Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (6 page)

When she’d told Eddie about the arrangement she’d made with
Signore
Bellini, he’d been cautious, asking questions about what he’d learn and what his teacher would be like. She didn’t hold anything back; told him what she knew of Vincenzo and how he looked. But she also spoke about his father’s talent with the violin, and how she knew that talent flowed through Eddie’s blood.

Ever since he was a youngster, she’d told him stories about his father. She wanted him to respect Milton, who’d done so much for them over the years, but she didn’t want him to forget Edward Hawthorne, the man who’d sired him. And now, seeing how bravely her son stepped up beside her and faced the surprisingly kind-hearted beast in the opposite chair, she knew that her first husband—her love—would’ve been proud of the son he’d helped create.

“I’m sorry for interrupting.” He was speaking to his shoes; his hands—and his latest prize—were clasped behind his back.

“Don’t be, sweetheart,” she murmured reassuringly. When he stepped close to her, she ran her hand down his arm and felt her heart soar when he pressed against her. He might be grown, but he was still her baby and needed her. “
Signore
Bellini and I were just finishing. I’m afraid my voice is about to give out.” She heard a little noise from the other chair, but Vincenzo’s face was in shadows, and he’d made no move to draw Eddie’s attention. “What did you want to show me?”

Still watching her guest, Eddie drew his hands from behind his back. There was a perfect little stagecoach, carved and glued and dried. She’d seen it in its various stages, but now that it was complete, she said what he needed to hear. “Oh, Eddie, it’s
perfect
!” She held out her hands, and he reverently placed the model in them. Holding it up to the light, she twisted it this way and that. “Look at the tiny little brakes! They don’t work, do they?”

“No.” Her son grinned at her praise. “But the wheels turn!”

“I can see that.” She remembered their guest, who couldn’t see what they were seeing. “What a lovely little stagecoach, flawlessly put together. It hasn’t been painted yet, but you’re going to, right?”

“Yeah. I thought I’d start after school tomorrow, during lunch.”

“Oh, look! Even the little axle turns! How’d you manage that? Vincenzo, you should see what he’s—“ With a gasp, she swallowed the rest of her sentence, mortified by the
faux pas
. But when she lifted her eyes to his face, he was smiling slightly. Perhaps because she’d accidently called him by his given name?

“I’d like to hold it, if the young man doesn’t mind?” He shifted forward in his seat, and the lamp-light hit his face. She heard Eddie inhale sharply, and thanked the years of Milton’s lectures that had taught him to be polite. She watched his expression change from horror to thoughtfulness as the boy’s eyes skimmed their guest’s face. She wanted to squeeze his hand, to let him know that everything would be okay. Instead, when he glanced at her for reassurance, she had to make do with an encouraging little nod.

He looked nervous, but he just swallowed and whispered “Yes, sir.”

Had she been proud of him before? Now, watching the hesitation on his face as he took the model from her hands and crossed to Vincenzo’s chair, her heart almost burst with pride. When he glanced back at her, she tried to show him that in her smile, and hoped that the small straightening of his shoulders was a sign that it had worked.

When he stopped in front of the man’s knees, Vincenzo sat up, and lifted his hands in front of him. Carefully, reverently, Eddie laid the small stagecoach in them.

Vincenzo hummed as he turned the model over, feeling each nook and brushing his fingers across every cranny. “What’s this bit here?” One callused fingertip rested on the tiny driver’s bench, and Eddie leaned over his model to peer closer.

“That’s the brake that Mother pointed out. See?” Unthinkingly, the boy picked up the larger finger and moved it a miniscule amount to one side, and Vincenzo made a little noise of discovery. “It doesn’t move, because there’s no reason for it. But I guess it could.”

Arabella’s breath caught, to see her son accepting this man, limitations and all. Eddie’s pride in his work was evident, and she could’ve hugged Vincenzo for the interest and delight he showed as he traced his fingers over her son’s creation.

“You show fine talent, son. Did you do all of this carving yourself?”

“Mr. King, the cabinet-maker, has been teaching me to do the fiddly-bits. I know it’s not as smooth as his, but I like it.”

“Do you paint as well as you carve?”

Eddie shrugged. “Probably not.” Arabella grinned at her son’s casual self-confidence. “I don’t paint all of my models.”

“You’ve made others? How long have you been doing this?”

The boy shifted until he was standing beside Vincenzo, but his hand still rested on the chair back beside the man’s shoulder. “I dunno. Maybe a year? I used to carve just plain models, but I wasn’t very good at living things, like horses.”

She wanted to defend his talent. “You’re still young, sweetheart.”

Vincenzo smiled up at her son. “All mothers consider their sons talented, you know.”

Eddie was blushing. “Well, I’m much better at things like this. I like making all the bits fit together.”

“I’ll bet you like mathematics, too, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Eddie flashed her a glance, but quickly looked away. “I know Mother loves to read, but I like things that are
real
.”

She was compelled to speak up. “Books
are
real, young man. But all of us are different. Your father preferred math, as well.”

As he always did, Eddie smiled when she compared him to his father. Maybe she’d done Milton a disservice, over the years, by not building him up higher in the boy’s mind and heart. But her second husband had no interest in children, and had left Eddie’s upbringing to her. He’d rarely spoken to the boy, believing that children shouldn’t speak at meals or at church, the only times they spent together outside of his lectures. Oh, Milton had been a descent husband, but a poor father, and she’d made sure she’d spoken of Edward often to their son.

“Your mother is right.” Solemnly, Vincenzo lifted the stagecoach model, and Eddie took it back. “This world would be a sad place if we were all the same.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you made a steamship, yet?”

“No sir. Maybe I’ll make one next!”

The man smiled, the lamplight catching his even white teeth deep in his beard. Arabella thought it miraculous that whatever had damaged the rest of his face so thoroughly had spared his smile. “I’ll have Gordy dig out the photographs of our last crossing, then. I can tell you all about my travels on them, if you’d like.”

Her son was beaming. “Oh, yes, I’d like that! Mother is always telling me stories about traveling around the world, but I think it would be far more interesting to see the ships and trains than the pyramids and palaces!”

Vincenzo laughed. Not a chuckle, but a deep, booming laugh that startled Arabella with its familiarity and caused Eddie to giggle in response. He laughed? Looking at him, knowing that this man did his best of avoid his neighbors, did his best to appear like a beast…who would’ve thought he’d have such a pleasant laugh? It made him seem…friendlier. Less beastly.

“I’m afraid I’d have to agree with you. I’ve been inside any number of grand palaces, but…” He waved an empty hand in front of his blindfold. “They didn’t look that impressive to me.”

Arabella swallowed her laugh, but Eddie wasn’t so practiced at propriety. He burst into laughter, and Vincenzo smiled. She knew that she should scold her son for poking fun at a person’s disabilities, but when Vincenzo himself had told the joke, and with them being tucked into this imitate, cozy corner away from the outside world and Milton’s rules, it didn’t seem to matter so much.

“Well, young man, I’m glad that we get along so well.”

“Yes, sir. I’m glad that you’re not as—“ At her warning glare, Eddie snapped his lips together and managed to look contrite.

“As scary as I look?” Luckily, Vincenzo’s lips were still curled up on one side, hopefully meaning he wasn’t taking the boy’s insult personally.

“…sorry, sir.”

“That’s all right. While I don’t own any mirrors anymore, I know that I’m not handsome. I can be hard to look at, I’m sure.”

Arabella opened her mouth to deny it, but her son beat her to it. “You’re not that bad, sir. Mother’s rule about being beautiful all the time is a hard one to follow, I think. It’s more fun to just be yourself.”

Vincenzo turned, to face her then, and Arabella
felt
his missing gaze. She watched his lips thin in disapproval, and wanted to take back her son’s words. Yes, Rule Number One required that she—and her home, her surroundings, her reputation—be beautiful. But to hear a ten-year-old insult one of the basic tenants of her life, and to see this man—this man who
wasn’t
beautiful—agree, was galling.

“Eddie, I think it’s time for bed.”

He knew he was in trouble; she heard it in his voice, saw it in his down-cast expression. “Yes, Mother.”

But as he stepped towards her, Vincenzo placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Just a moment, son. Your mother has gone through considerable effort to arrange for me to give you some lessons in the use of your father’s violin. Are you interested in pursuing the instrument?”

Oh poot
, why’d he have to go and ask the boy that? Didn’t he understand that Eddie wasn’t in charge? She was, and if she wanted him to learn, he would. He might be interested, but he might also say he wasn’t just to spite her, because he was ten and
that’s what ten-year-olds did.

But Eddie looked down at the hand on his arm—the fingers that were callused from years of practice—and cocked his head to one side. After a long moment, he finally nodded. “Yes, sir, I think I am. I mean, yes, I want to learn my father’s instrument, but also yes, I think I want to learn from you. If you’ll teach me.”

For the first time, she saw Vincenzo’s mouth, his cheeks, go slack, like he didn’t know what to say. Like he was as surprised as she was at Eddie’s maturity. Nearly a minute went by before he cleared his throat and spoke. “Good. Good.” He swallowed, and she tried not to watch the muscles of his strong throat move behind his beard. “And now, if your mother will excuse you for a few minutes, I have need of a messenger to fetch Gordy from the saloon. Can you do that?”

“The Gingerbread House? Yeah, I know where it is.” Eddie glanced at her, and his eyes widened at her frown. As well they should—why was her ten-year-old so eager to visit that den of iniquity? “That is, if Mother doesn’t mind.”

Well, she should hardly condemn the man to sitting in her store until sunrise, could she? So she gave a stiff nod, and watched her son place his model on one of the tables and scamper for the front door, the bell tinkling merrily as he left.

“Perhaps,
Signore
, you would be more comfortable coming and going through the back garden? The path to your home is shorter through that entrance, and you might enjoy the flowers.”

“Honeysuckle?”

It was the third time he’d said that, and she was just as taken aback this time. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you grow honeysuckle there, for your scent?”

Oh, poot.
She hadn’t realized that he’d been referring to her
eau dutoilett
e
.
 
It was her favorite scent, but wasn’t nearly as fancy as the perfumes Milton liked. “I do grow it, but along the back fence. I’m sure that you’d prefer the rose bushes and the wisteria. The tulips and daffodils line the walk to the gate, and my pear tree is just beginning to bloom.” She spoke for some time about her garden, and the way Milton had carefully chosen the flowers that would be planted, breeding them for beauty and extravagance. As she spoke, she watched his fingers curl around the chair’s arms, and knew that he wasn’t impressed with her litany. She sped up, trying to impress him—him, who’d visited the great palaces of the world, and who had touched and smelled bouquets so exquisite that she could only imagine them—but he interrupted.

“I prefer honeysuckle.”

He preferred honeysuckle. The lowly, clinging vine that had grown on the back porch of her childhood home. The flower that she’d begged Milton to allow her to transplant here in this garden, despite it not fitting into his plans. It was her favorite scent.

“Really? But honeysuckle is so… plain.”

“Contrary to what you’ve apparently taught your son, Mrs. Mayor, something doesn’t have to be beautiful to have worth.”

I married you, my dear, because you were the most beautiful woman I’d seen. A woman worthy enough to share my vision of the world!
He’d only said it once, but Arabella had never forgotten Milton’s flippant claim, and had vowed to live up to his worth.

“Mrs. Mayor?” Vincenzo brought her back to the here-and-now. Back to this corner of this bookstore in this town so far from where she’d been born, with this man who wasn’t quite a stranger any longer.

“Do you know what it means to be beautiful,
Signore
?” Where had that rude question come from? Judging from the tightening of his lips, she’d offended him. She opened her mouth to apologize, but his hand jerked from the arm of the chair in a chopping, dismissive gesture.