Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LUCIEN
“It’s over there,” Tamsyn tells me the following morning, gesturing to a grave with a small, flat marker about thirty feet away under a couple of mature trees. “There he is.”
“Great spot.” I try not to sound too surprised, but I am. When she mentioned this whole Brooklyn cemetery field trip, I pictured something wedged into a city block between, I don’t know, a check-cashing place and a dry cleaner. Which just goes to show that I’m an idiot. My elitist upbringing didn’t allow me to think that there could be this fantastic and beautifully landscaped park with rolling hills and stately gravestones right in the heart of Brooklyn’s buzzing hive of activity, but here it is, easily accessible. We parked the car and enjoyed a leisurely stroll to the plot. On a beautiful day like this, this is the kind of spot where I’d love to jog. But now that we’ve arrived for the solemn purpose of the trip, I don’t feel ready. I feel nervous about the whole thing, to be honest. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” she says, glancing around and holding the bouquet of bright blue hydrangeas that we grabbed from a local street vendor on the way in the crook of her arm. “I should come more often.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“True,” she says, continuing toward the grave. But when she realizes that I’m still right beside her, she stops again and ducks her head. Tucks her hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “I usually like to, ah, talk to him. I thought maybe you could, ah, give me a minute? Maybe sit on the bench right here?”
Wait, what? She talks to him?
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Let’s just say that I’m not the kind of guy that believes in talking to inanimate objects. Nor do I believe that Big Ralph is lingering around his gravesite in any way, shape or form, much less lingering and waiting for periodic earthly communiques. Still, if this is what Tamsyn needs, I’m all for it. “Shout if you need me.”
Nodding, she sets off again. I sit and hunch over my phone, but it’s only a token attempt at giving her some privacy. Luckily, she’s so absorbed in the moment that she doesn’t give me a second glance. So I watch as she calls out a cheery “Hi, Dad,” brushes away some dry leaves before sitting cross-legged and placing the flowers on the grave, then chatters away, as animated as I’ve ever seen her.
Watching her gives me a heavy pang of something in the dead center of my chest.
I wonder if she’s telling him about our chance meeting at LaGuardia and all our adventures since. Is she telling him about the Mediterranean cities we visited and all the delicious food we ate? The fancy cars we’ve driven? Maybe she’s mentioning Mrs. Hooper and her little Yorkie, and the way Tamsyn cared for her while putting up with her charming but snobby attitude.
Whatever the topic of conversation is, it makes her laugh and smile. A lot.
I’d give my fortune to know if she’s telling her father about me and what she thinks his reaction would be. If I were ever lucky enough to have a daughter, God knows I’d tell her to stay the fuck away from a guy like me and his domestic mess.
Still, Tamsyn seems happy, and that’s enough for me. Until the mood changes. Her smile slowly fades. Her chin wobbles. She ducks her head and wipes her eyes. I tense, ready to leap into action, but determined to give her a minute. I’ve got broad shoulders and two good ears for listening. I’ve got a handkerchief. Whatever she needs, I’m here. I’m waiting. I’m ready.
But she quickly pulls her own tissue out of her pocket and uses it to wipe her face. Another smile appears, a little watery, but still valid. Her one-sided conversation continues.
Leaving me to sit there in my waiting silence, wondering when it was that her smiles and tears took over my emotional state. Why is it that even a hint of her pain carves a groove through my gut? I’m in love with her, yeah, but this is bullshit.
It’s also nothing like anything I ever felt for Ravenna. I never felt this rabid protectiveness for her. Wild highs and lows, yeah, but never this . If I could find, I don’t know, a shaman or someone to resurrect Big Ralph, I would. Hell, maybe I should think about funding a foundation for research into the afterlife. Maybe that would cheer Tamsyn up.
I know I’m being ridiculous. Part of me does, anyway. But the sentiment is real. Made worse by the fact that I’m a rich and powerful man used to getting a good chunk of what he wants out of life. Funny how all I want has whittled down to seeing a smile on someone else’s face all the time.
It’s the weirdest thing. I’m sitting on a comfortable bench in a beautiful cemetery on a breezy summer day, but I can’t work through the knot of frustration in my gut. I know it’s not rational. What did I think I was going to do? Take my self-importance and my fortune and somehow resurrect her father so that I don’t have to feel sad about the sadness in her face? Ridiculous, right? But as I sit there watching her, I feel like a medieval knight with nowhere to go. I’m saddled up on my trusty horse with my shiny armor, sword, spear, dagger and all the other implements of warfare. I’ve got the energy. The desire. The only thing I’m missing is a declared enemy to protect her from. I suppose I could shake my fist at God or curse death. But I doubt it would do any good.
There is one good thing about this unexpected field trip. I’ve got a new mantra when it comes to Tamsyn. It used to be don’t let her go . And now? Protect her . I’d prefer not to have any mantra running through my brain, but I suppose a new one is a refreshing change. And there’s nothing I can do about it, anyway.
Protect her. Protect her. Protect her.
“Hey.” Tamsyn’s feet come into view, startling me out of my thoughts. I’m pleased to see that she’s wearing one of the pairs of Chuck Taylors that I bought for her. The hot-pink ones. I don’t know why I didn’t notice before. I hastily straighten and focus on trying to look a lot less batshit crazy than I feel. “Are you okay?” she asks.
The irony of her being worried about me is not lost on me, folks. She’s pure of heart. I think I knew it from the second I laid eyes on her. And I know it more and more with each passing day. That’s why I’m so determined not to let her go. In this whole world of billions of people, I’ll never find another Tamsyn Scott, and I know it.
“Of course I’m okay.” My gruff voice is giving me away, so I clear my throat. “The question is, are you okay?”
She studies me hard for a beat or two. Let’s just say that she looks sub-convinced. But she’s gotten good at recognizing my brick walls when I throw them up in her face, so she sits and brushes some of the honeyed strands of hair out of her face when the breeze kicks up. “I’m good.”
“You sure? I thought I saw a tear or two.”
“Yeah, but I always get a little teary when I come here. Last time it was buckets. So that’s progress, right?”
She’s so sunny with her bright brown eyes. So relentlessly upbeat. Can anyone realistically blame me for needing to tap into her energy here and there? I don’t think so. So I reach for either side of her head and pull her in for a lingering forehead kiss.
She melts, letting out a serrated sigh. “Now I’m really good.”
I let her go because my self-control is hanging by a frayed thread. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She eases back, all shining eyes and reluctant smiles. “I’m sure I’ll regret admitting this, but I’m glad you came.”
I feel like I’ve just won the biggest prize imaginable. “I thought I was in the doghouse for smothering you.”
“You are, but now I’m opening the doghouse door.”
“Thank God.”
“I told my dad about you, by the way.”
“Oh? What does he think about us?”
“He thinks I’m crazy?—”
“Smart man,” I say darkly.
“If I may finish? He thinks I’m crazy, but he trusts my judgment.”
“I’ll take that,” I say, feeling deeply touched. It’s not as though Tamsyn and I are doing anything that requires a parental blessing. Even if we were, I’d never get it. Maybe that’s why this implied blessing feels so special.
“You’ve never even seen him, have you? Here. I’ll show you a picture.”
I watch, bemused, as she pulls up her phone and finds just the right picture. I’m preparing to say something kind and indulgent— he looks like a nice guy comes to mind—so I’m not prepared for my reaction to this candid shot. She evidently caught him by surprise one day in his mechanic’s garage. He’s wearing a light blue jumpsuit with Big Ralph embroidered on it in red. He’s got an arm raised to wipe his sweaty brow. He’s got some tool in a big hand that’s smudged with grease or oil. His hair is almost as dark as mine. And it’s straight and spiky. Not Tamsyn’s silky brown curls at all.
But now I know where Tamsyn got her expressive eyes and smile. As Big Ralph stares into the camera, I feel like I know where Tamsyn got her warmth, directness and honesty. Her endlessly sunny disposition.
I feel like I know him. Worse, I feel like I’ve suffered a tremendous loss because I never knew him.
“Good pic,” I say, swallowing hard.
“It’s my favorite picture of him. I feel like I really captured him.”
“I think you’re right.”
She puts her phone away. “Should we go? I’m done here.”
“Done?” I turn back, startled. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
That doesn’t seem right. I feel…unsettled. Suddenly I have unfinished business here. Even if I don’t know what it is. “Give me a sec.”
I get up and head over to the grave with no idea what I’m doing. But when I get there, I discover that there are a few blades of grass across the corner of the terracotta-colored marble slab, so I wipe those away. Then I crouch there for a moment and study the stone. It’s super simple. Just his name, nickname and dates of birth and death. But it says Beloved at the bottom, and that says it all, doesn’t it? My hand acts on its own, reaching out to rest on his nickname. And the words rush out with no conscious thought from me.
“Rest easy, Big Ralph. I’ve got her now.”
I give myself a minute, but there are no more words. So I get up and go back to her, taking her hand and pulling her up to walk with me while making damn sure I don’t look her in the face.
“Back to Great Neck,” she says cheerily. I get the feeling she’s giving me a minute to collect myself. I appreciate the consideration. “I just hope the traffic isn’t too bad.”
“We’re, ah, not going back.” My voice sounds huskier than usual, but I consider myself lucky that it’s working at all. “I want to see your old neighborhood.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’ve seen where I came from. Now I want to see where you came from.”
“You do?” She can’t hide her delight. “I thought you had too many other things to do today.”
“I do, but this is important.”
“We’ll just drive by,” she says, laughing. “There’s no way you’ll ever find a parking space. You know that, right?”
“We’ll see. I’m feeling lucky today.”
We laugh and head for the car, but it doesn’t take long for me to discover that she was right about the parking situation in her old neighborhood. Still, I get to see Big Ralph’s Garage, now christened the much loftier Bushwick Motors. I also drive by her old elementary school and the nondescript brownstone apartment building where she grew up.
Like every other square inch of New York City, the sidewalks are full of people hurrying to get where they’re going. But there’s a neighborhood feeling. Everyone’s got their music going. There’s a lot of hip-hop. A lot of Latin music.
“What are you thinking?” she says from the passenger seat. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“Oh, there’s my favorite taco truck. Josephina’s.” She points. “Can we grab a snack?”
“Taco truck? You mean street food?”
She laughs. “Yes. Street food. Don’t be a snob. It’s delicious. And you’re missing out if you think you can only eat at Cipriani all the time. You’ll have to double park for a second, though. Come on.”
I screech to a halt in front of a fire hydrant, throw on my hazard lights and hope for the best. By the time I get out and come around the curb, she’s hurried over to the truck. A woman behind the window shrieks with delight and hurries out to engulf Tamsyn in a bear hug.
“Tamsyn, where you been, girl?” She’s got a faint Spanish accent. “It’s been too long.”
“It has been too long. I’ve missed your food,” Tamsyn says, beaming at her.
“And I’ve got some new items on the menu, but they may be too spicy for you—” Her attention swings around to me with an appreciative once-over. “Who’s this handsome man you have with you? He’s fancy.”
“ Fancy ?” I say, smothering a laugh.
“You don’t blend.” Tamsyn doesn’t bother hiding her sudden glee. “Look around you. Who else is wearing Italian loafers and a linen shirt like yours? Look at that gold watch. You’re like a flamingo trying to mingle with the pigeons in Prospect Park.”
“Knock it off,” I say.
“I don’t think so,” Tamsyn says brightly. “It’s a refreshing change that you’re the one who’s not dressed for the surroundings. I’m tired of it being me all the time.”
“I’m still waiting for my introduction, lovebirds,” Josephina says.
“Sorry, Josephina,” Tamsyn says. “This is Lucien Winter.”
I wait, but Tamsyn doesn’t seem inclined to provide more information. The lack of a title or clearly stated connection to Tamsyn leaves me feeling oddly disgruntled as I shake Josephina’s hand. As a grown and unsentimental man in my thirties, I’m not sure what I expected Tamsyn to say. That I’m her gentleman friend? Her boo? But I want her to say something . And it’s not that I want Josephina to know my place in Tamsyn’s life; I doubt I’ll ever see the woman again. I want Tamsyn to know.
“We need titles,” I quietly say to Tamsyn after we order, and Josephina gets started with our food. “Why didn’t you tell her that I’m your boyfriend?”
Asking the question makes my face hot. So it’s a relief when I see the bright color creep across her cheeks.
“Because it’s inappropriate.” She levels that gaze on me and keeps it there. Nice and steady. Unfortunately, it’s got none of the sweet delight I hoped to see. Just a steely finality that reminds me I underestimate Tamsyn at my own peril. “I know I’m a fool for sticking around and continuing any kind of relationship with a married man. But even I’m smart enough to know better than to give any titles to someone else’s husband.”
I don’t like that. At all. So I give her a lazy and insolent once-over that makes her breath hitch and her color rise even higher.
“Use the word. Don’t use the word. Up to you, Ms. Scott.” I pause to make sure I have her undivided attention. “As long as you understand: it is what it is. And nothing’s going to change it.”