Authors: EMME CROSS
Sunny disengaged herself and turned Sven’s whisky-sodden, sleep-heavy bulk onto its side. Cradling his head on her bruised and bitten breasts, she stroked his hair and face. Crooning to him as you would a frightened child, she held him through the remnants of the night. He looked like a child with tousled hair and tear stained cheeks. A lost child. She cuddled him and wept silent tears for them both.
Colin tucked Charlie in and went to make the necessary phone calls. His father’s obituary had been written months earlier, every syllable edited and fussed over by Henry himself. It was ready to be released to the press.
Charlie couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to be alone but he didn’t want to go crying to his dad like a big baby. He was twelve years old now. But he missed his grandpa already. He’d miss beating him at Euchre and teaching him Halo and those other online games.
He’d miss the naughty stories, the ones he’d sworn never to tell his dad. They used to spend hours talking as he did his homework; watching old movies while Charlie heard the gossip about what really happened behind the scenes. Grandpa had a way of making even the old black and white films come alive, so that Liz and Dick and Sir Larry seemed like real flesh and blood people.
After tossing and turning awhile, he decided to go and see Sunny. She wouldn’t mind if he cried; she would give him a hug and a cuddle. She would listen, as she always did.
Over the past year, he had come to think of her as a surrogate mother. His own mom was never around but when Sunny came to town, she would take him to the market. They’d go jogging in Hyde Park where he’d struggle to keep up. She showed him how to make homemade pizza. Once when she was in London she came to watch him as Petruchio in the school play. He’d been proud to introduce her to his classmates and teachers.
Sunny was the one who set up Skype on grandpa’s computer so they could keep in touch when she and Sven went away. She bought him Wii so he could work on his tennis backhand. He made his way down the hallway and up the stairs, certain that Sunny would help him feel better.
He could see a sliver of light through the partially open bedroom door. Good. That meant she wasn’t asleep yet. He grabbed the old latch and tentatively eased the door open. The light was coming from the bathroom at the other end of the room next to a giant four-poster bed.
He could see two people wrestling. Charlie’s face turned red. They were making love! He meant to turn away but he couldn’t. He’d never seen two people making love before except on those websites he wasn’t supposed to know about. But this didn’t look like the videos he’d seen. Sunny was struggling. Sven was ripping off her clothes, tearing off her blouse and exposing her breasts.
Charlie could hear her frantically whispering, “Just wait a minute. Sven, give me a minute!”
Charlie could see that Sven wasn’t stopping. He put his hands on her upper arms and his mouth on Sunny’s breasts. Charlie could hear her moan. It wasn’t a happy or excited moan like the ladies in the videos. She sounded frightened. Was Sunny being hurt?
Charlie froze in indecision. What should I do? he wondered. I should help her. I should rescue her. But Sven was her husband. Maybe some married people do it this way. He and his friends had giggled about how some people liked rough sex. He’d heard about this kind of thing but never figured anyone as gentle as Sunny would like it.
He’d tried not to think about her and sex at all, though sometimes, when she hugged him, it was difficult to ignore the feel of her breasts. It was hard not to think about stroking her. He didn’t want to see her like this. This wasn’t love.
Sven reached down and tore off her jeans and panties leaving Sunny naked. Charlie almost wished his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dim light because he could see all of her, including the curls between her legs. He’d never seen a grown woman naked before, not in the flesh. He’d seen Chloe at school naked, but not a grown woman.
Charlie couldn’t swallow. He could barely breathe. His heart was pounding and his head felt foggy. She moaned again and cried out. He should help her! But his feet were rooted to the floor in the shadows that leached into the room from the hallway beyond.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop looking. He watched as Sven pushed apart her thighs. Charlie caught a glimpse of what was between her legs before Sven’s head descended. He closed his eyes, trying to unsee and when he opened them Sven was on top of Sunny. Inside her, Charlie knew.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the big man grunted and moaned and seemed to stiffen. Charlie knew what that meant too. He was twelve after all. It was over. Cheeks flaming, he turned and ran back to his room and cried himself to sleep, ashamed of his cowardice.
* * *
The grey light filtering through the drawn curtains felt like laser beams lancing into his skull. Sven woke with a start, trying to get his bearings.
He fumbled for the bedside lamp, holding his hand to his head to try and quell the pounding pulse in his temples. He felt like one giant bruise.
It had been an awful night. He teared up at the memory of Henry’s death. His best friend, his surrogate father; the man who had advised him and amused him. Henry’s renown had never stood in the way of their friendship.
Henry had been there to help Sven win Sunny back when he almost lost her over the unplanned pregnancy. He had been the best man at their wedding. He was Bliss’s godfather. Her fairy godfather, he used to joke. Sven felt more alone than he had in years.
He glanced at the clock. Almost noon. No wonder Sunny wasn’t in bed. He hoped she hadn’t stayed up all night making arrangements and consoling everyone. It was fuzzy but he was sure he’d waited up for her, needing her warmth, needing her to share his grief but she hadn’t come to him. Typical.
He tried to push the unworthy thought out of his mind. He remembered being angry with her for not coming to him last night.
He sat up and rubbed his pounding temples. Judging by the state of the bed, he hadn’t slept well. The sheets were torn and sticky. Had they had sex? He didn’t even remember Sunny coming to bed. A wet dream? It’d been years since he’d had one of those.
He caught snatches of a kind of disturbing dream. He was taking her, literally taking her.
Sven fingered a small smear of blood on the pillowcase. God, he hoped he hadn’t cut himself on that damn whisky bottle, or that Sunny hadn’t cut her feet or hands. But no, searching with slitted eyes for signs of broken glass, he saw nothing. He sighed and slowly swung unsteady legs over the side of the bed. It was going to be a long day.
He staggered off in search of a long, hot shower. The spray hurt the back of his shoulders and he winced. He must have wrenched something in his sleep. Sven turned the water to cold, hoping a more bracing temperature would help dispel the mist in his mind. He scrubbed his teeth for what felt like hours, hoping to purge his mouth of the fetid taste of liquor and despair.
Wiping the steam from the mirror, he surveyed the damage. It was worse than he feared. He hadn’t looked or felt this bad for years. The last time he’d been so hung-over must have been when he thought he had lost Sunny for good. He’d mistakenly believed she’d been pregnant with another man’s child.
Henry had been with him then, too, and had let him talk and rant and drink. It was Henry who’d convinced him to go and see Sunny and talk to her about their estrangement and also to accept the possibility she was carrying another man’s child. It was Henry, Sven remembered, who’d convinced him that even if it wasn’t his child, it would still be hers and thus worth accepting and loving.
But the baby was his, their daughter Bliss. It had all turned out wonderfully in the end, but only because of Henry. Sven dragged on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and thought that there wouldn’t have been a happy ending for him and Sunny if it weren’t for Henry.
Sven wandered shakily down the stairs into the kitchen in search of his family. If he knew his wife, Sunny would be cooking for the multitudes that always seemed to descend upon a house in mourning. She wasn’t there. Neither was their daughter. Mrs. Carlyle looked up with red swollen eyes from her inevitable cup of tea.
“You look as bad as I feel. Let me make you some breakfast — or lunch I guess.”
The thought of food turned Sven’s stomach. “Maybe later. Where is everybody?”
“My sister has taken Bliss for the day to get her away from the phones and doorbells. Sunny is with Colin making funeral arrangements. She must have gotten up with the birds because by the time I got down here, everyone had breakfast, the kitchen was clean as a whistle and I found six fruit pies waiting.”
“Know when she’ll be back?”
“She left a note and said by half past six. The baby will be back about the same time. She made you this.”
Sven recognized a jug of her famous hangover concoction.
“You’re to drink two full glasses, take a couple of aspirin and go back to bed for a while. Sunny says everything’s well in hand and you need your rest.”
The housekeeper turned to answer a knock at the kitchen door. Sven saw her take a step back, looking as if she’d seen a ghost — or a celebrity.
“Hello, my darling. You must be Mrs. Carlyle. Sunny told me all about you. I’m so sorry for your loss. Henry was a great man.”
Sven recognized the Scottish burr. “Stuart! What the hell are you doing here?”
Stuart White, the world famous chef, came into the kitchen and shook Sven’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, even under these circumstances. Sunny called and told me about Henry. She asked me to help.” He turned and whistled through the open kitchen door and two men wheeled in a rack filled with food.
“I’m just glad I was in London instead of LA. The top four trays are for this evening. Sunny said people will be coming to pay their condolences. The bottom eight trays are for after the funeral.” He motioned for his staff to put them into the huge freezer.
Mrs. Carlyle was put out. “What am I supposed to do with all this fancy food? And why does Sunny think I need help? I cared for Sir Henry his whole life and I am perfectly capable of handling the food for the funeral.” Her chin jerked up, angry tears glinting.
“Of course you are, my darling. Sunny knows that. She also knows that you were family to Henry. That means you have to be at the church sitting in the family pew and at the graveside with his son and grandson. She didn’t want you hiding down here in the kitchen alone with your grief.” Stuart patted the woman’s heaving shoulders.
“I’ll send along some staff tonight and for the funeral on Friday. They’ll see to the food and chairs and everything. Don’t you worry your pretty head. Just take it easy. Sunny said you might want to get the drawing room and library ready for tonight. She’s ordered flowers.”
His staff started carting in the crates of wine, beer and liquor.
“You don’t look like you’ll be needing a drink anytime soon,” Stuart observed, taking in Sven’s bloodshot eyes and pallor.
“I did my grieving last night. I’m sticking to this for a while.” Sven raised a glass of viscous yellow liquid.
The chef’s eyebrows shot up.
“Sunny’s famous hangover cure? She won’t tell me the recipe.” He took a swig, swished it around in his mouth, sampling the flavours. “Ginger. Liquorice. Something else I can’t put my finger on. I’ll get it out of her yet.”
He patted Sven on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at the funeral. If you have any questions, call or text me. Be well.”
And then he was gone, leaving Mrs. Carlyle in a state of shock.
Sven downed two full glasses of the miracle cure and took the rest upstairs with a bottle of aspirin. Sunny was right; he was exhausted. They were in for a couple of long, hard days so he might as well get some sleep while he could.
The maid had been in, changed the sheets and picked up the dirty linen. Sven was grateful. Not only was it easier to slip off into blissful, forgetful sleep between crisply ironed sheets, there’d been something about that bloodstain on the old pillowcase that made him feel uneasy.
He was awakened by a knock on the door. He’d slept for five solid hours and felt ready to take on the world. Mrs. Carlyle brought in a series of garment bags and parcels.
“Sunny bought you clothes to wear for the funeral. People will start arriving about seven-thirty so you might want to have something to eat first. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. You’re looking much better.”
“I’m feeling better. I wanted to tell you how much Henry loved and appreciated you.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s mouth opened wide.
“He used to talk about you all the time, how you were always there, always helpful and loyal.”
“It was my pleasure. You should know that once he met you and then Sunny and Bliss, it was like a second family. He loved the three of you and you brought so much happiness to him during what could have been a very sad time.”
They sniffled, wiped their tears and exchanged a tentative hug.
Sven had some toast and jam, about all he dared try to keep down, and another glass of the hangover remedy.
Sunny had obviously spent part of the day shopping for clothes, which she absolutely hated. But she’d done a great job, selecting two black suits, an array of shirts, properly sombre ties and a pair of dress shoes.
She’d also picked up two dresses for Bliss and a pair of shoes to match. For herself, she’d chosen a couple of black dresses and a pair of pumps.
He changed and left the room as the maid was coming to hang up the new clothes and turn down the bed. Sven turned at the sound of a giggle. “There’s my baby!” he said seizing his daughter from the nanny. “Did you have a good day? Do you have an English accent yet?” He nuzzled Bliss, inhaling her intoxicating baby scent.