She stood stiff in his embrace.
“Why didn’t you adopt?” he asked quietly.
“Laurent didn’t want to adopt, so, we didn’t adopt.”
The way she spoke made it clear that, in her desire to build a family, she tried that too.
And she, again, failed.
In other words, what Laurent wanted or didn’t want, Laurent got.
No matter what Elle wanted.
Yes, Prentice detested him.
“You know what’s funny?” she asked the sea, her face turned away from him, her gaze thoughtful.
“No, baby. What’s funny?”
“He divorced me.” She looked at him and continued, “I never wanted him and, in the end, he divorced me. Isn’t that funny?”
What it was, was ironic.
What it was not, was funny.
He didn’t answer, he simply pulled her closer. Her head tipped back further to keep her eyes on him and her hands came to rest lightly on his waist.
Prentice liked the feel of Elle’s hands on his waist. He’d like it better if it was her arms around his waist.
“Why do you think that?” she asked quietly.
He put a hand to her jaw and stroked her cheek with his thumb, asking, “Think what?”
“What you said about me. That I was the best thing to come in your life. With all the gifts you’ve been given, how can you think that?”
His mind flooded with all that was Elle.
Her pancakes. Her cookies. Her smile.
The way she cared for his home.
The way she cared for his family.
The way she handled Sally with infinite patience appearing to enjoy every second.
The way she understood what Jason needed and gave it to him after Prentice spent a year trying to figure it out.
The way she kept his children’s mother’s memory alive instead of trying to bury it deep.
The way she could make him laugh when she forgot to be Isabella and, instead, was Elle.
The way she responded to his hands, his mouth, his cock moving inside her.
The way she consistently gave of herself, second by second, to him, to his children, to her friends the latter to whom she’d been giving for years, without even noticing she was doing it or expecting that first thing in return.
Prentice was in love with her.
And he’d been in love with her for over twenty years.
But now, knowing what he knew about how she’d helped Annie with unfailing determination and seeing what he saw when she dropped everything and raced to his daughter’s bedside at the hospital, he loved her even more.
He’d had a beautiful run with Fiona and he loved his wife deeply.
But he’d never been in love with Fee.
Not the way he’d always been in love with Elle from the first time he saw her with Annie, her beautiful face lit up with laughter, walking into the same pub they went to last night.
He studied that face in the dim light and slid his thumb along her lower lip.
“How can I no’?” he answered her question with a question.
She shook her head and tried to pull away.
His hand left her face so his arm could lock around her back.
She stilled and whispered, “I don’t understand.”
He pulled her even closer. “You don’t have to understand. I do. Isn’t that enough?”
She shook her head again, her body still tight. “I don’t think –”
He cut her off, asking, “Do you like it here?”
He felt her frame jerk and she stammered, “P… pardon?”
“Do you like this house?” he enquired.
She slightly relaxed and her voice was soft when she replied, “It’s a beautiful house, Pren.”
“Do you like being with the children?”
Her voice was suddenly firm (and slightly loud) when she replied, “Of course I do!”
His fingers went to her hair, pulling out the holder so its weight tumbled into his hand.
He fisted it, dipped his face closer and asked, “Do you like being with me?”
“Pren –”
“Answer me, Elle.”
She tried to turn her head away but he held her fast with his hand in her hair.
“Elle –” he prompted.
“What does it matter?” she whispered.
“Because if you like it and you want it, you can have it,” he told her, pulling her head back so he could rest his forehead on hers. “I think it’s about time you get what you want, baby. Don’t you?”
He was getting somewhere. He knew this because her body relaxed into his and her hands at his waist slid around his back.
“I like it,” she said softly and her body pressed closer. “And I want it.”
Yes, thank Christ, he was finally getting somewhere.
He felt like roaring his triumph.
He didn’t because she went on.
“But –” she began.
His hand in her hair tightened, his other arm giving her a squeeze, stopping her next words.
“No,” he stated firmly.
“But, Pren –”
This time, he dropped his head and he kissed her silent.
That worked.
Just like it always did.
Her weight was resting fully against his body when he lifted his head.
“You want it,” he said, touching her lips with his again. “I want it.” He touched her lips again. “And the children want it. We’ve all lost enough. It’s time to move onto something better.”
“Okay,” she whispered, suddenly acquiescent, dropping her head, putting her cheek to his chest and snuggling close.
He held her for a long time.
Then he kept her in his arm as he reached for her glass, handing it to her.
Then he reached for his own.
They drank their wine together and silently watched the sea.
* * * * *
Fiona
You’re getting somewhere, Fiona told her husband as she floated, arse to the railing, beside Prentice and Bella.
Her husband didn’t answer.
You think you’ve cracked it, though, and you aren’t even close, Fiona continued.
Prentice showed no signs of hearing her.
Fiona leaned forward and whispered fiercely, Prentice, read her journals!
Prentice swallowed the last sip of his wine and put his glass on the railing next to Bella’s already empty one.
He turned Bella toward the door.
Brilliant, now Bella was leaving glasses outside. Fiona didn’t particularly relish the fact that Prentice took Bella outside in the first place, seeing as he never did that with her. But, she really didn’t relish both of them leaving the glassware to fend for their inanimate selves in the wild, Scottish elements.
Fiona put the glasses out of her mind and followed them.
She had bigger fish to fry.
Read her journals, read her journals, READ HER JOURNALS! Fiona shouted to Prentice.
They stepped over the threshold.
Fiona followed them.
When she did, she hit black.
Not her tent by the apple tree and the stream.
Black.
Pitch.
She floated to a stop, suddenly terrified out of her mind.
Where was she?
She wasn’t real here, she was floating.
She looked down at herself.
See-through.
Oh no.
Was this hell?
Did she do something wrong?
In a panic, she floated forward, banged into an invisible barrier and was thrown back.
No! she shouted.
She didn’t want to be alone for eternity with a silk tent, a guitar and some books, no matter how pretty the place was.
And she didn’t want to be with her family for eternity, haunting them, watching them live their lives but never being a part of it.
But she
really didn’t want to be here (wherever here was). It was dark. It was frightening. And if she stayed there, she’d never know if Prentice breathed life back into Bella, just like the prince in a fairytale.
She flew forward again, faster, more determined.
She floated into the bedroom.
It was dark, Bella and Prentice in bed.
She looked behind her.
Nothing but windows, balcony and sea.
She was safe.
Fiona let out a ghostly sigh of relief.
She looked to the ceiling and said thanks. Then she asked never to be sent there again.
There was no answer.
Fiona shook off the residual fear and cautiously drifted to the bed.
Bella was asleep, dead to the world (as it were).
Prentice was wide awake.
Even though she was frightened that trying to communicate with the living was getting her into trouble (and sent to the pitch black), this was important, she had to risk it so Fiona still reached out and touched her husband’s hair.
Read her journals, she whispered.
She pulled her hand back instantly when his head turned at her ghostly touch. Then she braced, afraid she’d be sent to the pitch black.
She wasn’t.
She watched as Prentice carefully extricated himself from Bella who, Fiona noticed, was wearing one of Prentice’s t-shirts which was good since Sally would undoubtedly be in in the morning.
Prentice pulled the covers around Bella and she saw he was in sweats.
Then she had to hurry and float after him as he exited the room.
Navigating the house in the dark, he went straight to the guest suite.
He turned on the light beside Bella’s bed, looked over his shoulder and out the two doors he left opened.
Then Fiona stared as he picked up and opened the journal that sat on the top of the stack and he read.
He’d heard her.
Hallelujah! He’d heard her!
Fiona saw that he was reading the latest journal, the one Bella just started.
She got close to him and advised, That’s not a good one to read, try one of the other ones.
He obviously wasn’t hearing her now because she saw his lips curve into a smile as he read what she wrote about the children.
Seriously, Prentice, try one of the other –
Fiona stopped when she saw the smile fade from his face when he read what Bella wrote that day.
Then he flipped the book shut and grabbed the next one.
He started at the back.
Fiona looked over his shoulder.
Then her ghostly body braced.
He’d flipped right to the page where Bella wrote about disposing of the pictures and his ring after carrying them with her for twenty years. Disposing of them because she thought he hated her. Disposing of them because he’d been cruel.
Disposing of them because she needed, for her own sake, to let him go, no matter how much it hurt her.
Fiona watched his face grow pale and his body get tight.
Then she watched him flip the book shut in his hand and he stared unseeing at the bed for long moments. Then he turned and sat on its side, putting his elbows to his knees, he bent forward and placed his hands to the back of his head, even the one with the book.
He looked between his knees and clipped, “Fuck!”
Fiona got close and soothed, You didn’t know, even I didn’t know. How could you know?
He sat back and opened the journal again.
Randomly selecting pages, he read. Sometimes, just the page. Sometimes, he’d read for pages and pages.
He did this through all four journals.
Finally, he stood, his face set, jaw tight, a muscle jerking in his cheek.
Fiona knew how he felt.
She wished she could hug him but, unfortunately, she couldn’t.
He set the journal aside, turned out the light and started to walk away.
Fiona held back, worrying her ghostly lip, waiting for him to leave so she could rearrange Bella’s journals like she liked them (Prentice had totally messed them up).
But he turned back, switched on the light and carefully arranged the journals, chronologically and stacked precisely.
Then he turned out the light again and retraced his steps to Bella.
As she crossed the threshold to her old bedroom, Fiona went back to the stream.
* * * * *
Prentice
Prentice wasn’t thinking.
Couldn’t think.
Wouldn’t allow himself to.
He put a knee to the bed and pulled the covers down Elle’s body.
Then he joined her in bed and turned her to him.
Then he put his mouth to her neck and his hands went to her panties.
“Pren?” she whispered drowsily, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest.
He pulled down her panties.
His mouth left her neck so he could yank them down her legs, over her feet and toss them away.
“Pren.” Her voice was less sleepy, her hands more firm on him when he rolled into her.
He kissed her as he forced his hips between her legs.
At his kiss, she opened her legs and her arms wrapped around his back.
His mouth trailed down her cheek to her ear and he tasted the sweetness of her.
She sifted her fingers in his hair, lifted her head, now whispering in his ear, she repeated, “Pren.”
His hands went up her shirt and he found her breasts.
His mouth found hers.
“I’ll no’ let you go,” he vowed, his voice so rough, it was hoarse.
His thumbs slid over her nipples.
“Okay,” she breathed.
“Never. I’ll never let you go.”
Her hand cupped the back of his head, the other trailing down his side, between their bodies, down his stomach.
“Okay,” she repeated.
She pushed into his sweats and found him.
He groaned into her mouth.
Then he fucked her in a way that she could make no mistake he was claiming her as his. It was like their first time, hard, quick, out-of-control and pure magic.
Elle, being Elle, after it was over, and their breath had slowed, mistook him.
She tried to exit the bed.
He caught her and pulled her back into his body.
“Where are you going?” he growled into the back of her head.
“I need to go to my bed. The children –”
His arm got tight and she stopped breathing. He even heard her breath going out of her lungs in a whoosh.
He didn’t care.
He was not letting her go.
“You sleep here, with me.”
She made a noise he couldn’t decipher.
He didn’t try.
Wishing to be certain she was clear and made no further mistake, he repeated, “From now on, you sleep here, with me. You sleep nowhere else, no’ in this house. If you sleep somewhere else but this house, I’ll be there too and you’ll still fucking sleep with me.”
She was silent, her body tense then she asked, “Has… um, has something happened?”
“Aye.”
She was silent again then she asked with a tinge of incredulity, “Erm… how can something happen? It’s the middle of the night.”
He didn’t answer; he just gave her a squeeze.
Elle, being Elle, didn’t let it go.
“What happened?”
“I’m not fucking around anymore, that’s what’s happened.”
“You… um,” she paused then carried on, “you just woke up and decided you’re not fucking around anymore?” This time there was more than a tinge of incredulity.
“Aye,” he lied.
“Fucking around about what?” she asked.
He decided not to answer.
When she spoke again, she was whispering, “Pren, are you okay?”
There it was ag
ain.
She asked like she cared, like she was worried, like she wanted to take care of him.
Like she took care of fucking everyone.
But herself.
He gave her a gentle squeeze this time.
“No,” he answered truthfully.
“Do you want to talk?”
“No,” he answered, again truthfully.
“Can I… is there something I can do?”
He was right.
She wanted to take care of him.
“Aye.”
“What?”
“You and Sally made chocolate chip cookies. They’re delicious but I prefer the oatmeal ones. You want to do something, make those for me tomorrow.”
Her body stilled then she breathed, “Are you serious?”
“Aye.”
She was silent.
Then she said, “You wake me up in the middle of the night. We… erm, you know. Then you get all intense and say something’s wrong but you won’t tell me what. And now you’re saying you want oatmeal cookies?”
He could see this would seem highly bizarre.
He didn’t care about that either.
“Aye.”
“Do you have a fever?”
Something relaxed inside him; he felt the fierce clutch of it let him go.
The warmth hit his gut and he smiled into her hair.
“I don’t have a fever, Elle.”
She pulled at his hold. “Maybe I should check.”
His hold again grew tight. “Just go to sleep.”
“Pren –”
“Sleep.”
“But –”
His hand curled on her breast, her body stilled then relaxed.
He nuzzled his face in her hair, his voice went low, soft and coaxing when he urged, “Sleep, baby.”
She didn’t answer.
She also didn’t sleep, not for some time.
Finally, he felt her body get heavy and he let out a relieved sigh.
Before she drifted away, she murmured sleepily, “If you’ve caught something, you’re quarantined to these rooms. I don’t want the children getting it.”
And there it was, yet again.
Elle taking care of somebody.
Since these somebodies were his children, Prentice smiled into her hair.
She fell asleep.
He listened to her breathing.
Against his will, the words she wrote in her journals slid into his mind.
His body pressed into hers.
Twenty years ago, Prentice walked out of a room.