Bellamy leaned into her. He smelled of fabric softener and spearmint. She inhaled. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”
THE FRUIT
IT HAD BEEN THE SECOND TIME. THE SECOND TIME! Did he not see a pattern developing? Was he not aware?
Of course he wasn’t; because she was doing everything in her power to keep her mouth closed. And it was growing increasingly difficult.
How could he not tell her about this trip? He seemed relatively excited about it. He was packing feverishly one night as she sat on the bed, watching him keenly.
How could he not have fucking told her?
It’s okay. You went an entire month or so without telling him about your job. Payback’s a bitch, right?
Brandon held up two different button-down shirts, glanced down at each one of them, before looking up at her again. “Well...?”
“Neither. They’re both wrinkled.”
“Natalie.”
She relented, exhaling heavily. “The blue one.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.”
Sliding off the bed, she approaches him defensively, arms crossed at her chest. “So...how long are you going to be gone?”
Brandon, who had been folding his boxer briefs, stalled, erected his back and pursed his lips together. “Hmm, about a week?”
“Your supervisor just sends a brand new art director clear across the country, leaving his pregnant wife behind in this empty house? How can he afford it?”
Brandon bounced his shoulders and smiled. “He’s a very rich man. You know, like that Dr. Lambert guy who’s been jumping up your ass the past few weeks. Shall we discuss that?”
“Nope.”
“I thought so.”
She was reeling anyway; the past few weeks had been something she’d probably never experience again, and she didn’t even know where to begin processing it. Dr. Pierre Lambert was perhaps the smartest man she’d ever encountered, and most certainly the warmest. Floating beside him along a charity circuit of backyard affairs, cocktail hours and weekend ribbon-cutting ceremonies, Natalie was exhausted, and Lamb was exuberant in her presence. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who Natalie Chandler Greene was, and why the hell she was so special to a renowned French surgeon -- her husband included.
“You’re not having an affair with an older man are you?” Brandon was kidding, surely. While Pierre Lambert’s olive skin and graying chocolate brown hair might’ve been something appealing in his heyday, Natalie gravitated toward his warmth, reminiscent of sunlight, or basking in the afterglow of an orgasm or a good cry. His general attitude toward life, was nothing short of extraordinary -- of course, the ridiculous wealth and high-profile occupation may have aided a bit.
But it wasn’t the good doctor who gave her pause - it was his son, who in the past few weeks, had made his presence at the hospital far more revealing.
She was filing patient paperwork in the latter part of the evening one week. Brandon was running late, so she didn’t feel the need to rush. Besides, she liked the quiet of the pediatric wing in between shifts, when she heard nothing more than the gentle whistle of the air conditioning above her head. She found it difficult to concentrate in the middle of the day, with all of the nurses, doctors and families running around.
While ruminating over eleven-year-old Devon Harris’ paperwork, her eyes got lost in the doctor’s observations, prognoses and such, and failed to notice the person drumming their fingers almost impatiently on the flat surface near her face. Rolling her eyes upward slowly, she unguardedly allowed Bellamy Lambert’s eyes to seize hers.
Blinking slowly as if to express the point of her immediate exasperation, she stared upward toward his face, hidden behind very expensive looking black vintage frames. His green eyes regarded her shrewdly, and she stared back proudly, as though to prove that she refused to breathe first.
Smirking arrogantly, he leaned onto the flat surface with his elbows. He wore a charcoal blazer well, and his casually undulant russet hair and glasses made him appear as though he gave a damn.
About something. “Do you have a piece of gum?”
The question was odd, and her reciprocating express reflected such. But, hell, she answered anyway. “Excuse me?”
“Gum. Ever heard of it?”
“No. Is it like a cell phone?”
He chuckled. “Funny.”
For some reason, she couldn’t imagine him ever having difficulty with a sour taste in his mouth. Then again, they were all human. Some more than others.
“Lamb has an entire bowl of breath mints on the shelf in his office. Right beside a picture of you...as a child.”
“Lamb.” He was surprisingly soft-spoken; like the crisp, whispering touch of a waft on a lazy afternoon in the middle of October.
Clearing her throat, she felt she’d overstepped some unseen boundary. “Yes. Dr. Lambert.”
The amalgam of his hum and the chortle that rolled through it, made her part her lips. But she didn’t know why. “The point is, I don’t have any gum. Your father has something quite suitable in his office. And I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone, so I can finish this and go home.”
“Your accent. Where do you come from?”
Sharp, snarky thoughts entered her brain, but she hushed them quickly. “Georgia.”
“How is it there?”
She huffed. “Hot.”
“Just hot?”
“Beautiful. Inviting. Inspirational. Cultural. What other adjective can I provide for you, Mr. Lambert?” She was glaring at him. He didn’t stop staring at her.
“Why aren’t you there?”
“What?”
“Georgia. Why aren’t you in Georgia if it’s so beautiful?”
“What’s with all of the invasive questions?”
“Invasive? You have an accent, and I inquired about your origins. My father has an accent...I’m sure you bestowed the same courtesy on him.”
“My husband.”
“Husband.” He tried out the word a couple of times, as though he didn’t like the way it sounded.
“Yes. I’m married.”
“My apologies.”
She arched an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Your marriage.”
“Not a fan of marriage, are we?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Well...you implied.”
“No implications here. You assumed.”
Straightening Devon Harris’ files on the desk, she sighed, pausing momentarily to collect her thoughts. “Like I said, I don’t have any gum and I’d like to get home soon...”
“What’s his name?”
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“Romulus.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. Remus.”
“Indulge me, and I’ll go about my merry way shortly.”
“Brandon.”
“Now, that sounds about right.”
“Isn’t there some party you’d like to crash shit-faced?”
His smirk grew larger. “First impressions matter to you, I see.”
She got to her feet, reaching for her purse. “Not just me. Most people.”
“Hmm.”
She started for the elevators, glancing back at him. “I’ll choose to ignore the judgmental tone in that response.”
He remained planted on that flat surface, ogling her. The fluorescent lighting above his head shielding his green eyes behind the glare of his smart glasses. “Dinner.”
She stopped. “Say what?”
“I was instructed to invite you to dinner at my father’s house two nights from now. Very low-key.”
She smiled, disbelieving, and pressed the elevator button to go down. “I’ll call Lamb in the morning to confirm.”
“Don’t bring your husband,” he called to her as she stepped onto the elevator.
“What?”
He didn’t repeat it.
“JUST SOMETHING AT DR. LAMBERT’S HOUSE. SOMETHING SMALL. DON’T WANT TO BORE YOU.”
And she walked out of the door. Just like that. Leaving her husband eyeballing her quizzically from his favorite chair in the living room. He was getting to that age she figured; where he had a favorite place in the house and stayed there the rest of the night with his beer.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he’d said, as he watched her get dressed. “I can’t cook worth a damn, but I’ll figure something out.”
Sliding a black cocktail dress up her body, she glanced back at him. “Dear God, baby, how did you manage all of those years without me? You should be rewarded for your survival efforts.”
After helping her zip up the dress, he snaked his hands around her waist and kissed the nape of her neck. “No woman knows my stomach the way you do. Not even my own mother.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
He chuckled. “I’ll let you know upon your return.” He followed her into the closet, where she found a pair of suitable black pumps. “And how long will you be?”
“Shouldn’t you be studying some storyboards or something? Your flight is in a couple of days.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“No more than a couple of hours, I suspect. Dr. Lambert has to be in surgery at six tomorrow morning.”
Brandon winced. “Sheesh. No wonder he’s a millionaire.”
“Yes, aside from steady hands, a genius like IQ, and years worth of experience under his belt...getting up early is troublesome.”
Brandon folded his arms across his broad chest. “I see.”
“It’s just dinner, Brandy. Don’t get your nuts in a knot.”
“They’re well hung and loose, thank you. I’d just like to spend some time with my wife before I leave.”
She turned to face him, hooking her arms around his neck. She pecked his chin once and smiled. “You look so cute when you’re pouting.”
He kissed her lips once. “I’m not pouting. If you’re not home by ten, then I’ll show you pouting.”
She snickered. “Ten-thirty.”
He gave in so easily. “Fine.”
Then, she was out the door.
It was strange, really; leaving Brandon behind like that. Even after all of the years between them, she still have difficulty admitting to him that he, her husband and the love of her life, was her sole confidant. The assurance of his presence, provided her with an addiction that she couldn’t imagine weaning herself off of.
For what, exactly? What good would come of it? And didn’t it take her years to get to the point where she could even acknowledge that she felt this way?
Trudging her cell phone from her purse with ardency, she pecked a familiar series of numbers and waited for the line to pick up.
“What’d you forget, Tallie?”
She smiled at the sound of his voice. She hoped he heard the smile in her voice, too. “Nothing.”
“Okay, well now that I’ve got you on the line, don’t be mad at me. There’s a little burn mark on the stove where I tried to sauté the chicken the way you do. I’ll run to the store on my lunch and buy some shit to clean it up. Oh, and there are a couple of grease splotches on the wall by the oven...don’t ask, but I’ll...”
“Brandon!” She halted his trail of word vomit before he could continue, divulging anything else.
He exhaled. “Yes, baby?”
“I love you.”
He chuckled lowly. “God, I love you too, Natalie.”
“I’ll be back soon. Promise.”
“I’ll be waiting...naked.”
Rolling her eyes, she found it hard to keep her smile from growing. “Goodbye, my husband.”
SHE VAGUELY REMEMBERED THE ROUTE SHE’D TAKEN TO LAMB’S HOUSE A FEW WEEKS EARLIER.
Brandon, her dear husband, drew her a map, assuring her of the ease of the journey. Pressing the small sheet of paper to the steering wheel, she made record time, stalling in front of the good doctor’s wrought iron gate at the end of a long, serpentine driveway. Dialing the sequence of numbers to the security code, as Lamb had instructed, the gates parted slowly, almost dramatically, as a full ivory moon peered on from a sapphire-black sky. Killing the engine on her sedan at the end of the driveway, she exited slowly, gazing upward at a dwelling flanked in well-placed landscape lighting and verdant shrubbery. Pink and yellow-blooming hedges, and tall cypress trees guarded the perimeter of the home, and Natalie stood awestruck for a moment, as though she’d never seen such a house before. Now, however, Lamb’s place had character, had life; she was growing accustomed to the inhabitants of the house.
She needed to let it all sink in.
Just as she approached the door and rang the bell, her phone rang once more. Pressing the “talk” button and holding it to her ear, she heard footsteps approach and saw a silhouette manifest beyond the door.
“Did you make it there okay? Did my map work?”
“Yes, Brandy, you’re an excellent artist.”
“Okay, good. I’m going to take a shower and finish packing. You okay?”
“Perfectly fine.”
“Very well, I’ll stop bothering you now. I love you...again.”
The front door opened, and she languidly found her eyes well buried in Bellamy Lambert’s. “I love you more, Brandy. See you soon.”
Stowing her phone away almost clumsily, she felt her cheeks buzz with warmth. Casually flanked in a crisp blue buttoned-down shirt and dark jeans, she realized that she was staring far longer than she’d intended, and so was he, as if to wait for her voiced opinion of his appearance.
But she cleared her throat and fluttered her eyes. “Bellamy, I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He opened the door a little wider. “Neither did I. Disappointed?”
She bounced her shoulders indifferently. “I’m insouciant.”
He stepped aside to allow her to enter. “Whoa, big word.”
“I skimmed the dictionary on the drive over. Always keep a copy with me.”
“You’re funny.” He shut the door behind him and fussed with his glasses fleetingly. “Follow me, please.”
Although the smell of something cooking floated effortlessly above their heads, she inhaled his scent of fabric softener and spearmint, and closed her eyes. She had a half a mind to inquire into why he always smelled like that, but she kept her mouth closed. She only trailed behind him slowly, absorbing the sights of high ceilings, textured walls, tapestries and ornate oriental rugs, portraits and paintings and contemporary art structures.