Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (13 page)

With another groan, he forced himself out of bed and stumbled to his chair where Gordy always laid out his clothes. Sure enough, there they were, and Vincenzo had to sit down to pull everything on. He was so weak, it was appalling. But well-deserved. Absolutely everything he was feeling right now was well-deserved.

Arabella Mayor was his Jane. His Jane that he’d run off and left, left to raise his child. His blood began to pound behind his empty eyes, and he groaned, knowing he was in for a hell of a headache. Bending over to pull on his socks didn’t help, either, and he had to stop to rub at his temples for a minute.

A yawn caught him by surprise as he buttoned up his shirt, and he stopped to scratch at his beard. The thing was thick and bushy, and hid most of his face. He’d worn it for years, on purpose; partly to cover the burn marks that trailed up his right cheek, and partly to act as a disguise. None of his audience could argue that he wasn’t a beast, to look at him. But what about Jane—
Arabella
? The explosion had altered his voice, sure, and of course his face…that had to be why she didn’t recognize him.

Well, he decided as he pulled on his jacket, he could help fix some of that. He had every intention of seeing her tonight—assuming it was still the following day—and explaining things. He
had
to explain things to her, so that she’d understand. Understand when she received the money he planned on sending her, and the will he was going to have written up in San Francisco. Understand why he’d left her, and why he had to leave her again.

A small part of him wondered if she
would
understand. And an even smaller part of him hoped that she wouldn’t—that she wanted him, no matter what he looked like.

The smell of something baking led him down the hall and into the dining room. He’d lived here only a few short weeks, but already this place was home. He had the floor-plan memorized, he knew where everything was. The sound of Gordy talking to himself through the door to the kitchen was like a morning welcome; not having Rajah twining between his legs made him feel off-balance. Yeah, this was home, and he was going to leave it. For her. Again.

So that she didn’t have to be married to him. Again.

“There ye are.” Gordy’s voice grew louder as he came out of the kitchen. “I’ve been hoping ye’d get up soon. The chicken is never as good after it’s been warmed.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after four, I figure. Yer appointment with Mrs. Mayor is tonight.”

“Do you think you could manage to shave me before then?”

“A shave? Like, the whole thing?” He’d been wearing the beard since before Gordy had met him, and it had only gotten wilder over the years.

“I figured it’s time to lose the bramble bush.” So that maybe Jane could believe him when he confessed his past sins.

“Aye, sure. It’s about time she sees what she’s getting.” The last part was faint, and Vincenzo figured the other man had gone back into the kitchen. There could only be one
she
that Gordy meant, judging from the other man’s sly remarks about the time Vincenzo had been spending with Mrs. Mayor. But Gordy was wrong; he didn’t want to shave off his beard so that Jane could see what she was getting, but rather so that she could see who she was losing. Or doing without, or whatever. She’d appreciate it, he was sure.

He felt for his chair, and sank into it gratefully. There was a cup of lukewarm coffee. Apparently Gordy had heard him up and about, and had poured it for him. The other man had years of experience taking care of him, that was for sure.

Sighing, Vincenzo resisted the urge to rub his temples again. He was going to leave his home? Leave Gordy, who’d been his only friend—his lifeline—for so long? Because she didn’t like ugly things? Because she wouldn’t want to be married to a monster?

Was he not giving her enough credit? Maybe she could overcome that. He scoffed and took another gulp of coffee. Overcome it? He’d
left
her. She’d had to marry
Milton
, for God’s sakes. She wasn’t going to overcome that. She’d probably beg him to leave her in peace.

Gordy shuffled back into the room and placed a plate in front of him. Vincenzo inhaled the rich scents of Gordy’s famous cream chicken, buttermilk biscuits, and potatoes au gratin. Just the sort of heavy, filling meal a man might need when recovering from a liquid diet.

When he reached for his knife, though, his hand brushed against paper. He picked it up, and felt the shape of a ticket. A train ticket. A
single
train ticket. Gordy was silent, across the way, only the sound of the cutlery telling Vincenzo that his friend was there. “What time do I leave?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.” Gordy was sullen, and he couldn’t blame the other man. They’d been together for years.

But he only said “Good” and attacked his potatoes, which tasted ashier than usual.

“Are ye sure I can’t convince ye to stay?”

“Trust me, it’s for the best if I leave Everland.”

“This is about Mrs. Mayor, isn’t it?” Vincenzo carefully used the biscuit to sop up some of the cream. “She likes ye, ye dolt.”

She might like him now, but what about tomorrow? “There are plenty of things that Mrs. Mayor doesn’t realize about me.”

Gordy made a little incredulous scoffing noise, and Vincenzo heard him chewing. Then, around a mouthful of whatever, his friend said thoughtfully, “Ye know, I didn’t expect you to run from trouble.”

This time it was Vincenzo’s turn to snort derisively. “Then you don’t know me nearly as well as you think.” Gordy grunted, questioning. “I’ve been running for longer than you know me.”

“Aye, I know that. A blind man could see that. I just wanted to know if
ye
could see it, too.”

“See what?”

“That ye run. Ye’ve run throughout Europe, and the Orient, too. Ye ran from yer past anytime it got hard. Ye let them all deride ye, and then adore ye when they hear ye play, but ye never actually get close to any of ‘em. Ye’ve entertained ladies, but as soon as they start ta think long-term, we’re movin’ on to another city.”

Vincenzo thought about his friend’s words while he chewed. Finally, he nodded and swallowed. “So I’ve been running from my past. There’s nothing unusual about that. If you looked like I did, you’d run too.”

“Who cares how ye look?” Gordy sounded exasperated. “The people who matter don’t, only ye.” Him, and Arabella Mayor. “We’re all runnin’ from something, Vincenzo. Hell, I’ve been runnin’ most of my life. But a man’s gotta know when he’s run far enough. When it’s time to stop runnin’.” Silence, and then the clink of cutlery. Then, a more subdued: “I figured we were done running.”

The chicken wasn’t nearly as good as it usually was. Or maybe it was guilt that was making the meat hard to swallow. Vincenzo put down his fork, and rested his forehead in his palm. “I’m sorry, Gordy. I can’t stop. Not yet.” A deep breath. “I’ll talk to Arabella tonight, and then I’m leaving tomorrow. With or without you.”

“Yer runnin’ again, you mean.”

“Yes. Yes!” He thumped his fist down on the table, and tried his damnedest to glare at his friend. “I’m running. Only it’s the same running I’ve been doing for ten years, so it’s no different, really.” Standing, he threw his napkin on his plate. “I’m going to my music room for a bit.” Some Bach would help ease the nearly overwhelming frustration and guilt. “And hopefully by this evening you’ll be at peace with my decision.”

“I’m not goin’ ta be at peace with it, ever.” Vincenzo turned on his heel to stalk out of the dining room, but before he did, his friend said quietly, “I expected better of ye, really.”

Pausing with one hand on the doorframe, Vincenzo snorted. “Once, I did too, my friend. But now…” He continued down the hall to his violin, to his peace.
Now I know better
.

When the knock at the door came, Arabella was ready. She’d
been
ready, all afternoon. Ever since Eddie showed her that photograph. Swallowing past her dry throat, she pulled the door open, to see
him
standing on the back steps, just like she’d expected.

Only…only, in the fading evening light, he wasn’t whom she’d expected. Wasn’t whom she was used to. He’d shaved. Not completely, but enough for her to see the line of his jaw clearly; see his lips, see that cleft in his chin she’d always—
no.
This was just a coincidence. Her Edward had been able to grow a beard, but this man’s was broken by the scars that ran up his right cheek. Her Edward had looked at her with the most wonderful blue eyes, and had smiled often. This man…this man wasn’t him.

His beard was trimmed, but could only do so much to cover his burns. Those burns—the scars that traveled up his face and under his blindfold—also continued down his throat. They’d been hidden by his thick beard for so long, but also explained why his voice sounded—
No!
This man wasn’t Edward.

This man—Vincenzo’s—flared his nostrils and lifted his chin. “Arabella.” It wasn’t a question, and she knew that he was smelling the honeysuckle scent he’d always loved.
No
. No, she’d only met this man a few weeks ago.

She tried to speak, but no sound came out. Instead she stood in her doorway, resisting the almost-overwhelming urge to stroke his cheek, like she had that evening in this garden. Like she had in her daydreams. “Arabella?” This time he sounded hesitant, like he was second-guessing himself.

She had to answer. Had to. “Yes,” she managed to croak out. “Yes?” She tried again, sounding stronger. “Would you like to continue
Roughing It
?” They’d started to read Twain’s sequel at the picnic last Sunday, before he’d taken a break to fish with Eddie. Before he’d begun to act strangely.

“No.” He ran one hand through his hair, pulling it back off of his forehead momentarily. Then, all of his breath exploding out of him at once, he gestured abruptly to the garden. “I came to talk to you. Can we sit out here?”

“In the garden?” She knew that she sounded flat, rude, but he only nodded. So she gripped the silver frame a bit tighter, and said. “Of course.”

Vincenzo’s shoes crunched on the gravel, but when he reached the center of the garden, he hesitated. Knowing that he needed her, she touched his elbow, and murmured “This way” as she guided him towards the wisteria grotto. Was it her imagination, or did he let out a little sigh as he sunk down onto the bench?

“Vincenzo, I have something—“

“Wait.” He made a harsh gesture with one hand. “Wait. I have something to tell you first.”

Yes. Yes, she supposed he did. “Does it have to do with why you have my photograph?”

She’d surprised him. Had he not realized it was missing? “What?” He sounded like he was strangling.

“Eddie came to visit you while you were…while you were asleep. He saw this frame, and took it to show me.”

Hands shaking, she turned one of his over in his lap and placed the frame in it. He grabbed both her hand and the small frame, tracing the border with his opposite fingers. By the third heartbeat, his hands were trembling harder than hers. His shoulders shook, and he hunched over the frame. She was torn between the urge to comfort him and to pull her hands away. “Vincenzo?”

“I’m sorry, Arabella. I didn’t know...” His voice was thick, as if he was crying without tears. “I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath, and pulled her hands out from his. “Sorry for what?” Why was he apologizing? Was one of those horrible
maybes
she’d imagined the truth? “Eddie should be the one apologizing.”

A harsh bark of laughter, and he held the frame clasped in both hands, like it was a lifeline to a drowning man. “No. He’s done nothing wrong. I should thank him.”

“
Thank
him?”

“For showing this to you. For helping you to understand.”

She
didn’t
understand. “Vincenzo, I—“

“No.” He lifted his face—his horrible, familiar face—towards her, and she watched his shoulders expand as he took a breath. “No, don’t call me that. Not here. Not now.”

“What should I call you, then?” What truth would he tell her?