Tangled (33 page)

More
than prepared to be turned away at the cathedral’s massive doors, her brows
jumped when the attendant checked her name off.

So
he had been expecting her.

Spotting
an aisle seat near the back, Tess slid into the pew. Her gaze automatically searched
the sanctuary. She found him at the very front, accepting handshakes and
condolences from fellow mourners. Dressed in a dark, double-breasted suit
jacket, his posture was relaxed, almost careless. A pair of darkly tinted
aviators shielded his eyes. His usually reckless hair preserved some semblance
of order.

Tess
knew better. The stiff, barely perceptible jerk of his motions and the wrinkled
bulge between his shoulder blades telegraphed his tension, his anxiety.

As
more people filed to the front, she lost sight of him in a mourning sea of
black.

Overall,
the service was well orchestrated. Humorous anecdotes blended seamlessly with tearful
recollections. Tess noticed no one directly referenced her struggle with
bipolar disorder.

She didn’t
see him again until the service concluded. Tess watched as he trailed behind
the pallbearers. Like a magnet, his gaze found hers unerringly. Her heart tripped
as he stopped at her row, disrupting the procession.

Expression
inscrutable, he offered his hand.

She
didn’t hesitate to accept.

Adonis
steered her to a limousine as the pallbearers loaded the casket into the
hearse.

They
didn’t exchange a word on the way to the burial site. Thirty minutes elapsed
before the limo turned into a gated cemetery. They alighted when the driver
opened the door and hiked to the white silk tent at the top of a grassy knoll.
Remnants of a mid-morning shower dewed the earth. Tess wobbled as her heels
she’d swiped from her mother’s closet sunk into the waterlogged ground.

Seeing
her struggle, Adonis lent her an arm for balance. She shot him a grateful
smile, but his eyes were trained ahead.

Someone
had beaten them to the chase. A black-suited, middle-aged man stood near the
headstone.

Tess
did a double take. It was the man from the portrait.

His
father.

Lionel
Benoit.

He
gave them a fatigued smile. “Adonis. Who might this lovely young lady be?” he
asked, his voice betraying the barest hint of a melodic accent.

“She’s
none of your business.” She winced at the venom in his tone. Definitely no love
lost between father and son.

“Don’t
be like this,” the older man said quietly as people filling out the tent. “Not today.
Haven’t we lost enough?”

His
features lifted into a snarl. “Don’t fucking pretend you care.
”

“You
know I do. You’re my son.”

“’I’m
also my mother’s son, isn’t that right?” he hissed. “Don’t worry. You’ll
probably outlive me and cash in on my death too.”

“Is
everything alright?”

Tess
glanced at the owner of the lyrical, French-cadenced voice coming to stand near
Lionel’s side. The petit woman could’ve been mistaken for Lydia’s twin.
The same unblemished, ageless skin, the dark splash of sepia-hued hair,
and the vibrant azure eyes.

It was
her mother.

White
rage washed the color from Adonis’s face as his gaze cut accusingly to his
father. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

“Lower
your voice,” Lionel admonished lowly, cognizant of onlookers. “And she’s here
because I need her to be here.”

He
bared his teeth in an expression that was more evocative of a snarl than a
smile. “Had to have the last fuck you to Mom. Shit’s low even for you. Don’t you
have any respect for my mother?”

“Of
course I did. I do.”

Adonis
spun in her direction. “Tess, I’d like to introduce you to Sylvie
Rousseu
, the woman who’s been fucking my father before,
during, and after his marriage to my mother.”

Tess
blinked. Well. She supposed a pleased-to-meet-you would be wildly
inappropriate.

“Stop
this,” Lionel snapped, angling his body as buffer for the woman. “If you want
to be angry with someone, be angry with me.”

“For
what,
Dad
? Being so caught up with
your main squeeze you neglected to see your wife’s deteriorating mental state?
Or is that what you wanted all along? Because if we’re both being honest, you
only married Mom for her money.”

The
older man’s slap cracked across Adonis’s face. Face angled away, a red imprint gradually
overtook the lower half of his jaw.

“Don’t
ever disrespect Nicole or Selene like that, ever again.” Lionel’s voice had
deepened to a sonorous bass. “Yes, my marriage to your mother was arranged by
our parents. Yes, I was involved with Nicole before we were married, but I
dedicated myself to my marriage for 11 years. I loved Selene. I always will.”

Adonis
gave him a thin, watery smile. “You were married 22 years. But I guess these
last 11 didn’t count, did they?” His hand found hers. Tess didn’t look back as
he dragged her to the furthest side of the tent.

She
squeezed reassurance into his grasp. He didn’t return the gesture.

Neither
did he drop her hand.

If any
of the guests overheard the exchange, they politely made no mention of it.

The
burial service lasted for ten minutes. Adonis tensed next to her as the casket
was lowered into the ground.

He
moved forward and crouched to scoop up a fistful of earth. Her eyes filmed as
he strewed dirt over the hollowed ground.

From
the corner of her eye, she saw his father approach him sans Nicole. His attempt
proved futile as Adonis sidestepped him.

Tess
offered the older man a consoling smile and started to chase after his son when
he grabbed her wrist.

“Please,
take care of him. He’s been hurting for a long time. I fear there’s nothing
left I can do for him without inciting rage.” He swallowed. “I just don’t want him
to turn out like Selene.”

Tess
stared at the dry-eyed man. Even cloaked in grief, he possessed a lordly
bearing, aware of his worth and conscious that others should be too. His
expression was effortlessly sincere. Perhaps this was where Lydia inherited her
acting skills.

She
draped a hand over his. “I will. He deserves to come first in someone’s book.”
Shaking him off, Tess returned to their limousine.

Tess
wasn’t surprised to find Adonis agitatedly pacing its length, a cigarette
dangling from his mouth. His head snapped up as she arrived, his gaze neither
questioning nor condemning. Without a word, he opened the door. She scrambled
inside as he spoke with the chauffeur before clambering in after her.

He
slumped back.

A
thousand banalities coalesced and disintegrated. None seemed capable of
bridging the widening gulf that separated their realities. So she said nothing.

Neither
did she inquire about their destination.

The
ragged horizon of bleak skyscrapers collapsed in the rearview mirror and birthed
miles of carpeted green.

A
touch of panic stirred as the limousine exited the Long Island Expressway.

Massive
houses blurred past. Each seemed to grow larger and more imposing than the
last. Where the hell were they going?

Eventually
the limo reduced speed and coasted into a secluded drive, its perimeter fenced
by wrought iron and an ornate, yet no less formidable gate. They pulled
alongside the guard shack. Moments later, the gate retracted and the limo crept
forward. Pine and oak trees cradled the winding drive, their thick canopy
blocking the austere sky.

Her
breath caught when they broke free of the arboreal tunnel.

Ensconced
by acres of lush plains and the Long Island Sound sprawled a majestic mansion.
A crossbreed between a rustic French chateau and a Mediterranean villa, its
distinguished mien captivated the surrounding landscape. Tennis courts and a
viewing gazebo sat to its left, a six-door garage at its right.

“What
is this place?” She didn’t realize the question had launched from her mouth
until it hung in the space between them.

Chin
resting on his palm, Adonis murmured, “Home.”

Instead
of pulling into the roundabout, they turned off at a narrow junction that forked
to a pier. Anchored to the dock bobbed sailboats and catamarans.

Adonis
barely waited for the car to stop before forcing the door open. Tess scrambled after
him.
 

Although
only inches separated their respective heights, she had to skip to match his stride.
He led them to a sturdy, fifty-foot vessel at
the end of the quay. The hull was painted a sleek, midnight blue. Jagged, white
boot stripes slashed the keel like the aftermath of a tiger mauling.

She
didn’t even want to ask why they were here. As soon as he helped her aboard, Adonis
unmoored the lines and swung himself aboard. With one short tug, he released
the sails.
The pristine sheets tumbled down and flapped
outward like formidable white wings, ready to take flight.

Tess gripped the stainless steel railing
for support as a strong gust pushed the boat off to a swinging start. The
deck rocked and rolled underfoot. Tess greened as her stomach pitched to the
polished planks.

"Is it supposed to be this
shaky?" she croaked, teetering to the cushioned bench.

His mouth lifted marginally. “It'll even
out once we're past the tides.” Adonis fiddled with sails, beams, and cables. Boat
and man seemed one as he coaxed the vessel faster, further away from land.

Soon the peninsula became little more
than pancaked lump wedged between sky and water.

It was breathtaking.

It was unnerving.

In quick succession, Adonis freed all
three sheets from their cleats, depowering the sails and drawing the boat to a
standstill.

All too aware of just how alone they
were, Tess tucked herself deeper within her coat.

If Adonis thought the same, he didn’t
show it. He moved to the railing, his unseeing gaze projected in the distance. The
only sign of discontent was the slight pull of
his mouth.

She
stared wordlessly with him. The sun was a pale disk, its brilliance muted by
wintry gray clouds. Just as he promised, the water was tranquil, its glassy
color the same storm-ridden hue as the sky.
 

“Coming
out here is only way I can think sometimes. Breathe."

"It’s
definitely far away enough from everything," she ceded.

His
eyes grew distant. “You can never be too far from everything."

"I'm
sure that's what you to say to all the girls you take out here," she said,
attempting to lighten the mood.

"You’re
the first." His tone was bland, matter-of-fact. “This isn’t some shit
you’d share with some random bimbo who’s only good for sucking you off.”

She wrinkled
her nose. “Thanks for that colorful imagery.”

He plunged
a hand through the dark richness of his hair. “Shipping, boats, anything that
could move across water meant a lot—means a lot to my family. For my
grandparents, it was a way of life, you know? Their hearts went into this
business,” he said, thumping a fist over his own, “and being at sea is a way to
get closer to them.”