Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (18 page)

He paused.

"Thank you," he said, the words struggling through his sobs.

And then he left.

I breathed deep, closing my eyes as I sank to sit on the end of the bed.

"Ronan," the familiar voice said, interrupting my peace.

Deni stood at the door, sun burnt and windblown, the ends of her blonde hair matted to the shining skin of her sweaty neck and shoulders.

"We need to talk."

My head was pounding.

Deni sat on the bed next to me, patiently waiting as I tried to make sense of what she was saying.

"I'm telling you," she repeated. "Not a damn thing."

My wedding. No caterer. No decorations. No guest list.

Nothing planned. Nothing but conversation. Talk. Mikalo's efforts to get anything going stopped at every turn.

"What about all the people showing up?" I asked. "His family, his friends."

"They were already going to be here. This is when they have their big family reunion thing. I suspect Mikalo was taking advantage of that, not wanting anyone to have to spend money or time coming out a second time. Might as well get it done when everyone was together, right?"

A pause.

"I'm sorry," Deni said, her hand rubbing my back.

"This just doesn't make sense," I found myself saying.

But it did. It made perfect sense, part of my reluctance to believe the wedding was actually going to happen fed by the peace, the calm, the stillness of a house that was allegedly preparing for a large wedding.

And Mikalo had done this alone, fighting his family to please let this happen.

I hadn't even noticed.

For the five billionth time this trip, I felt like a fool.

"Damen told me," Deni was saying. "All about how Mikalo was almost begging Nona to let him hire a caterer and plan a menu and send out invitations. And then when it was too late to do that, to at least call people so they'd show up and be able to share this with him.

"But nothing. She wouldn't let him do anything, telling him to wait, to let her decide. To let her, oh, I don't know, be comfortable."

"She was fine with it last night," I said. "I swear. She gave me the key and I felt her open up to me or something. It was like she had something to say, but decided not to. And then I kissed her head. The moment, the emotion, the whatever it was we shared almost demanded it.

"I just find it impossible to believe she wouldn't let Mikalo prepare anything. Or hire anybody. It just ... it's unbelievable."

"Well, he did hire a priest," Deni said. "From the town. He'll be here this afternoon. Or tomorrow."

"Yeah, and now he'll probably just bury Nona and leave."

I wanted to laugh, but I felt too betrayed. Not by Mikalo, of course. That he would try to do all of this and be stopped at every turn, all but begging his family to allow him something to celebrate our nuptials, and keep it all to himself, the frustration, the sadness, the sense of hopelessness, was astonishing.

"Damen still thinks it'll happen, though," Deni said. "He said that Mikalo is very determined and very stubborn and that he loves you very much and wants more than anything to make you his wife.

"So even if it happens when you get back to New York or maybe someplace in Athens before you go home, he's going to get his 'I do'."

I flirted with a smile, relenting and allowing a grin.

Still, I was too shocked for even that bit of bright news to make much of a difference.

First Nona's death and then learning I had been walking around deluded about a wedding that was never going to happen.

It was a lot to take in.

"So now what?" I finally asked.

Deni shrugged.

"We bury Nona, pack up and go home?" she offered.

That seemed wrong. I mean, not the burying Nona and going home part. But just the packing up and leaving with our tails between our legs part.

"No," I said.

I turned to her.

"Can you still work on the house? You and Damen, is that something you'd still be willing to do?"

She nodded.

"Sure, yeah. I think he'd be fine with it."

"That's if he isn't too broken up over Nona," I quickly added.

"I'll double check," she said, "but something tells me Damen's not the kind of guy to sit around and mope. If her death does hurt him, he'll probably be very happy to get out there and work."

"Good, good," I said. "I just think it'd be great if I could give Mikalo something, some good memory, some wonderful thing to look forward to when we come back, before we leave, you know?"

"Of course," Deni agreed. "A single, solitary success to take home with him. It makes perfect sense.

"And don't forget," she then said.

I watched her, waiting.

"What?"

"This house, this key, they were her last gifts to him," she said. "This will mean more to him than almost anything in the world."

She grabbed my hand, holding it in hers.

"Other than you becoming his wife, of course."

The day had passed in a blur of relatives wandering in, of hushed whispers and strangled sobs, of plates of food going uneaten and long, lingering hugs.

Nona had been taken from the room in the early-afternoon, her large body draped beneath her favorite quilt as the doctor and a coroner from the mainland pushed the gurney through the main room and into a waiting hearse, a boat waiting at the pier in the town.

Mikalo had turned away and stumbled up the stairs, sobbing.

Silvestro had cried.

Caugina, standing next to him, had patted his arm, not sure what to do.

The priest, having arrived, did what he could to comfort who he could before being shown his room for the night.

After a moment, I had followed my poor Mikalo, finding him sitting on the floor leaning against the bed.

I had straddled him, gathered his head in my arms and held him to my breasts, my face buried in his hair as he had cried, my kisses doing nothing to quiet his grief.

And that's where we had sat for hours, the light outside growing dim as darkness came, his sobs becoming sniffles and then sighs.

I allowed him his silence, holding him and loving him, my own disappointment pushed aside for what was now more important.

Finally, I spoke, my voice sounding strange in the darkness of the room after so many hours of quiet.

"You have to eat," I said.

He shook his head.

"Mikalo, she'd want you to eat."

I felt him smile.

"But there is no appetite, my Grace," he said, his voice sounding strange. Raw and deep, still holding the memory of his shock, his sadness, his sobs.

"Let me go downstairs and get you a sandwich or something, okay?"

Another shake of his head.

Mikalo, being as stubborn as ever.

"Stay with me," he suddenly said.

"Of course."

My lips met the top of his head again, my nose buried in the scent of him.

His hands ran up my back to grip my shoulders, his fingers finding my neck as he took his face from my breasts, his lips searching for mine.

We kissed.

I felt his body relax as he lost himself in my mouth, my tongue on his, my hips grinding into him.

I knew what he needed. And it wasn't sex. Or the thrill of releasing himself deep within me.

No, it was comfort. Something familiar and safe. Something that would take him away from his grief.

This kiss, his fingers on the back of my neck pressing my face into his, his hardness now pressing against my growing heat, his breath growing rapid as my hands snaked around and lost themselves in his hair, my fingers gripping his locks in great fistfuls, this was driven not by desire, but by need.

A need to escape his loss.

I moved from him, standing up.

He watched me, the familiar look of lust in his eyes.

Turning, I walked to the door and, with a click, locked it.

I then turned back, pulling my shirt over my head, my bra quickly joining the thin cotton on the floor beneath my feet.

A moment later, I was naked, my skirt slipped down past my thighs, my bare feet stepping free from the sudden pile of clothes on the floor.

A moment after that, I was again in front of him.

I slowly sat in his lap, his legs still spread on the floor, his back still against the edge of the bed.

His lips met my stomach, his tongue tasting my skin, his mouth quickly around my breasts, suckling, lightly biting, his hands reaching around to pull me close, his fingers stealing low to reach in and find my wetness.

I gasped, feeling first one and then two fingers enter me.

He groaned, low and deep.

My mouth was on him, my lips finding his forehead, his temples, lightly kissing his eyes before stealing to his ears, my teeth grazing the flesh, drawing a gasp from my Mikalo.

He lifted me with one hand and placed me on my back on the floor, his other hand tugging his shirt over his head, his naked flesh quickly on mine, the weight of him stealing my breath for a moment.

I could feel his hardness aching against the heavy cotton of his ubiquitous shorts, pressing into me, hungry for me. Reaching low, I snapped them open, my fingers easily finding the zipper, his hot, hard, throbbing flesh soon in my fist.

His tongue was again in my mouth, his low moan losing itself in my throat as my tongue met his, my hips rising, grinding into him, my wetness demanding him.

And then he was inside me, quickly, in one deep thrust.

I gasped, clutching his hair in my hands.

He sighed, his face pressed into my neck, inhaling the scent of me.

And then it began.

Somewhere in this house, others wept, their grief obsessing them.

Somewhere in this house, Silvestro and Caugina sat silent and awkward, he alone in his grief, she unaware of his pain, not caring, her greed distracting her.

And somewhere in the Aegean Sea on a boat with a kind doctor and an officious coroner, Nona traveled the white capped waves further and further away from the home she had called hers for too many decades to count.

But here in this room, behind this locked door, on this floor in the light of a rising moon, my body met Mikalo's in a perfect expression of love, both of us escaping our grief.

He, the loss of his beloved Nona.

Me, the loss of my longed for "I do".

The next few days passed by in a daze.

More people arriving, the house becoming a hive of muted activity, the mirrors draped in black, the conversation a low buzz moving from room to room, Mikalo veering between being the perfect host despite his pain and everyone's collective grief and barricading himself in our room to crawl under the covers and quietly weep.

I did what I could, introducing myself and assisting when allowed. A plate of simple food here, an ice cold drink there, a finger or two of Scotch when necessary.

Deni and Damen were largely gone, their work on the House of Broken Hearts continuing uninterrupted, Damen burying whatever grief he felt in the hammering of nails and the sanding of rough, distressed wood.

I promised Deni, the brief moment I saw her at breakfast, that I would get up there soon. Check on their progress, offer to help, escape the sadness of the house.

"You're needed here," she insisted. "Besides, it's all Damen and a few of the men from town doing all the work. I just stand around looking pretty and handing them nails when they need them."

I couldn't help but smile, a small grin she returned as she stood up to leave.

And then the day of the funeral was upon us.

I had nothing black to wear.

Mikalo, realizing this, wore a blue shirt and dark slacks.

"This was for the wedding," he suddenly said before he could stop himself.

I felt the tears in my eyes.

He stood still, not sure what to do.

Usually he would quickly come to me, pull me into his arms, and then embrace me, hugging away my pain.

But today he simply stood still, awkwardly silent and unsure.

"You look very handsome," I finally said, desperate to break the silence.

He didn't respond. No small smile, no small nod, no acknowledgement that I had spoken though I'm certain he heard me.