Behind the Green Curtain (23 page)

Bobbing her head lightly, Caton
said nothing. For a moment that stretched toward eternity, she simply continued
her silent examination. “So,” she drawled at last, taking her last drink and
setting her glass on the bar. “What now?”

The sense of calm Amelia had
stumbled upon by chance began to dissipate around her, indicating it had been
illusion from the start.

It sounded so simple, but that was
the question, the one that lingered over every moment they were together.

What now?

They could attempt to talk, but
Amelia suspected that would only result in both of them losing their appetites.
In heat and silence and desire, they were perfectly in-sync. As far as everything
else, they barely knew how to coexist. Sighing, Amelia knew she had no right to
be disheartened at the dichotomy when it was mostly her own doing.

Returning her glass to the bar, she
curved around the end of it, and Caton slid off her stool, spinning to her with
an expression somewhere between amusement and resignation. “Best to keep it
simple?” she reasoned.

“For now,” Amelia responded, too
aware that every step toward Caton made everything more complex.

Nod barely perceptible, Caton’s
gaze fell away, catching on a minor flaw, and the brush of Caton’s hand sent
electricity arcing through Amelia’s abdomen. “Flour,” she stated, fingers
gently coaxing it from the fabric of Amelia’s shirt.

When she glanced back up, it was no
longer resignation, but the constant, simmering yearning that drew them
together. Hands sliding over Caton’s shoulders, lips meeting Caton’s, Amelia
felt the tension recede, replaced by a familiar, far more pleasant sensation.
Maybe this was the only place she and Caton could truly connect, but at least
they connected somewhere without effort.

Caton’s hands spreading over her
back, they warmed her, not quite setting fire, and the urge to take away the
guesswork, to return to the same place was strong. Once they became ingrained,
patterns were hard to break, though - Amelia knew from experience - and she was
already dangerously close to a pattern with Caton that failed to fully satisfy.

Pulling away, she combed her
fingers through Caton’s hair, reveling in the softness that enveloped them, and
Caton buffered her look of concern with a smile. It occurred to Amelia that
avoiding the easy pattern would require giving more, just as Sole had said, no
matter how terrifying the prospect. Hand trailing Caton’s arm to wrap around
her hand, she tugged Caton from the room.

In the front room, around the end
of the sofa, Amelia dropped Caton onto the sofa with a soft push, fingertips on
Caton’s chest leading her gently backward. Knee sinking into the cushion next
to Caton’s hip, Amelia’s other leg situated between Caton’s as she dropped down
with her, and as Caton turned into her, trapping her against the back of the
sofa, Amelia felt strangely liberated as Caton’s lips seized her own.

Burrowing into the heat of Caton’s
body, into the play of Caton’s tongue against hers, Amelia swore it lasted only
minutes, but when the beeping from the kitchen pulled her from her haze, it had
to have been more than an hour since they landed on the sofa.

Lifting her head, she had no clue
what was going on behind the green eyes that stared back up at her. Everything
was unknown, everything was improvisation, and that scared Amelia more than she
would ever admit. Pushing back slowly, she rose from the couch, pulling her
eyes from Caton and trailing her fingers up Caton’s arm to her shoulder before
returning to the kitchen.

She had no idea what she was doing,
beyond the irrefutable fact that she was making a huge mistake, but it was a
mistake Amelia simply couldn’t convince herself not to make.

Chapter 33

Adhered to the sofa, Caton listened
to the soft footfalls that carried Amelia back through the kitchen doorway.
Remnants of Amelia lingering on her skin, the muted sounds of Amelia echoing in
her head, she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that they had just spent
time together in which they didn’t have sex and didn’t completely repel each
other.

Things were different. Again. For
once, it felt as if Amelia was guiding her with an open hand, instead of
misdirecting her, and, forcing herself upright, Caton tried to find some sense
of balance as she rose to her feet to follow.

Back in the kitchen, Amelia was
already halfway through her work - dough rolled out on the counter, a pile of
cut vegetables nearby - and Caton wondered just how long she had lain there
contemplating.

“Do you want some help?” she
belatedly offered.

“I’ve got it,” Amelia returned with
a smile, and Caton poured more wine into the glass she’d abandoned on the bar,
taking a fortifying drink, knowing she should find an excuse to leave even as
she settled next to the bar to watch Amelia.

It was amazingly efficient,
Amelia’s process. Though surprisingly hands-on, her cooking style was as
no-nonsense as the rest of her life. Watching her distribute ingredients with
more expedience than precision, it occurred to Caton that, under normal
circumstances, Amelia wouldn’t be doing it at all. Her life would be even more
efficient, Sole taking care of her base needs while Amelia toiled away in her
office or worked out downstairs or did something equally result-oriented.

Caton was the inconsistency, the
poorly-fitted piece, in Amelia’s life. She was the one who made Amelia do messy
things, waste time, take unnecessary risks. She was wrong for Amelia, as Amelia
was wrong for her. While that fact may have been clearer in the beginning, it
was still every bit as true, no matter what strange things Amelia did to make
Caton question her sanity.

Opening the oven, Amelia dropped
the pizza onto the stone inside and set the timer, and Caton followed her path
back to the bar, watching her refill her glass and take a drink. Leaning
forward against the bar top, Amelia’s forearms stretched across it, and Caton
wondered if it was in offering, before deciding she didn’t care. It was within
reach, she had no desire to fight the overwhelming urge to touch Amelia, and,
if she was wrong, she knew Amelia would let her know.

As her hand slid forward, Amelia
looked more intrigued than put-off by the approach, and, when they met,
Amelia’s hand turned up to meet Caton’s, tips of her fingers curling around
Caton’s in a tentative connection.

Letting out a nervous breath,
wondering if it was what she really wanted, Caton lifted her glass to her lips.
“So,” she posed, with forced casualness, “what is it with you and Selene?”
Taking a sip as her lips went instantly dry, she hoped to look as if whether or
not Amelia chose to answer was of little concern.

Amelia’s eyes dropping to their
joined hands, Caton anticipated a retraction and instinctively tightened her
grip, knowing it was noticeable when Amelia’s eyes returned to hers in an
instant. For a painful minute, Amelia said nothing, and Caton was sure any
changes she noticed were only cosmetic.

“She...” Amelia finally began,
shaking her head. “She has been angry at me for the past few years.”

“Why?” Caton questioned carefully.

“She had some trouble at school,”
Amelia continued. “Some other students were harassing her. She said it was
about a group project, but I don’t know if it was that simple. I made the
mistake of telling Jack.” Amelia sighed, regret heavy in her words. “And
instead of handling it like any normal parent, he had them all expelled. After
that, everyone was afraid to talk to Selene. She lost all her friends. The only
people who wanted to be around her were the mean girls, so that’s what she
became. She doesn’t like them. She doesn’t want to be one of them. She doesn’t
want to be there. She’s just doing what she has to do to survive.”

“Why don’t you just bring her
home?” Caton asked without thought, drawing back slightly when Amelia’s eyes
turned almost warning. “I mean,” she attempted to backpedal. “Aren’t there good
schools here? You want her home, I can tell you do.”

Something in the line of
questioning softened Amelia’s features. “It’s not that simple,” she said in a
way Caton knew was meant to end the conversation.

“You’re her mother.” Still, Caton
couldn’t stop.

“It’s not that simple,” Amelia
repeated, hand slipping from Caton’s, and Caton wasn’t sure if she had
shattered the intimacy or if it was fake from the start.

Pouring more wine into her
half-empty glass, Amelia walked to the oven, glancing at the timer with a grim
expression and leaning back against the counter when there was no excuse to
busy herself. “So, what are your brothers like?”

Not expecting the conversation to
continue, Caton had to give the question some consideration. “A menace for most
of my youth,” she replied, succeeding in putting a fleeting grin on Amelia’s
lips. “Now, they’re pretty okay.”

“They’re older than you?”

“Yeah.” Caton nodded. “Bryan is a
teacher. He’s married with one son. And Elliott is a radio producer with an
ex-wife and two sons.”

“Three nephews,” Amelia said,
almost wistfully.

“How about you?” Caton was grateful
for the seemingly straightforward subject. “Do you have any brothers and
sisters?”

“I did,” Amelia replied, eyes
casting downward, and a lump dropped into Caton’s chest, slowing the tempo of
her heartbeat. Apparently, with Amelia, no subject was straightforward. “I had
a sister.”

Swallowing, Caton knew she
shouldn’t. The ground around Amelia was always so hazardous, just waiting to
crack, which was probably why Amelia always stepped back when Caton stepped
forward. Since Amelia had opened the subject, though, Caton risked a hesitant
step.

“What happened to her?”

“She was born with defective
lungs,” Amelia stated matter-of-factly. “She died when she was
five-months-old.”

“How old were you?”

“Six,” Amelia responded, finally
glancing up, any feelings about the topic masked, as always, beneath the long
curtain of her eyelashes.

“I’m sorry,” Caton breathed.

“It happens,” Amelia said, casually
accepting her own pain, and turned to the oven at the beeping of the timer to
go about business as usual. In the past, Caton would have been certain Amelia
didn’t feel anything. Knowing she did, though, Caton only wished she could tell
how deeply, or understand why Amelia was so quick to dismiss her feelings.

Burdened by the loss Amelia refused
to feel for herself, she startled when Amelia appeared by the bar with a pizza
carrier and two plates. “Can you carry those.” She nodded toward the glasses of
water on the counter that had appeared as if by magic.

“Sure,” Caton returned
automatically, grabbing them and trailing Amelia from the room.

Pressing the button on the panel
inside the basement door, Amelia led Caton to her old floor of exile and
refuge. Passing by the gym, Caton followed Amelia into the small, misfit room
at the back corner that had no place in such an ornate palace.

Sliding the pizza onto the table,
Amelia sat at one end of the standard, mid-priced sofa and pulled slices onto
the plates, and Caton sat at a distance, setting the glasses on the table and
taking the food offered to her. Afraid of dredging up more painful subjects
unexpectedly, she was afraid to say anything, and so was Amelia, apparently,
because the silence descended heavily and the room felt too small for both of
them.

“Do you want some of my peppers?”
Amelia asked out of the silence, and it sounded like some kind of bizarre peace
offering. “Um...” She gave an uneasy laugh as Caton looked to her, motioning to
her plate. “My mama, she uh... whatever she was making, she would just toss
things on, or dish it out as it came. Like pabellon criollo or paella. She
always said, when you were eating with the right people, it didn’t matter who
got what, because you could... you know, you could trade.”

Not sure if she was seduced more by
the story, or the sudden appearance of Amelia’s native language, Caton felt
suddenly more and less at ease with Amelia. Holding her plate out, she watched
Amelia drop the peppers onto it, before taking her choice of items from Caton’s
pieces and popping a mushroom into her mouth with a smile.

After that, conversation came more
easily, though Caton let Amelia guide it, and Amelia guided it to the most
impersonal of topics. Safe, the discussion was also circular, leading them
nowhere, and Caton was never quite able to tell if Amelia’s laughter in all the
right places was genuine or the well-placed response of a woman who knew how to
charm her way through anything.

It wasn’t until they collected the
wine from the kitchen and returned to the couch, legs leisurely intertwined
between them, that Caton relaxed enough to forget why she had stopped asking
questions. Coaxed into comfort by the warmth of the alcohol and the intimate
feel of Amelia’s foot moving against her hip, her curiosity got the better of
her. Amelia was like an unsolved riddle. Without asking questions, she could
spend a lifetime trying to decode her, and they didn’t have a lifetime. They
had two months.

“How did you end up here? With
Jack?” she questioned, and, even to her, the second half of the query sounded
unmistakably spiteful.

The only rise the question got out
of Amelia was at eyebrow level, and, clearing her throat, Amelia glanced away.
“I know you think this is my world,” she motioned absently to the empty air.
“But it isn’t. I actually grew up poor. Really poor.” The words were softer.

The declaration came as such a
shock, Caton paused with her glass halfway to her lips, and the rim bisected
Amelia, leaving her half real before Caton and half reflection. When she had
thrown out the accusation that Amelia married for money, it was more of an “adding
a few extra millions to the riches” statement than a “moving up in the caste”
statement. Realizing the words had to have been more of a barb than she’d
intended – or maybe she did intend it at the time – Caton lowered her glass
without taking a drink.

 “As soon as I could work, I
started taking jobs to help my family,” Amelia went on without prompting. “I
had gotten this great job at a resort on Trinidad for the summer. Jack had come
to Venezuela for some sort of business venture, and he was visiting the island.
He stayed at the resort where I worked. And he was Jack. He decided what he
wanted, and he got it.”

Nodding numbly, Caton wished it was
answer enough, that the rest didn’t matter.  At last taking the drink, she was
unnerved by how much it did. “How?” she pressed.

Though Amelia didn’t balk at the
question, she did pause long enough that Caton worried whatever she said would
be a made-up tale, another purified version of the truth.

“He was there for a week,” Amelia
began haltingly. “He asked to take me out. He took me to all the nicest places,
ones I could never afford. He treated me like a queen. He elevated me above my
position. He did everything right for a nineteen-year-old with no real
experience.”

Nodding again in response, Caton
wasn’t sure she actually wanted Amelia to continue. Swallowing what remained in
her glass to temper the feeling of inadequacy that reared up out of nowhere,
she cast an agitated glare toward the empty wine bottle.

“At the end of the week, Jack asked
me to marry him,” Amelia went on at the small, disingenuous prompt. “I told him
my family was in Venezuela, and he took me there to meet them. He was charming
to my family. He was generous. He changed their lives immediately. My parents
thought he was a gift.”

It was no wonder, Caton
acknowledged, realizing she had posed the question more out of active
comparison than idle curiosity. “What did you think?” she questioned, a glutton
for punishment of her own making.

“I thought he was insane,” Amelia
replied. “He’d known me for a week and said he loved me. But,” she acknowledged
more slowly, “I also thought he was impetuous and romantic.”

“Of course.” Caton forced a hollow
laugh. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Amelia’s hand landing on her shin,
warmth penetrating her pant leg and sinking into her skin, Caton glanced up,
and, meeting Amelia’s gaze, for once so open, she lost her ability to be
flippant.

“He was always calculating, Caton,”
Amelia stated quietly. “I was never a wife to him. I was an acquisition. It
wasn’t generosity. It was a dowry. Of course, that became clearer over time. It
was harder to see then. He didn't want to marry his equal, because he knew he
would have one more person telling him what to do. He married me, because he
thought I wouldn't complain. He thought I would be grateful. And, for the most
part, I haven't and I am.”

Caton wasn’t sure what she expected
to hear, but it certainly wasn’t that level of disclosure. Awash with sudden
guilt, she acknowledged it was exactly what she had hoped Amelia would say,
that there was nothing real between she and her husband. Listening to the
revelation of the facts as Amelia saw them, though, she realized she didn’t
want that to be Amelia’s story after all. Jack may not have deserved Amelia,
past or present, but Amelia deserved more than years of his, or anyone’s,
indifference.

“Were you in love with him?” Caton
asked, no longer sure how she wanted Amelia to respond.

It was a difficult question to ask,
but Caton didn’t expect it to be a difficult question to answer. Amelia’s
surprise melting into uncertainty, her gaze drifted off. “No,” she finally
whispered, and it sounded more like a sudden realization than an age-old fact.
“I thought I would fall in love with him. He was so good to me at first. I
didn’t know he didn’t want to be loved. He wanted to be respected, admired,
followed, but not loved. You can’t love a tyrant. But, as things are turning out,”
Amelia continued a beat later, eyes losing focus as they stared across the
room, “maybe I never could have loved him anyway.”