Skin Like Dawn (18 page)

Operatic music fluttered in her ears as she tailed Bellamy off of the main corridor and into an octagonal shaped dining room, with floor-to-ceiling windows, brown upholstered chairs and two lantern chandeliers suspending from a tray ceiling.  

“Mon dieu!” Lamb, who had been seated at the head of the table, now stood with arms extended.  “Ah, ma chère, you look absolutely beautiful.” 

Grabbing one of her hands, he lightly pressed his lips onto the surface of her knuckles.  “Please, come sit.”  He held out the chair next to his at the table, and she took her seat quietly.  “Bellamy, aller dans la cuisine et voir sur notre dîner...”

Bellamy nodded once compliantly and disappeared out of the room, glancing transiently in Natalie’s direction.  

“Thank you for coming, Natalie.  I’m sorry I didn’t greet you myself but I was on the phone not too long ago.  Bellamy was pleasant, I hope?” 

Natalie smiled.  She recalled a number of moments in recent history, where she’d looked into Bellamy’s eyes and had been struck by the impression of lethargy, swimming unabashedly in them.  She imagined the sound of Thom Yorke’s mourning singing voice, lulling through his head all day with no one there to press the pause button.  “Yes, he was fine.” 

Lamb parted his lips as his expression softened.  She knew that he intended to launch into an explanation of why Bellamy was...Bellamy.  But someone else entered the room, interrupting his train of thought.  

Dr. Celia Ross stood in the doorway, flanked in something that closely resembled a negligee.  Natalie’s eyes fluttered as though she had been unwittingly thrust into a private moment.  Then, Bellamy appeared behind her.  “Father, I’m assuming this one’s for you.” 

Lamb stood once more.  “Celia, what a pleasant surprise.  I wasn’t expecting you till..”

Looking down at Natalie, he quickly amended his voice and countenance.  “Please, have a seat.  Dinner will be ready shortly.” 

Gliding over to the chair directly across from Natalie, Celia was smirking.  “Why, Natalie, you’re becoming a regular on the Lambert circuit, aren’t you?” 

“Celia.  It’s a pleasure to see you again.” 

The doctor took her seat.  “Likewise.  And where’s that delicious husband of yours?” 

“At home.  He’s enjoying not having me nag him for a few hours.” 

Celia giggled.  It was youthful and sensual.  “Ah, marriage.  An institution for the soft-hearted and affable.  Wouldn’t you agree, Natalie?” 

“I think your husband would agree, Dr. Ross.”  Bellamy reentered the room, carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses.  “Or is he your ex-husband?  And is this husband number two or three?” 

Lamb tugged the reading glasses from his face and glared at his son.  “Bellamy, regarder sa bouche!”  The biting, aggressive tone caused Bellamy to nod once, mutter, “My apologies, Dr. Lambert”, and exit the room again.  

Peering at Lamb and Celia, almost ingloriously, Natalie pushed her chair out and stood to her feet.  Clearing her throat, she murmured, “Excuse me, please,” then sauntered into the hallway.  

Following the sound of clanging pots and pans, she pauses by the doorjamb and leans against it quietly.  She watches for a few moments undisturbed.  With the muscles in his back arched tensely, he sloshes sauces and spices into pans almost sloppily, becoming increasingly heavy-handed as his frustration ensues.  

He flips something in one of the pans, then huffed.  “Are you going to enter or just stand there staring at me like a voyeur?”  He turned to face her.  She lowered her eyes quickly to see his chest rise and fall in a panting fashion.  She didn’t answer.  The tension in his expression relented.  “Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize.  I was just seeing about dinner.  I’m starving.” 

“Dinner is almost complete.” 

“Where’s the cook?  Lamb said something about a personal chef.” 

“Yes, normally there is one. My father has a very restrictive diet.”  He tossed a dish towel over his shoulder as he bent down to open the over.  “But tonight, she’s sick.  And...well...” 

“You’re cooking dinner.” 

He dumped a casserole dish on the stovetop, knocking the oven door closed with his knee. “Yes.” 

“You can cook?” She voiced this more as a statement than an inquisition.  She took once step forward.  

He nodded slowly.  “Yes. I’m French.” 

“I’m black.  That doesn’t mean all blacks can cook.  Do you need a hand?” 

He didn’t answer initially.  Instead, he kept his back turned to her as though he hadn’t heard her offering.  Then, he exhaled heavily.  “Please.” 

He instructed her to carry a couple of the dishes he’d prepared into the dining room, where Lamb and Celia sat, now placidly holding hands and speaking lowly.  When she returned to the kitchen, Bellamy had her dicing green onions and garlic for a broth he’d prepared, as he put the finishing touches on the cuts seared halibut he’d devised.   

Stirring the broth to creaminess, she glanced over at him.  “This smells wonderful, Bellamy.” 

“It’s nothing.  I’ve cooked this meal a number of times.  And it’s one of the very few things my father can eat that’s good for him, but filling.” 

“Ah.” 

“Here.” He handed her the dish of halibut. “Take this into the dining room, then meet me by the door that leads to the terrace out back.” 

“I thought we were eating in the dining room?” 

He shook his head vigorously.  “No.  I’m not.  You are more than welcome to.  But I’m offering you an alternative.  A more...aesthetically pleasing alternative.” 

She stared at him, but no thoughts coursed through her head.  Sensations surfaced: sights, stringent scents, and sounds.  And there was a fortuitous calm surrounding her, and a pull, transfixing her eyelids to heaviness.  Her lips parted, and she exuded one short breath after the other, until she was able to murmur, “Okay.” 

Lamb looked baffled, but did not question it.  He simply watched her waltz out of the dining room and back down the corridor.  He was still holding Celia’s hand. 

Traipsing down the hall, her heart thumped.  She realized quickly that she should have stayed at that table with Lamb.  It would’ve been the most logical thing to do.  But there was something about that damn house, with its winding hallways, shadowed corners, and eerie, opulent disposition that enthralled her.  She was reeling once more.  

She found Bellamy Lambert standing by the back door, with one hand casually shoved into his pocket and the other carrying a bag of sorts.  

She arched an eyebrow.  “What’s with all of the mystery?” 

He grinned.  “Not trying to create one, Natalie.  Just wanted to eat somewhere a little bit more pleasant.  It’s a nice night.” 

“Like?” 

He nodded his head in the direction of the back lawn.  “Come.” 

And she did.  A light, tepid wind blew past her cheeks, as she tailed Bellamy outside, down a small flight of stone steps, past the fountain in the center, to a small screened-in gazebo on a gentle null in the distance.  

He held the door open for her, and she entered compliantly, taking a seat on one of the cushioned benches.  Quite cognizant of her expression, she scrutinized his every movement, from the moment he pulled two prepared plates out of the bag to the moment he sat them on a small table between them, to the moment he flicked on the lantern lights above her head.  She embraced the silence between them, as she could not, and would not explain why she sat there with him.  

Sitting down opposite her, he sighed.  “I guess I should have asked you if you liked halibut.” 

Clearing her throat, she placed a napkin in her lap.  “Yes. I do.  Thank you.” 

The meal that Bellamy had prepared smelled wonderful.  Taking a deep inhale, she picked up a fork and dove in with little hesitation.  

“Good,” he said.  “Just so you know, I derive very little pleasure in stealing my father’s dinner guest.” 

“I would’ve thought otherwise.” 

He gazed at her idly.  “Then you must not think very highly of me.” 

“No. I don’t.” 

He lowered his eyes, stabbing at his fish with his fork.  “Ah, I see.” 

“I didn’t take you for someone who gets easily offended.” 

“I don’t.  I’m just used to hearing things secondhand.  You know, rumors and such.  No one’s every expressed it so...directly.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Are you always so succinct with your words?” 

“I normally don’t have very much to say.”  She shoveled a forkful of halibut into her mouth. 

“I think you do.” A flicker of the breeze moved his wavy hair into his face, momentarily diverting her eyes.  “I think you possess a very good filter.” 

Dropping her napkin and fork onto her plate, she rose to her feet, dusting off her lap.  “I think I should go call my husband and check on him.” 

“Brandy.” She imagined his lips and tongue, playing around with the word, absorbing it. 

“Brandon,” she corrected.  

“You love him.” His proffered this statement in a tone barely above a whisper.

“Yes, I do.” 

“I see.” 

She felt the direction the conversation was going in and she didn’t like it.  Turning toward the door, she inhaled and replied, “I’ll see you in the house, Bellamy.  Thank you for dinner.” 

It wasn’t until she was back in the house and heading toward the dining room, that she realized her mistake.  She no longer felt the need to call her husband.  And she shuddered anyway.  

She found Lamb and Celia sitting in a hearth room with ceilings so high, she could see a second set of windows on the next floor up.  She saw the moon there, and exhaled.   

Lamb was at his feet, swiftly reaching for her hands.  For a moment, she gazed at him spellbound, unearthed at how much he looked like Bellamy.  

“Come.”  He pulled her toward one of the sofas.  “Have a seat.  We were just discussing boring, hospital business.  Relieve us of our misery.” 

But she didn’t want to sit there.  She wondered what remained outside on Lamb’s back terrace.  And she wanted to go back.  Still, she sat cross-legged and pleasant, listening to Lamb voice an old memory from his days in Marseilles.  He’d saunter in and out of French so much that Natalie soon lost interest in trying to understand.  She figured he was talking to Celia anyway.  Gazing outward, she took deep, long breaths, soon realizing that her place was not needed there.  She rose to her feet again.  Lamb and Celia both looked at her.  

“Your bathroom, where is it?” 

Lamb’s eyebrows furrowed together pensively.  “Uh, we’re doing renovations on the one down here.  Go up the stairs, down a couple of doors and it’s the third door on the right.” 

“Thank you, Lamb.” 

“Are you ill?” 

She shook her head.  “No, just feeling a bit lightheaded.  Need to splash some water on my face.  I’ll be back.” 

She ambled up the stairs slowly, sensing that she’d made an ass of herself.  But she wouldn’t call Brandon and admit her own defeat.  

He should’ve been here anyway.  He would’ve kept me in line. 

She’d simply crawl into bed with him, curl up in his arms and pretend like the night never happened.  She would then, for damn sure, separate herself from the Lamberts as much as humanly possible.  Although their house was beautiful and they were charming - well, Lamb was charming.  Bellamy stared too often; idle ogling over her face, as though he were questioning her place in the world.  And his brooding disposition caused far too much tension in his sculpted jaw line.  And what the hell was his purpose in life?  Aside from pursuing women, spending his father’s hard-earned money, and existing languidly on cruise control?  He rarely made appearances at his father’s charity events, and when he did, he made such a mockery of the whole damn thing, that it became embarrassing to anyone within twenty feet of his wake.  All he needed to do was spend a weekend in Helen Chandler’s care to set him right. 

No.  No, that wouldn’t work.  He’d probably challenge Helen, too.  He’d question her whole existence for his own amusement, steal glances at her just to get her blood boiling.  And not in the sweet and charming way that Brandon Greene had managed to pull off a few years ago.  

Natalie stood in the mirror.  Droplets of freshly splashed water rounded like dew on the balls of her cheeks.  She felt a little better.  For what it was worth, she could chalk up her experiences that night as something she could learn from.  They were simply different, right?  Just different.  And a little dysfunctional.  Maybe.  But her husband always felt pressed to remind her of her need to overanalyze everything - including people.  She could hear his voice in her head.  She exhaled, smiled sheepishly at herself, and glared at her reflection once more.  Bags pooled under her eyes from sleepless nights.  Or was it too many lucid dreams?  Her hair hung loosely around her face like a mane, creating shadows along her cheeks.  She’d made an effort to curl it for the dinner, but she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to present herself that way.  

She pushed away from the sink and reentered the hallway.  She would take her time returning to Lamb and Celia in the hearth room.  Ambling on the tips of her toes, she allowed her eyes to roam.  They stalled on a portrait hanging over a mantle in what appeared to be a spare bedroom.  Her gaze propelled her feet forward, inside the room, cool and shadowed by a cornflower blue light, streaming in from a parted curtain.  Behind an acrylic medium, of gentle, wide-swept brushstrokes, was the image of a woman: goldenrod skin, russet hair, almond-shaped hooded eyes.  Haunted eyes.  Ample bosom.  

Idling herself there before the painting, Natalie felt spellbound, as though some immediate sense of recollection had struck her with paralysis.  

“Delphine.” 

The sound of Bellamy’s voice startled her, and she exuded a well-controlled shrill that sent sharp chills shooting up her arms and through her heart.  Turning around swiftly, she met his eyes, as he heedlessly leaned against the doorjamb for support.  

She swallowed thickly.  “Pardon?” 

“Delphine.”  He sauntered toward her slowly, exhaling in a revelatory way.  “My mother.” 

Something in her chest thumped.  “Oh.”  

She didn’t feel it right or necessary to delve any further.  She wasn’t sure he’d tell her anyway.