You brought Celeste with you?"

"I didn't want her to sit in the hotel while I ran errands. Would you believe she helped me convince Fabienne to let me buy the bird painting?"

"You are quite the enigma, Monsieur Montlaur, one that I am certainly fortunate to have as a friend."

"We good then?" he grumbled.

I nodded in confirmation.

"And you sure you don't want it back?"

"I don't need it returned, but I would like to see the frame when completed if possible."

"Yeah, I can have it sent to you for approval first." Bernard tapped his fingers together and squinted at me. "You ever…you ever draw something based on a description?"

"I have. It's actually an exercise I have all of my students do at the start and end of the year."

"Hmmm. But you do it too?"

"Are you inquiring about a commissioned portrait?"

To my surprise, Bernard offered a sheepish grin. "I been thinkin' it'd be nice to have a drawing or painting of my Bea."

"Portraits done without a model sitting in front of me are not my forte," I explained. "If you want me to try, I–"

"Yeah, I want to try," Bernard said before I finished speaking. "For my 'Scribbles by The Professor room'. I can't have no oddball painting by someone else."

"I don't want you to be disappointed–"

"I ain't gonna be disappointed. You tell me what it cost and I'll write a check and describe my Bea to you. Yeah?"

"Rather than compensation, I would prefer a second set of eyes to look over a ledger."

"I can do that," Bernard said. "Yeah, sure, I can do that."

oOo

Once the puppet show ended, Marco placed several bank notes into a hat reserved for collecting monetary donations. He gestured to the performers that the money was from Celeste, who curtseyed several times and thanked him.

Marco smiled and offered his hand, but Celeste unexpectedly took a step away and crossed her arms, her posture noticeably changing as she recoiled from his touch.

"That's it," Bernard said through his teeth.

"Monsieur Montlaur, I implore to refrain from punching that poor boy in the face. He has been nothing short of polite and respectful," I replied.

Bernard eased back into his seat and scowled at me. "If he makes her uncomfortable, I'm gonna punch him first and then I'm gonna sock you next."

I raised a brow and issued a significant look in Bernard's direction. "Give her a moment."

"Her?" he growled.

"Yes, her," I replied.

"I ain't leaving her to fend for herself," Bernard argued.

"Celeste doesn't need you to rescue her from a conversation on the street," I replied. "And besides, I think you've taught her quite well how to protect herself."

"You're only defending him 'cause–" Bernard stopped himself short of finishing his thoughts. "'Cause you know his mother."

"Florine has lofty standards for her son," I said.

Marco linked his hands behind his back and continued speaking as if nothing had happened while Celeste slowly allowed herself to relax again in his presence. I couldn't tell if he had so little experience speaking with females that he failed to notice her reaction or if he was polite enough to ignore her reaction.

"Why am I letting that welp speak to her still?" Bernard groused.

"Because she is in need of trustworthy acquaintances," I replied.

"I disagree."

"It will be good for her confidence," I reasoned. "And given that he's only a few years older, I believe it would be beneficial for her to speak to someone her age."

"Instead of two old men?" Bernard said, his lips in a frown of disapproval.

"Instead of one grumpy old man who likes to complain and one slightly less cantankerous man."

"You're not any less cantankerous than me. You're grumpy as hell, Professor."

I smiled to myself. "You're the one who wants to go around punching people for simply holding a conversation," I pointed out.

"And you're the one trusting some damn boy in a world filled with boys that ain't no good."

I glanced at him and chuckled. "What a shit way to view the world, Monsieur Montlaur. May I remind you that a very wise and grumpy old man told me not twenty minutes ago that there are more good people in the world than bad?"

Bernard's scowl slowly melted into an appreciative, crooked smile. "Real amusing," he said. "But I told her no boys and I meant it."

I watched as Marco awkwardly shifted his weight and changed positions several times ranging from his arms at his sides to behind his back and at last one in his pocket while he gestured with his free hand.

"I don't believe he's one you will have to worry about," I said, certain he had few if any interactions with females.

Celeste risked a smile and Marco grinned back at her, head bobbing as he spoke, the two of them pantomiming their adolescent conversation on the street far out of our earshot.

I assumed Marco asked where she was heading as Celeste turned toward the window where Bernard and I sat and pointed at the two of us in the booth. Marco's eyes met mine, but his expression never changed. He offered to walk Celeste to the door, gave a slight bow, and proceeded on his way once she was inside.

"See? No need to intervene," I said as Celeste returned inside, glowing with ethereal light.

"How was the show?" Bernard asked.

"Quite enjoyable," Celeste answered. "How was your conversation?"

Bernard shrugged. "Old men stuff."