Mikalo's Grace (17 page)

"I'm sorry?" I asked, confused.

"For when we visit your Mikalo in
Greece."

I smiled.

"I love you, my friend."

"Of course you do," came her response. "I'm
good for you."

I laughed.

"That you are."

Bill knocked on the door. I motioned him to
come in.

"Okay, gotta go. Work to do."

He waited until I had hung up the phone
before speaking.

"Congratulations."

"For?" I asked.

"Mikalo Delis. He just called and accepted
our offer."

"He what?"

I was on my feet.

"He accepted," he repeated. "And you don't
look very happy about it. Silly me, I thought you'd be happy.
You're like one big, confusing puzzle, Miss --"

"No, no, no," I interrupted. "He can't."

"He already did. We're drawing up the
contracts now."

I grabbed my purse and shrugged my coat over
my shoulders.

"Stop. Just ... Just stop. Hold off on the
paperwork, if you can. I need to, I need to talk with him."

He stopped me as I passed by, holding me
gently by the arm.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he
asked.

"Yes, I think so," I said.

"So be it," he responded, releasing me with a
brief pat on the back. "I'll slow them down in Personnel with some
Visa issue or something. Shouldn't be too hard."

"Thank you," I said, once again on the move
as I started down the hall.

"Oh, and Ronan?" he called out.

I turned.

"We'll do dinner next week. Just the two of
us. We'll talk, okay?"

I paused.

"Sounds good," I said. "And thank you,
Bill."

Chapter
Forty-Three

I had guessed right.

After a long cab ride downtown and a lot of
elbowing my way through the crowds choking Washington Square Park,
I had finally arrived at the one place I figured I could find
him.

And there he sat, alone at the back near the
small fountain, his long fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of
coffee.

I quietly approached.

He saw me and smiled.

"What a surprise, my Grace!"

Sitting, I reached over and grabbed his hand,
eager for the feel of him.

Seeing my expression, he quickly put on a
fake pout.

"So sad," he then said, leaning forward.
"Speak to me."

"Blazen tells me that you called --"

"I did," he agreed, nodding.

"And that you accepted their offer."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I did.

"And this makes you happy, my Grace?"

I paused, politely waving the waitress away,
and then spoke.

"Does it make you happy?"

He started to speak, but I interrupted
him.

"Think about it, Mikalo. Is this what you
really want? Or is it something you feel like you have to do
because you love me and want to be with me and want to see me
happy.

"Think about it."

"Is it so wrong to want to be with the woman
you love?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"No," I said. "No, it's not. It's very
sweet.

"You said when we first met days ago ..." I
started.

He interrupted me.

"Days ago?"

"Yes, it's only been days, Mikalo. Feels like
longer, I know, but it's just been a week."

"I saw you, my Grace. When you first walked
into the coffee shop, I saw you. Watched you carry the heavy bag
and drop it on the floor. Saw you take all those papers out and
then, like you forgot, I'm not sure, stand up to get a coffee.

"I sat very quiet, like the mouse, and
watched you work. Watched your eyes, those beautiful eyes, glance
at people. Watched your head, here --"

He pointed to his brow.

"Watched it make a little frown as you
thought. And I wanted to talk to you, wanted to know you. Was very
curious.

"I think the gods put in me a thirst for
coffee that day and directed my feet to that place, helped me to
see those young girls for what they were --"

"Wait," I said, interrupting him. "What?"

"Those girls who laughed? Remember? They
tried to come to talk with me, but, no, they did not please me. The
eyes were mean and the laugh was loud. And, you know --"

"They were ribs and bones," I said. "I
remember."

"But you," he continued. "You, I wanted to
know.

"And I needed to find my courage, my strength
to come and talk.

"And coffee is good for this, I think. So, I
got a new coffee and when I turned, you were looking at me, and my
heart was so happy.

"Your eyes gave me this gift, this courage,
to say hello. And now we are here."

He watched me closely, now.

"You say it has been days. But days, my
Grace, they become weeks and the weeks become months. And those
months? They become years.

"My father met my mother in a moment. She
could not find a seat to eat lunch, so he offered her his table. He
was finished and she was just starting and so they had a moment to
share.

"But in that moment, there was a spark. He
felt it as he left.

"And when she was finished and asked to pay,
the man, the waiter, he says no. The man who left paid for you. And
he gave you this. And he handed her my father's name and address of
where he lived.

"That was their moment. Our moment, it was
not too different, no?"

"But that moment they had, my mother and my
father, became a lifetime. I trust our moments will become a
lifetime, too, my Grace."

He watched me, his eyes still on mine.

"Do you?" he then asked. "Do you trust
this?"

"I do, Mikalo. I do. But you can't stay in
New York. Not now. Not right now, at least. You have your family,
the ones you love and the one's you don't. And you need to be there
to protect what your parents built, so your children will one day
enjoy what you enjoy now."

His face beamed as he spoke.

"You would like children?"

I nodded.

"Yes, with you, I would," I answered. "I
would, but when the time is right. And you know in your heart the
time isn't right. Not right now."

"Oh, my Grace," he said quietly. "I gave my
word to your Firm."

"I'm on it, Mikalo. It's fixable. Don't worry
about that."

He paused, thinking.

"And to think I had a dream of having a home
here in New York one day."

"You do," I said as I took my hands from his
and, lifting my bag and setting it on my lap, opened it to reach
inside.

I then handed him a small box.

"A gift?" he asked, his face lighting up.
"For me?"

"Open it," I said.

He tore away the ribbon and popped the top
off the distinctive black box.

Immediately the tears fell as he held the
navy blue Goyard key holder in his hand, a small, envelope-shaped
pocket of durable, leather-like fabric hiding a gold bar inside
holding several keys.

"Keys to my house," I explained. "The
security code changes weekly, but just call me and it's yours. My
house is your house now, Mikalo. You have a home in New York
whenever you want."

"You could not know," he then said as he
wiped his eyes.

"Know what?"

"My grandmother, she enjoyed this Goyard for
many years. My mind still can see her suitcases, this chevron here
--"

His fingers traced the famous v-shaped Goyard
design covering the fabric.

"Still in my head," he continued. "And then
my mother, she, too, enjoying it. Purses, shoulder bags, suitcases.
My father giving her new pieces when he would return from Paris.
And later, when he bought the apartment on the Avenue Foch, she
would join him, yes, and bring home more.

"This, this treasure has been in our family
for many, many years, my Grace."

He glanced at it again.

"You have made my heart so, so happy."

"Then I am happy.

"But Mikalo," I continued. "You have to go
home."

Chapter
Forty-Four

Even though my body was his, there were
tears.

He was spending the night. His last night
here in New York before leaving tomorrow morning for Athens.

When I woke, he'd be gone, he said. His heart
too hurt for goodbyes.

He didn't think he would be able to leave if
he saw my tears.

So here in the moonlight, our parting still
hours away, he held me, his kisses covering my face, the weight of
him as he laid on me delicious, his hardness pressed against me,
but not yet nestled in my warm wetness.

This was different, this love. A quiet
passion which spoke of subtle desperation.

But not the desperation of a need that was
eager to be filled. No, this was the desperation of a need to
remember.

Rubbing my flesh against his, my cheek
against his, my waist against his, my legs against his, my arms
moving up and down his body, trapping his scent so it could be
remembered long after he was gone.

Allowing our juices to mingle, our hips
pressing against each other, our sweat running in twin rivulets
down our bodies, the warmth being catalogued somewhere deep in my
mind so it, too, would be remembered.

Savoring his slow kisses, the pause as he
waits, his breath warm, and then capturing the moment when the
softness of him met the softness of me, that spark never to be
forgotten.

And when he finally, gently lifted himself
and, gripping his hardness, patiently inched his way deep, that,
too, was treasured, the awareness that this special feeling of
being complete, of being whole and happy and cherished as he moved
inside me, was itself leaving and, therefore, important to
remember.

His breath warming my skin, that too was a
treasure I needed to capture.

The feel of his hair between my fingers. His
soft skin under my flat palm as I felt his body. The smell of his
sweat as he tucked his head into the crook of my neck. The taste of
him on my tongue, on my lips, on my fingers as I licked. And those
little helpless sounds he made in his throat as I pushed myself
into him, grinding against him, forcing him deeper.

There was too much, too many things, too many
fleeting, tender moments to capture.

I kissed him, slow, allowing his tongue to
lick my lips and then my chin, his fingers wrapped in my hair as he
bent my head back to lick my throat, his heart eager to collect its
own treasures to take home.

And the wave built, growing in strength as
slowly, patiently, calmly, we moved, our bodies in perfect time,
our rhythm now familiar.

"My Grace," he whispered, his voice shaking
as he gently picked up the pace.

I kissed him.

"I love you, my Grace."

"And I love you," I whispered back as my hips
trembled.

"Oh, my Grace ..." he then said, his lips
trembling as he closed his eyes.

"Open," I whispered. "Please."

He opened his eyes, closely watching me as he
inched in deep one more time and paused, his heart racing as he
gulped and then quietly moaned as I felt his heat fill me.

It crested and crashed, then. My own wave.
The feeling warm, the tingle intoxicating, the thump-thump-thump a
familiar and welcome friend, the continued, insistent throbbing of
Mikalo deep inside yet another treasure to hold close to my
heart.

Resting, he laid on top of me, still inside,
our hearts still racing, his lips still tasting me, my hands still
in his hair as I pulled him close, gripping him tight.

"Oh, my Grace," he said again before dipping
his head low, his forehead resting near my cheek.

I couldn't speak.

All I could do was hold him, cling to him,
desperate to remember every moment between now and morning.

He sighed and then his body shook, his quiet
sobs lost in the crook of my neck.

I squeezed him, holding him tighter.

And together, once more, there were
tears.

Chapter
Forty-Five

It had been six weeks.

Six weeks of lying in a lonely bed. Six weeks
of not laughing. Six weeks of not sleeping. Six weeks of
resurrecting faint memories of treasured moments as I stared into
the dark.

It had been six weeks of nothing but solid
work seven days a week.

And Bill and I were having our weekly
lunch.

"Just go home, Ronan," he insisted again. "I
know you're caught up and there's this nice little quiet space
where you have a chance to take a breath. So go take that
breath.

"I promise the Firm will not collapse if you
take half a day off."

I looked out the window at the passersby,
bundled up in bright scarves, their hats pulled low, gloved hands
jammed into their coat pockets. Snow was in the air, the wind
biting and brisk, the light gray and dim.

Although I fought it, I thought of Mikalo in
the sun, the sand beneath his long toes, his skin tan and shining
with sweat, his beautiful eyes hidden beneath dark sunglasses as he
smiled, basking in the warmth.

"Ronan?" Bill asked again. "Take the
afternoon off."

"Yes, you're right," I said. "I think I
should. Catch up on some sleep maybe."

"Oh please tell me you've been sleeping," he
quickly said. "I mean, I'd heard you were coming in early, even
before the sun rose, but ... I mean, c'mon, really?"

"It's lonely, Bill," I explained with a
shrug. "I just lie there, alone, wishing he were here and it's
insane. So I get up and work. And when I work I realize this thing
is at my office and that thing is in the conference room and the
other thing is in the second drawer of my desk and it just makes
sense to come in and work from there, you know?

"And, still, every week he gets the new
security code. It's, I don't know, like, a great excuse or
something to pick up the phone and call him."

"He calls you, of course."