Authors: test
The next box held a snow white, silk wool, mid thigh length jacket. The buttons were woven, white leather and the lining was a luminous silvery gray satin. I was tempted to try it on but I set it down carefully, folding the sleeves in so they wouldn't get creased.
I opened box after box of pumps, knee high boots with stacked wooden heels and top of WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 32
the line running shoes that begged to be put to use on quiet country roads.
I peeked into the smaller bags and pulled out lacy underwear with matching bras. The tags were from lingerie stores I had never heard of and they were in all styles, racy barely there thongs and wide strapped sports bras in fresh colors.
I admired the cut of a pair of white pants and held an aubergine pashmina up to my face, enjoying the fluffy softness. I laughed with Taryn at her stories of shopping mayhem, trying to get just the right shoes to match an outfit and fighting with a German tourist over the last gold leather belt at Harrod's.
“I can't keep any of this,” I said with a regretful glance at the thirteen beautiful outfits spread across the bed. My hands reached out to finger a venetian red skirt and the silk trim of an oyster colored camisole. With a yearning sigh I turned away.
The price of the red skirt was roughly equal to three month's rent on my little apartment in Portland. It was way out of my league, but it had been fun to look. As long as none of the tags were removed, I didn't think Taryn would have any problem returning them.
Taryn's hand flew to her mouth and with a stricken expression, she gasped, “Why not?
You hate them, don't you? I told Gage you should come with me to pick out your clothes! Do you like you clothes edgier or is Laura Ashley more your style? He just said, 'get something nice for her to wear the next few days. Price is no object.'”
I was trying to think of a polite way to answer her when Gage answered for me.
“Your mother is paying for the clothes, it was her idea Anna,” his deep voice came from the doorway and I looked over my shoulder at him.
He was wearing a pale gray sweater and dark gray pants that clung to the muscles of his thighs in an almost indecent way. In the light of day he was even more handsome than before and I had to look away a moment to keep from staring at him like a star-struck teenager. I gave myself a mental slap upside the head.
“Oh, that was nice,” I mumbled feeling a flush of pleasure rush to my face at the thought of wearing all of these amazing clothes. That they were a gift from my mother made them doubly special.
Taryn looked between us with a perplexed frown. I saw her give an unconsciously tender stroke to the blue satin lining of a tweed blazer with copper buttons. She really did have excellent taste. I wouldn't in a million years have picked out these clothes. Given the chance I would probably have bought several pairs of khaki's with plain shirts of white or cream and sensible black shoes that would match anything.
I never had many clothes growing up. Celia kept me from accumulating clothes and other possessions. I usually had just four or five changes. When I outgrew something it was promptly disposed of and replaced. The same with toys, books and all the other detritus that a child collects. It made sense now that I knew we had to keep on the move, always ready to leave at a moments notice.
“So you should keep them. It is the first gift she has been able to give you in twenty years. Don't disappoint her.” Gage said firmly, looking me directly in the eyes.
Put that way, I would have to be truly heartless not to accept the clothes. I smiled at Taryn, “What do you think I should wear today, Taryn?”
She clapped her hands in delight and chattered happily about the navy slacks she bought at a boutique in Notting Hill called, bizarrely, Cosmic June. Taryn was really growing on me.
She was friendly, welcoming and didn't seem the least bit taken aback that I had no clothes WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 33
except the ones I was wearing.
When I looked toward the door again, Gage was gone.
* * * *
The painting was odd in the very least until I walked closer and saw shadows in the swirling darkness around them. The shadows formed amorphous faces with pointed teeth and claw like hands. Seriously creepy is what I thought of Gage's taste in art. If I ever had any doubts about what kind of man he was, this artwork clinched it. Then again, how much worse would it be if he had paintings of clowns and bunnies on the walls? I shivered, clowns would be much worse.
Harrison, Gage's butler, escorted me from my room to the salon and offered to bring me tea, coffee or something to eat, but I was too wired to eat or drink anything, so here I was, waiting, alone.
Harrison was another surprise. He was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He had a ruddy complexion, wispy white hair that was balding on top and stuck out in a fuzzy band around his pink, freckled scalp.
He wore a black suit and tie that seemed overly formal to me in this day and age. But I wasn't sure what the norm was for butlers these days. His expression was solemn and he pointed me to the salon without a word. I tried to find out about the rest of the staff, but Harrison was unusually reticent and said that I would have to 'ask the master,' to all my queries. I wasn't sure, but I hoped that calling Gage, 'the master,' was a Britishism, otherwise it was seriously yucky.
I heard footsteps in the hall, and quickly stood up, dropping the magazine I had gamely been trying to read the last fifteen minutes. Gage stepped into the room and dropped into the chair across from me with a sigh.
“You look lovely,” he said with an appreciative smile.
I sank back down and settled again on the edge of the chair. My hand rose,
unconsciously, to push my hair back from where it had curled against my cheek. With a nervous nod of thanks, I dropped my hand to my lap and leaned forward to pick up the magazine I'd dropped on the floor.
I smoothed the wrinkles out of the glossy front page and set it on the coffee table. I glanced at the title and saw that I had been trying to read a magazine on investment banking, durrr, who read this stuff?
“Laurent called, they just reached the village of Dawling Green, they'll be here in about ten minutes,” Gage said, his silvery eyes watching my nervous movements.
“Tell me about them. Do you know them very well? What do they like to do? What are their hobbies? Do I have other relatives? Cousins? Nephews and nieces? They speak English, right?” I asked with a shaky voice.
I tried to tell myself to calm down, but I had met the man who haunted my dreams for eight years, been abducted to a foreign country, found out my beloved aunt kidnapped me and now was about to meet the family I had been told was dead. This was not a very calming day for me.
WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 34
“Helene has a great sense of humor. She loves the theater, horseback riding, movies and gardening. She lives in a flat in Paris that has a beautiful view of the Seine. She has two cats that she calls her fussy roommates. She does a lot of fund raising for many different charities. I usually drop in to see her whenever I'm in Paris. Your brother, Laurent, plays polo and reads mysteries. He is not married, so no, you have no nieces or nephews that I know of. He sails, skis and plays chess. He has a job with Interpol.”
Interpol, wow, that sounded glamorous and impressive. What would they think of me, an unemployed legal secretary with a shabby, little apartment, an older, used car and no love life to speak of.
A part of me, the saner part, insisted that it didn't matter. They were family and would love me no matter what. After all, they were looking for me all this time. They didn't give up.
But the frightened, childish part of me was worried that they wouldn't like me. That they would be horribly disappointed.
I heard a car draw up in front of the house. I heard the front door opening and the quiet murmur of Harrison greeting people and taking their coats. I stood up slowly and faced the doorway. I felt Gage take my hand and I didn't try to pull away as we slowly walked across the room.
I heard the tap, tap, tapping of a woman's shoes and the soft, duller tread of a man as we waited for them. A tall, thin woman with a short, dark cap of shiny hair stopped in the doorway.
She was gripping the hand of the dark haired man standing next to her.
No one moved for a moment and I felt Gage tug me forward until I was standing in front of them. Her eyes ran over my face with a wondering expression and I turned to the man next to her. My brother, Laurent, I mentally corrected myself, and saw a tear slowly make its way down his cheek as he looked me over from head to toe.
With an inarticulate cry of joy Helene grabbed me in a fierce hug and I felt Laurent's hand on my back as he hugged us both.
I could feel the delicate bones of my mother's back as I hugged her with a glad cry. She felt delicate, birdlike in my arms, like a strong wind would carry her away. Her body quaked with sobs of relief and joy and I held her tighter thinking she would fall apart if I didn't. She'd changed so much since the happy picture of her on the beach. The years had sculpted lines of grief and pain in her face and she was too thin.
She pulled away for a moment and her eyes ran greedily over my face, her hand touched the mole on my cheek lightly and she ran her hands over my curly hair with a delighted expression.
“My Amelie, my beautiful girl, I am the happiest mother in the world today!” She said with a half laugh, half sob of happiness.
Laurent pulled us over to the sofa and we were about to sit down when Helene gave Gage a fierce embrace, kissing him on both cheeks and said, “Thank you, thank you for finding ma petite fille. You have saved my life.”
Helene looked like she would start to cry again and Gage smiled and urged her to sit down next to me on the sofa.
She held my hand tightly in both of hers and didn't seem inclined to relinquish it, but I didn't mind. I felt a great sense of completeness fill me as I looked at my mother and brother.
These were my people, my family. I had a place in the world. A history where before Celia and I had always had each other and no one else. We'd been nomads, visitors to every place we WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 35
lived.
No one said anything for a moment. We just stared at each other, happy to be together again. Laurent was tall and handsome. His hair was dark and shiny like Helene's but the bones of his face were more prominent with a long nose, a tad too big, full lips and deep set dark eyes.
Taken all together he was striking, with a masculine beauty that would turn heads. A long thin scar ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, but instead of marring his face, it added to the mystery. Patty and Leah would go crazy over him I thought with a smug smile.
I didn't want to be the one to ruin the happy mood of our reunion but I had to know what happened, why Celia had stolen me and where she was now.
“Helene,” I saw her wince at my use of her given name, but I didn't feel comfortable calling her mother after an absence of twenty years. Maybe with time I could. I hoped so.
“Why did Celia, I mean Celeste, do this? Why did she take me? Where is she now?”
Laurent's face tightened at the mention of Celia, his hands gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting in so hard his knuckles turned white. Helene's face was frozen in pain and shock, like a child who realizes the toy they dropped in the river is gone forever.
She shook her head with sorrow and looked at the floor a moment like she couldn't meet my eyes. Then, In her French accented voice, she slowly said, “It was my fault. I didn't realize how depressed she was, none of us did. I didn't know she hated and resented me so much.”
She was lost in thought a moment and I tried to be patient waiting to hear her story. But, patience isn't one of my virtues. I wanted to shake the story out of her. I knew it would hurt to hear it and I knew I would feel angry and sad afterwards, but it was like a bandage, best pulled off, all at once, and as quickly as possible.
She pulled her hands from mine, smoothed the fabric of her skirt restlessly and took a deep breath, “When Celeste was nineteen she fell in love. Henri was approved of by our Papa, and even though she was young, they were allowed to marry. I was her maid of honor. It was so exciting that Celeste included me, her fourteen year old little sister, in the wedding with all of her sophisticated, older friends.” Helene's face showed remembered happiness for a moment before the sad look returned.
With a Gallic shrug of her shoulders, she continued, “For a time they were happy. Henri told Celeste he wanted a big family and she wanted the same. So they tried, for two years they tried and Celeste had miscarriage after miscarriage. She grew so weak and pale and Papa and I begged her to stop, to see a doctor. Finally, Henri and Celeste consulted a doctor. She had ovarian cancer. The doctors said the cancer was too far advanced, that it had spread. She had to get a hysterectomy at the age of twenty-one. She never cried about it, not even when Henri left her and filed for divorce. I should have spent more time with her, talked about what happened, but I didn't know what to say. I was only seventeen then and still very childish. She was my older sister, invincible and perfect. I looked up to her. In time, I was an adult and since she didn't speak of it, I didn't either. I thought it was forgotten.