A Keeper's Truth (25 page)

T
homas
doesn’t give up. Even though I’ve made my feelings painfully clear, he still
called and asked me out for Valentine’s. It was nice of him, and he made a
grand effort to show his sweet side until I mentioned I already had plans. Then
he got cranky. He didn’t ask whom my plans were with. There was no need to. If
I’d be anywhere other than home on the day of romance, I’d be with Bryce.

Still, my
nerves are on edge, jumpy. I’m relieved Bryce suggested a hiatus, but our
professional relationship has made it easy not to dwell on my feelings for him.
This also includes what these feelings mean long-term. Am I ready for a serious
relationship, especially one so convoluted? I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m not
interested in a fling or a dead end—both figuratively and literally. I’m
a mother. A single mother. I need to think about Abby.

Then
there’s the beaten-and-left-for-dead thing. According to history, odds aren’t
in my favor. I’m a strong woman, but come on, that would freak anybody out. I
truly refuse to allow fear to dictate my life, but I’m not an idiot, I’m not
about to gamble with my life either. I try to remember that my nightmares show
only flashes of the past, not my future. And I don’t believe my future in this
life is predestined. Bryce doesn’t either. If he did, he would have left
Carlisle the minute he met me.

But what
if we’re wrong?

I miss
Meyer and our uncomplicated life.

I’m
wavering at Bryce’s front door, heart pounding a mile a minute, glancing over
my shoulder at Magic Carpet. Part of me wants to bolt. I can’t start a
relationship with Bryce. I look up, the impressive mansion daunting. My hands
are clammy, even after rubbing them on my coat. I turn back to the door and
draw a mouthful of February air. This is just a date, nothing more. I can go
home if I want, cower from change, swallow the poor widow pill.

But I am
not a coward.

The door
opens before I even knock.

“Hey,”
says Bryce.

I don’t
know if it’s anxiety or the almost six and a half feet of in-your-face
masculinity, but I can’t keep my thoughts straight.

“Maybe
this isn’t such a good idea.”

Bryce
takes my hand and leads me inside. “Dinner is ready,” he says, helping me with
my coat.

I examine
my watch, tapping it in confusion. Where did thirty minutes go? I left on time.
I think back to the drive over. Maybe I did wander down a few wrong streets
while lost in my head.

“You’re
far away,” whispers Bryce, gently dusting snow from the hair that has fallen
over my eyes. He hangs my coat and scarf on the elegant wrought iron swirl that
makes up the entryway coat rack. His scarf, the scarf, is there, calling out to
me, but Bryce gently guides me through the elaborate stained glass arch
showcasing the dining room. He doesn’t mention my tardiness. No comment
regarding my pathetic smile. I think he’s even staying out of my head.

I pause in
the doorway, the setting so breathtakingly beautiful I’m rapt. The stunning
glass table is illuminated with a dozen tapered candles supported by dainty
silver candlesticks, crisp white linens, silver plates, and crystal wine
glasses that glow bright in the candlelight. A bottle of wine patiently waits
on ice and a crackling fire toasts the atmosphere to perfection. I inhale
deeply, reveling in the aroma wafting from the kitchen. My fingertips glide
over the soft, finely woven linen. I luxuriate in the sensations, soaking in
the ambiance, and my worries ebb away. I can’t help but wonder what I’ve done
to deserve this.

Bryce
dances to my side and bows regally. “Twenty-nine Chateau
Latour
,”
he says, filling my wine glass. His jet-black sweater accentuates his palpable
virility and combined with his dark hair sets a dramatic stage for chiseled
facial features and combustible silver-gray eyes. I sample the wine, watching
him. He’s trying to act casual, but I can see he’s nervous too.

I smile
and Bryce smiles back.

Now
there’s my white knight.

The
nervousness is short lived, and as the hours fly by, we enjoy three courses of
meticulously prepared plates of edible art and effortless conversation. We chat
about Bryce’s renovation woes and geothermal heating. We talk about all the
foreign places we’ve traveled, his list endless. I comment on the embroidered
chairs and the grand buffet, their antiquity intriguing, and Bryce weaves a fantastical
story filled with discovery and nostalgia. We discuss the many schools we’ve
attended, and Bryce tells me about his parents and his childhood, seamlessly
maneuvering around anything out of the ordinary. I discover Bryce knows Mrs.
Maples, has known her his whole life. Her late husband was an archeologist and
close friend of Bryce’s father.

We don’t
talk about Thomas. No one mentions Meyer. We laugh over the uncanny
similarities in our favorite books, and joke about cinematic duds, the movies
that drove us crazy for one reason or another, and the few that made us sprint
from the theater. We delve into music, songs that make us dance around like
fools, lyrics that inspire us, and instruments we wish we’d learned to play.

Bryce
pours the last of the wine and we hold our hands to the candlelight, playfully
debating the pros and cons of our long slender fingers vis-a-vis musical
brilliance. “You win,” says Bryce, tenderly stroking the sensitive underbelly
of my wrist. “Your hands are beautiful and talented.”

My head
struggles with conflicting desires. Part of me wants to surrender, to get lost
in the feel of Bryce’s touch, the liquid quality of his accent. Another part
warns of trouble, of the danger lurking in those silver eyes that cavort with
the flicker of candlelight, of a past we might not shake.

You have
been killed in every life that mingled with his.

Bryce
rises from his chair. “Let’s relocate,” he says. “I’m dying to show you
something.”

His
exhilaration is contagious and I laugh in spite of myself, the wine rushing to
my head.

With our
wine glasses in hand, Bryce pulls me down a long winding hallway into a dark
room. For a moment I panic, wondering where he’s leading me, until alcohol
dampens my sense of self-preservation and I really don’t care. With the flick
of a switch a row of pot lights and several wall-mounted lamps jump to life.

At first
glance it looks like some sort of sitting room. Within seconds my mind
registers the sight and my breath catches in my throat. Gliding to the center
of the room, I spin in circles, taking in the spectacle. Magnificent oil
paintings are professionally displayed and illuminated. The space is largely
standing room only with a few scattered antique benches and an elegant
oversized settee richly upholstered in striking earth tones, offering visual
impact against the ebony floors and creamy-white walls.

“You have
your very own art gallery,” I mutter in shock.

Bryce
watches me, grinning. “I thought you might like this.”

Overwhelmed,
I shut my eyes and randomly pick a work of genius to admire first. “
Hieronymous
Bosch,
Garden of Earthly Delights
, circa
1504,” I regurgitate from memory. I step closer, absorbing the painting’s
power. The smell of ancient oils pummels me and I tangle my fingers in the back
of my sweater to keep from reaching out. “You have all three panels,” I say,
peeking at Bryce for a split second. “This can’t be the original.” Minutes pass
without a response so I steal another quick glance. The look on Bryce’s face is
priceless, and I shamelessly swallow a huge gulp of wine.
This is the
original.
“I thought this painting was at the
Museo
del Prado in Madrid?” I can’t tear my eyes from the masterpiece in front of me.

“It was.
On loan from my family until last year, when I wanted it back,” he says, very
matter-of-fact, not a smidgen of gloating.

I would
gloat.

“This is
insane! You actually own this?”

Bryce
nods, and I’m over the moon with delight. Without delay I step to the next
miracle on the wall and Bryce walks me through his collection, his knowledge of
fine art rousing my libido. I analyze the brush strokes, the pigments, the
awe-inspiring details. All the while, Bryce’s velvet voice seduces my
intellect. “Redon,
The Cyclops
, circa 1914,” he says. “William Blake,
Ancient
of Days
, 1794.”

“I can’t believe
you can spend time with these wondrous creations whenever you wish. I’d never
leave the room!” We make a slow sweep of the gallery and when we’re done I
yearn to start again, craving the smooth cadence of Bryce’s voice.

“There’s a
painting at the top of the stairs I’d like you to see.” Bryce gently guides me
toward a stairway leading up. I move reluctantly, questioning Bryce’s motives.
“A painting,” Bryce repeats, “and then we’ll have some dessert.”

Heat from
his mouth warms my ear and tiny shivers run through me from head to toe. I
swallow another gulp of wine.

One step
to go and I stop short.

“No way.”
I’m blown away.

At the top
of the stairs, on a large landing outside double French doors to the master
bedroom, under custom lighting that calls attention to the abundance of
texture, is a painting I recognize. I know every single stroke, every color
mix, every ounce of heart and soul that went into creating it.

My heart
and soul.

“I—I—”
I stammer. I don’t know what to say. My head whirls in circles.

“The honor
is yours.” He rests his hands on my waist.

“Tess
Morgan,
Crimson Spirit
,” I murmur as I lean into him, allowing his arms
to hold me tight within his frame.

I’m in
shock. Bryce has my painting on his wall, in this exquisite mansion, among
world-renowned artists. As a painter there is little more I want for my work
than to have it where it’s admired and cared for. I feel like a doting mother,
proud of her progeny. Even now, after all these years, this piece still takes
my breath away.

I’m so
happy I could fly.

“I sold
this painting at a gallery showing a few years ago.”

“To me,”
Bryce breathes, his embrace tightening. His sweet scent surrounds me, tugging
at my heartstrings and teasing my every defense. “You’re humming again. I
should call you my angel,” he whispers in my ear.

“Because
of my painting? The wings?” I say.

“No,” he
says, his eyes leading mine downward. Our feet hover a foot above the hardwood
floor, freaking me out. “Relax. Your heart is racing. Just think calming
thoughts and breathe.”

I release
the tension in my muscles starting at the top of my head, working my way down,
just like he taught me. A minute or two passes and I open my eyes cautiously.
Total relief only comes when I confirm our feet are firmly on the floor.

“You said
there was to be no mythical stuff tonight,” I say. “That would include
hocus-pocus, don’t you think?”

“It wasn’t
me.”

I turn and
glare. “How? How did I do that?”

“Well,” he
says, eyes radiant. “You were able to—”

I press
two fingers over Bryce’s lips, stopping him midsentence. He bites me and I yank
my hand back laughing.

“This is a
normal date, two ordinary people talking about regular things. Tomorrow, tell
me tomorrow.”

Bryce
grins. “No parlor tricks,” he says, turning me to face another set of stairs.
As I turn I see Bryce’s bedroom, the huge four-poster bed taking center stage.
Bryce chuckles. “Your heart is racing again.” He takes my hand.

I follow
him down the stairs as quick as my feet will take me.

“You were
awfully loud for someone with so few tools out to work with,” I tease when we
step into the kitchen. Bryce’s jaunts to the kitchen during dinner were quite
noisy, so I expected to see the telltale signs of labor, but other than a few
roasting pans in the sink, there is no evidence of our three-course meal.

“Yes,
well,” says Bryce, his hearty laugh filling the room, “Clause is a very
talented man.” He heads to a set of paneled doors on one side of the
floor-to-ceiling curtain I vividly recall leading to an outdoor patio. He tugs
on a steel handle and a gust of cold air bellows from within, unveiling a
built-in Sub Zero freezer. “Dessert is on me.” There’s a small bounce in his
step.

He’s
adorable like this.

He pulls a
bunch of items out of the pantry and sets a long glass bowl on the island
countertop. “One banana split coming up,” he chimes, rubbing his hands with
exaggerated enthusiasm. He glows, luminous, happy.

I examine
the inventory and realize he’s got all the fixings to make a killer banana
split: three flavors of ice cream, bananas, strawberries, chocolate sauce,
caramel, and whipped cream. I reach over to help and he affectionately taps my
hand with the spoon. “No way,” he says. “This is something I can make.”

Yielding
to his show of domesticity, I pull up a stool and watch him create his masterpiece.
The sweet smell of ripe bananas fills the air. A clock ticks, faintly, from the
next room. An adorable grin of pride twitches the right side of Bryce’s upper
lip as he makes swirls with the whipped cream, making me laugh.