The Henson Brothers: Two Complete Novels (32 page)

"This is hard for me. I don't do this."

Lucky her. She abruptly stood, her mouth as dry as paper. "I think I'll get a drink."

He stood behind her as she poured herself papaya juice. "Cassie, this is important. I need you to look at me."

Why did people always want your attention when they were going to hurt you? "Just let me finish my drink." She took a long swallow, placed the glass down, then turned to him.

His voice was low, his eyes intense. "Cassie, I'm sorry, but I don't think—"

"You're right," she readily agreed. "And though it hurts I understand. These things happen. We've had a good time and perhaps we could stay friends. You know, Brenda is a..." She broke off, unable to think of a positive attribute. "And you deserve someone like her. I hope you're happy." She smiled bracingly although the need to cry tightened her throat.

Drake looked as if she'd slapped him. "You want to break up with me just because I failed?" He hit the counter with the flat of his hand. "Damn it, I tried. Doesn't that count for anything? I know I didn't do my best with Greta but I didn't do too badly with Brenda. I even mingled. I know that's nothing big to you, but that's monumental for me."

"I know that."

"But that's not enough. You still want your flash man so out I go."

She hesitated. "What are you talking about?"

"You think a man doesn't recognize when he's being dumped?"

She patted her chest. "You're dumping me first."

"Why would I be dumping you?"

"Because you've fallen in love with Brenda."

Drake fell into a chair, resting his head on his arms, and groaned. "Cassie, Cassie, Cassie."

"What?"

He glanced up. "How did you come up with that?"

"You said you didn't want to hurt me."

"That's right because I don't think your social method worked for me," he explained patiently. "I used
Surviving a Crowd
as a reference."

"But you said 'I don't do this'—"

"I don't ask people to rate me. You're always teasing or scolding me about my manners and I wanted your opinion of tonight."

"You were wonderful."

"Obviously so wonderful you thought I was in love with a woman."

"She's very attractive," Cassie said, sheepish. "And she liked you a lot."

He shook his head, tired. "I can never convince you that you're the only one I want."

She unbuttoned the top of his shirt. "I'm up for a little persuasion."

His eyes smoldered. "Fortunately, I'm in the mood to persuade."

* * *

The phone rang early the next morning. Cassie reached from under the covers and answered it.

"Hello?" she grumbled.

"Hi," a familiar female voice replied. "Could I speak to Drake?"

"Sure." She rubbed her eyes. "Who is this?"

"Brenda."

Her eyes flew open. "Oh, one moment."

She put the phone down and nudged Drake's sleeping form. When he didn't wake, she pinched him. One fierce amber eye glared at her. "What is it?"

"Brenda's on the phone."

He closed his eye and groaned as if in pain. "I gave her my home phone number? Was I drunk last night?"

"No," she said, chagrined. "That was my fault. I'll explain later. Here."

Drake growled and took the phone. "Hi, Brenda. What? I can't. Another time. Right, right, uh-huh. Good. Bye." He handed Cassie the phone. "Why did you give her my number?"

"She asked me for it. She was your first love, how could I refuse? I assumed you had forgotten to give it to her. She said you changed her life."

He drew her close. "So how many other women did you give my number to, you little romantic?" he grumbled.

"I thought one was enough."

"At last we agree," he said and they both drifted into sleep.

* * *

Cassie woke to the sound of rushing water and muted Calypso music. Her first impulse to join Drake in the shower was followed by doubt. She pushed the bedclothes away and sat up. She knew it was time to take the relationship to another level if this relationship was to have any sense of permanency. She loved him and if they were going to stay together, he would have to love her too—all of her.

She gathered her courage, wrapped a towel around herself, then crept into the bathroom. Steam rose like a fragrant mist and moistened her skin. The white and black tile floors were cool beneath her feet and her eyes fell on the sunken tub and separate shower stall.

She grasped the handle of the shower door, then stopped as doubt assaulted her again. Perhaps she could try this little test another time. Twenty pounds later. She took a step back. Suddenly, a hand reached out and pulled her in.

"It's about time you joined me," Drake said, smiling down at her, his wet eyelashes clinging together, surrounding a warm amber gaze.

"My towel's getting wet!"

"Then take it off."

"But—"

"Having a hard time?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Let me help you." He yanked off the towel and tossed it over the side. His appreciative eyes traveled from her feet to her breasts. His gaze was as tangible as a touch.

She covered her chest. "You're embarrassing me."

He stared at her with bewilderment. "Can an art collector embarrass a Rodin, a sommelier a Pinot Noir?" He grabbed a bar of soap, a wicked smile touching his mouth. "I'm going to enjoy this."

Who enjoyed it more was debatable. Drake's hands roamed over every part of her with masculine deliberation—not one part of her cocoa skin was missed and Cassie surrendered with pleasure. She later returned the favor, creating a soapy path up the muscular form of his chest and down the solid column of his legs. Showering took up the best part of an hour.

"We should do this more often," Drake suggested, shaving in front of the mirror.

Cassie sat on the rim of the tub and watched him—the quick, sure movements of his razor, the final fragrant splash of aftershave. She felt more intimate with him as he completed this simple morning ritual than at any other moment. She had never watched Timothy shave or even brush his teeth. Once he closed the bathroom door, no entry was permitted until he left it. Being with Drake was so natural. He welcomed her into every aspect of his life. Why couldn't she just accept that? Why couldn't she accept what he felt for her? Her eyes involuntarily strayed to the weight scale in the corner, her unconscious answering that crucial question.

"Don't bother. It's broken," Drake said.

Cassie stared at him. "Can you read minds now?"

He winked at her in the mirror. "Only when they're obvious."

She made a face and left to change.

* * *

"I want you to move in with me," Drake announced as he sliced tomatoes for breakfast.

Cassie shook her head as she set the table. "No."

"Why not?"

"Watch your fingers," she admonished him when he cut with extra vigor. "If you're not careful you'll cut them off."

He put the knife down. "You haven't answered my question."

"I don't want to move in." She straightened a fork. "I like my place."

"We can make this place work." He glanced around the kitchen. "Or get another one and decorate it together."

She placed coffee on the table and sat. "That sounds too much like people engaged."

"Is there a problem with that?"

She sent him a warning glance. "You know how I feel."

He put the tomato slices on the cheese and toast. "Cassie, life involves risks."

"I already took that risk. I don't want to get married. I'm sorry, but you came too late."

"I'm not asking you to marry me. Just move in with me." He placed the breakfast on the table and sat.

"It will be the same and I'll lose my freedom."

"I have no desire to take your freedom."

She looked at him. "Then why do you want me to move in?"

He scratched his chin, feeling awkward. "I like having you around."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said lightly.

He sighed. "Cassie."

"Drake," she said, mimicking his tone.

He took a bite of his food. "You drive me crazy."

She laughed. "That's been my plan from the beginning. "

"At least give it a chance."

"No. Now let's not argue, it's bad for digestion."

They both happily changed the subject and ate heartily. When they were through, Cassie volunteered to wash up. "Where do you keep new sponges?" she asked, throwing the old one away.

Drake motioned to the counter. "In the drawer."

She opened a drawer and saw a pile of snack bars. "What is this?"

"Breakfast. It's what I eat when I'm by myself."

She lifted one and frowned, disgusted. "That's terrible."

"It's healthy."

She turned it over and read the label. "Aren't you worried that you can't even pronounce any of the ingredients?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I haven't dropped dead yet."

She tossed the bar back in the drawer and shut it. "The operative word being
yet
."

"If you stayed with me, I'd promise to eat better. We could have breakfast like this every day."

She pointed the faucet hose at him. "The answer is still no."

He held up his hands, admitting defeat, then grabbed a dishrag.

* * *

When Cassie returned to her apartment, she was surprised not to hear the familiar creak of Mr. Gianolo's door as she placed her key in the lock. Her surprise immediately turned to worry. It was uncharacteristic for him not to make an appearance. Perhaps he was sick. He couldn't have traveled, because he always asked her to watch over his place when he did. She went inside and checked her answering machine to make sure he hadn't left a message. He hadn't.

Maybe he had gone out or was taking a nap, she reasoned. But none of her thoughts could quell a sense of uneasiness. She would have to make sure everything was fine. She knocked on his door; there was no reply. She used the spare key he had given her and entered the apartment. She was greeted by an eerie stillness followed by a violent stench that assaulted her nose. She pinched her nose and went to the kitchen, wondering if something was rotting in the garbage. It was clean. A large pot sat on the stove and the remains of chopped vegetables lay on the counter. "Mr. Gianolo?" she called. "It's me, Cassie."

She headed into the bedroom, and saw the bed in violent disarray. The sheets and bedspread had been tossed about as if the occupant had struggled to free himself. Then she saw the light trail of vomit. She covered her mouth and followed the ominous path to Mr. Gianolo's body lying on the bathroom floor. She didn't remember screaming, didn't remember calling out Mr. Gianolo's name, checking his pulse, or wiping his mouth. She vaguely remembered a neighbor calling 911, the sounds of the ambulance and the police. Even when everything seemed to be over, the nightmare continued.

* * *

He had been poisoned. Poisoned. The police said he had accidentally poisoned himself by cooking a bulb of chrysanthemums thinking it was an onion.

She stared at the traffic below her balcony, disgusted that horrible changes happened in life. The day was warm, but all she felt was cold. A cold that pierced her bones and nothing—not sweaters or tea—could soothe it. She buried herself in her jacket as the autumn wind blew past. It wasn't real. He would live, he couldn't die. He would be okay. He had to be.

She watched the wind rip the brown dried leaves off a skinny tree and push them down the sidewalk where people trampled on them. A death that no one noticed. She turned away and headed for the kitchen. Mr. Gianolo wouldn't be like that. He couldn't be. She called Drake to tell him what had happened. She planned on being matter-of-fact, on sounding hopeful. But when he answered, she burst into tears.

She was later bombarded with visitors. Glen was the first to appear and read her poetry. He lifted her spirits with Emily Dickinson's "Hope," but dashed them with Christina Rossetti's "Remember." Adriana bought her a new blouse and CD, and Kevin offered to take her to his cottage in Maine. When Timothy arrived, she grudgingly invited him in and allowed him to offer his sympathies. But in this stream of people her rock and strength came from Drake and as time passed she felt at peace.

Good news arrived on a crisp autumn morning as a pigeon cooed on her balcony railing. Mr. Gianolo's daughter called and told her he would live. Cassie visited him in the hospital until he was released to his daughter's care. He was tired, and their time together was brief, but she was glad to know he would be okay.

She was so happy that the sight of three yellow roses that met her on the doorstep at first didn't bother her. They had the loveliness of velvet sunshine and a sweet fragrance, but slowly the sight of them filled her with trepidation. A shiver of fear swept through her. They didn't represent a man in love, but a man determined to reclaim a possession he had lost. She refused to let them frighten her. She tossed them in the trash bin as she had all the others.

* * *

Drake shifted awkwardly in front of 712, wondering what had urged him to visit a sick man. Atonement, maybe, for the times his father had lain sick in his bed and he'd avoided his room? He didn't belong here. Why would Mr. Gianolo want to see him anyway? He turned to go. The door opened and a woman around his age appeared with a knowing grin. "My father said you were standing out here. Come in."

"I brought soup." He held out the bowl, feeling uncomfortable.

"Thank you. He's in the bedroom waiting for you."

"Hmm." He walked to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Mr. Gianolo looked small and weak surrounded by huge pillows and layers of blankets. Fortunately, the smell of death didn't linger in the air. He would be okay.

"Good to see you," Mr. Gianolo said, his voice still strong.

"Same."

"Sit down."

Drake closed the door behind him and sat in a chair, placed near the corner. He glanced at the TV. "Good game?"

"Horrible. An old woman could play better."

"I brought you soup. I... gave it to your daughter."

"From the Blue Mango?"

"Of course."

"Thanks." Mr. Gianolo ran a restless hand across the bedsheet. "I didn't do it," he said urgently. "I didn't poison myself. I would remember."