Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (15 page)

Nothing to fear? Bullshit.

This was Caugina. It had to be, the bitch probably making up some ridiculous story about how I attacked her in Paris, ripping off an exquisite dress she had carefully chosen for me before my horrible friend and I had abused her and embarrassed her.

Or some bullshit like that.

"Should I change?" I then asked, realizing I was wearing a simple t-shirt and emerald green shorts.

"Maybe shoes," he carefully offered.

Of course.

I rushed to the side of the bed, dropping to my knees and searching underneath for my shoes. The white sneakers. Or maybe the sandals. I didn't know.

What does wear to an execution?

Didn't matter. They were nowhere to be found.

Shit.

I was starting to panic, certain my bare feet would be misunderstood as a huge sign of disrespect and Nona would order my head chopped off or something.

"My Grace?" Mikalo was saying.

I turned.

What?

He stood holding my white sneakers in his hand.

"You must relax," he then said as he pushed me onto the bed.

Taking my foot in his hand,

"It is a conversation," he said as he slipped the sneaker on my foot and clumsily tied the laces.

"It is nothing more," he continued, the other foot in his hand, the shoe slid on, the laces tied again. Clumsily.

"You and she will have the discussion, you will share your words, your hearts, and then you will return here and tell me everything," he then finished, teasing.

I sat on the bed, willing myself calm.

And then I smiled, thinking of Mikalo tying the slender laces on a pair of tiny shoes on the small feet of our son. Or our daughter. How clumsy he'd be in the beginning. And how those little eyes would watch in awe as his fingers worked the laces, crossing them over and wrapping them into bows.

The thought calmed me.

"My Grace?" he asked, watching me.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"There was a thought."

I nodded.

"Yes, there was," I said.

"Was it fear?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"No, I was thinking of how wonderful you'd be as a father," I said, looking at him.

A big grin spread slowly across his lips.

"Then it was a beautiful thought," he then said as he drew near and kissed my lips.

Yes, it was.

And there was nothing Nona could say or do that would take that away from me.

She was not in bed.

For some reason, I had assumed she'd be propped up in bed, like some kind of empress or something.

Sitting at a large desk in front of a larger mirror, an assortment of brushes, combs, nail files lined up in front of her in neat little rows, a large make-up case dominating the space to the side, she kept her back to me as I entered.

She still wore a simple housecoat, her large feet in worn slippers, her hands rubbing lotion onto her forearms before wrapping around themselves, the fingers and palms massaging her knuckles, her joints.

Her eyes caught mine in the mirror.

She nodded to the seat beside her.

I quietly took my place in the ornate chair near the desk.

The smell of the lotion tickled my nose. Sweet, musky, rich, there was something oddly pleasant and comforting about it.

Breathing deep, I pulled the chair to the side a bit, the better to face her directly, the slender legs moving easily across the square patch of carpet covering the stone floor.

I glanced down to make sure I hadn't scratched the carpet or bunched it up or done something equally worthy of punishment and condemnation.

My shoes were on the wrong feet.

I stopped, my heart racing.

Discreetly glancing again, my eyes looked down.

Yep, Mikalo in his march toward being a future Father of the Year had put my shoes on the wrong feet.

And now here I sat with the formidable Nona, my relationship with Mikalo in the balance, with my shoes on the wrong feet.

The wrong feet.

Are you kidding me?

I sighed, certain it was a sign from the gods that this would be one of many fuck ups for me tonight.

Another deep breath, a tight smile, the silence between us now deafening, I forgot the shoes, forgot my silent promise to kill Mikalo later, and focused instead on Nona who still sat near rubbing her hands with lotion.

"Paris was not good," she said, her eyes on her reflection in the mirror.

"No," I said.

Honesty was the best policy, right?

"The dress was not one you liked."

"No, it was not."

"And so you will be married in what, exactly?" she then asked.

I almost gasped. She had used the "m" word. Married. Maybe this was going to happen with her blessing after all.

"Without a dress, there can be no wedding," she said, her head finally leaving her reflection to turn toward me.

Shit.

"There will be a dress," I promised, having no idea if it was one I could keep or not.

A small laugh from her. It sounded almost condescending. Perhaps even cruel.

Then again, I could be wrong, my fear, my hypersensitivity making me hear things which didn't exist.

"Perhaps," she answered, her attention on the mirror.

Another long silence.

I considered offering an apology for losing my temper with Caugina. Then realized it wasn't necessary. It'd be a bit like the victim apologizing for kicking her mugger in the nuts.

Unnecessary.

"This friend of yours," Nona was saying, "this Deni Goldin, who is she?"

"My best friend in the whole world," I said, and then regretted, feeling like a fifteen year old girl.

What adult says "in the whole world"?

Ugh.

"She's very close to me," I quickly added. "She's family."

"No," Nona corrected me. "Friends are not family. Only family is family."

Her eyes were on me again as she shifted her bulk to face me.

"Your family is not welcome at the wedding. This I understand. This I accepted, when Mikalo told me. But this bothers me.

"Tell me why you refuse to share your happiness with your family?" she then asked.

Her eyes bore into me.

Time to tell the truth.

"My father is dead," I began. "And my mother, she and I haven't spoken in years. I'd like to keep it that way, to be honest with you."

"To not want to talk with your own mother?"

The words were said with a mixture of disbelief and impatience.

"No, I do not want to talk her. At all. Ever."

I stopped, allowing my words, my conviction, to soak in. There was no way I was losing this fight. I loved Mikalo, wanted his family to, at the very least, like me, but there was no way I was reuniting with my monster of a mother just to please some Greek sense of family.

"This I cannot understand," Nona said angrily, turning back toward the mirror.

"Then let me help you," I began. "She left me to remarry someone she thought was better. Abandoned my father and me, left us alone. I took care of him as he drank himself to death, my youth spent looking for him in bars, protecting him from himself. Making him dinner, feeding him, washing his clothes. Taking care of him.

"And she started a new life with a new husband who had more money and children who she insisted call her Mom. She forgot me and so I forgot her.

"The only reason she'd want to be back in my life now, Nona, is because of what she thinks she could get from Mikalo. How she can benefit from his money. Her interest in me would be an interest in Mikalo's wealth and I simply will not allow him to be lied to like that.

"Period," I said, finishing.

She thought for a long moment before speaking.

"This I understand," she said quietly.

I sighed, relieved.

A brush in hand, she started dragging it through her silver locks, her mind distracted as she watched herself in the mirror.

"Mikalo showed you the house, yes?"

Confused, my mind raced. This house? The one we were sitting in? The one she's lived in for decades?

Was she going senile?

"This house?" I asked, feeling stupid.

She laughed, long and loud, the hand holding the brush resting on the desk, her head tilted back as she roared, her eyes growing wet.

Although shocking and unexpected, it was wonderful to see. I was beginning to wonder if "dour" was the only speed Nona knew.

Nice to learn I was wrong.

Catching her breath, she swallowed the last few chuckles.

"No, not this house," she finally said, her face flushed a pleasing shade of pink. "This house you have seen and know, I think."

"Of course," I quickly said. "I just ... I wasn't sure ..."

"You thought I was going senile maybe?"

"The thought did cross my mind," I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.

Another small laugh.

"I may not be all I was or want to be, but my mind, it is a trap."

"That's what I thought," I agreed.

She offered me a small smile.

I smiled back.

"The house," she then said, continuing her earlier thought. "The stone house."

Oh, that one. The abandoned, decrepit house at the top of the hill on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.

"The house of broken hearts," I said, nodding. "Yes, he showed it to me."

"The house of broken hearts," she repeated.

Growing silent, she turned from me.

Way to ruin the moment, Ronan. Me and my stupid mouth.

"And this 'house of broken hearts', it is something my Mikalo said?" she asked.

My Mikalo. Interesting.

"No," I assured her. "Olo, in the garage, he's the one who called it that. But I don't think it was meant in any ..."

"He knows so little English, that Olo, and yet he can say 'house of broken hearts'?" she interrupted me with a grin.

"Evidently," I said.

She sat still for a long moment. The brush ignored, the lotion pushed to the side, her eyes on the desk before her and not on her reflection in the mirror.

I waited, sensing she wanted quiet to think, to consider. What exactly, I didn't know. But whatever was rolling through her mind needed silence to unravel itself into something coherent.

Suddenly, she sat back and pulled open the top drawer, reaching in and taking out a yellowed, worn envelope.

Wordlessly, she placed it near me.

I hesitated. Was I supposed to take this? Open it? Was she supposed to give me permission first? And if she didn't and I grabbed for it, would that destroy the moment?

I sat, inert, afraid to move.

She sighed.

Okay, I was taking the envelope.

I held it gently in my hands and, reaching inside, took out a large, old key.

It was no longer silver, the color having deepened into something closer to rust, perhaps. But it was shiny and in good shape, having been oiled and cared for over the years, hidden in the safety of an envelope in Nona's top drawer.

"The house," Nona was saying, "it is Mikalo's now. You will give him this, yes?"

"Yes," I said, quickly agreeing.

She wouldn't face me, her head turned to the side, away from me, her hands clasped on the desk in front of her.

"The house, it needs a lot of work. It's in pretty bad shape."

I could swear I heard a small gasp, the news perhaps inadvertently upsetting Nona.

I suddenly felt guilty.

"It is his just the same," she said. But her voice sounded different. Like the words were being said through gritted teeth. Perhaps a throat thick with tears, her focus now on choking back certain sobs.

"I will make it beautiful," I suddenly promised. "New floors, new roof, new ceiling, it will be a wonderful place for Mikalo and me and our children to come and stay when we visit you. We'll plant vegetables in the garden and sit on the porch looking out over the sea and it will be a place of love and laughter.

"I promise you," I finished.

A stiff nod from Nona, her face still turned from me.

We were through.

I slipped the key into the envelope.

This would be a secret, I decided. A wedding gift from Nona. Mikalo wouldn't know anything until after the house was restored.