Evelyn was surprised that they didn’t return to the jet when they left Ireland. They took a boat called a ferry, and then a train. She’d seen trains before, but never rode on one. Their next stop was England, and it was the most magical of all.
There were castles and villages hundreds of years old. It was as humbling as the ocean. Where the sea made her feel small in the presence of such unstoppable motion, England made her feel ordinary, lost in some span of countless time. Such emotions might not appeal to others, but they certainly appealed to her.
Her entire life, she only wanted to be ordinary. Lost among so much history made her feel exactly that. Ordinary. It also made her realize how fleeting their time on this earth was. Urgency rushed at her, tucked like a secret in those many still moments they found in England, and she wanted to embrace life and all of its greatness.
They’d taken a tour to Stonehenge, and it was there that she found something she never knew she wanted.
Her gaze locked on the impressive structures, wonder filling her as she tried to imagine the strong hands that had once placed them there, hands that belonged to hearts that loved and minds that held memories of their own.
“Do you think this is magic?” she asked, taking in the open space untouched by passing time.
“The stones?” Lucian asked.
“No. All of it.” Her hand swept out over the encompassing distance. Waves of green rolled over the hillsides. There was so much immeasurable beauty and nature. It was so different than the structures she’d grown up under in the city. The impressive skyscrapers of Folsom, crafted by visionaries and demigods, paled in comparison to this impressive creation.
This openness was God’s work, and no man could ever encompass such magnificence. Perhaps that was why these stones were so notable. They didn’t try to overcompensate or compete with what already existed. They simply rested humbly in the presence of the greatness that already was.
“No, not magic, traces of history left untouched.”
“Do you believe in God, Lucian?”
He took a long while to answer. “I believe there’s something that created all this. But I’m not sure if I believe in a being that watches over us.”
Her gaze went to the clouds rolling in the distance. “I actually spent a lot of time in churches. Sometimes, going to church was the only way to keep warm. People think every religion’s different, but if you really listen, they’re all teaching the same thing.”
“What are they teaching?”
“Be kind. Be good. Be humble.”
His arm draped over her shoulder. He pulled her close and kissed her temple. “You humble me, Evelyn.” He squeezed her shoulder.
***
They’d been traveling for three weeks. The mansion in England was breathtaking. She found Lucian reviewing travel plans the evening before they departed, and she knocked softly on the study door. “Lucian?”
He grinned, plucking his reading glasses from his nose. “I thought you were in bed.”
“I was.” She slipped into the room and he pulled her onto his lap. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Something on your mind?”
“Are we returning to the States tomorrow?”
“Yes, but not to Folsom.” She wrung her fingers and he stilled her hands. “Did you want to see something else before we left?”
She took a deep breath. He’d showed her so much while in Europe, but there was one place he never mentioned and one person she’d like to meet. “I thought it would be nice to visit Paris.”
He stiffened. “Just Paris?”
She turned in his lap and gripped his face with gentle hands, her eyes pleading. “He’s your father, Lucian. You said he was ill the last time you visited. We’re in Europe. Why not just make the trip?”
His expression was unreadable. When he didn’t answer, she said, “I’d like to meet him.”
“You’ll be disappointed.”
“I might surprise you. My expectation of parents is astoundingly low.”
He laughed without humor. “My father isn’t a nice man.”
“Maybe he’s changed.”
“He hasn’t.”
She sighed. “Lucian, there is so much I wish I could have showed Pearl. Those moments to wish are over now. Don’t let them slip away from you too. It isn’t him you’ll be punishing. You’ll be the one outliving him and it will be your regret to bear, not his. Let me meet your father.”
His chest rose as he drew in a slow breath. “Fine, but I don’t want to stay more than a day.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
As his lips banished her grin, his hands slithered under her robe. She giggled and pressed her thighs together. “Open for me,” he commanded against her lips.
Her thighs slowly parted and his fingers slipped inside her heat. She arched, hands tightening over his shoulders. His mouth trailed down the narrow column of her throat and found her breasts. Soon they were naked on the floor, equally satisfied and breathing heavily, all thoughts of the days to come vanishing in the presence of their priceless now.
***
Lucian was acting strange as the limo rode through the streets of France. She’d never seen him behave that way before. It took her longer than it should have to realize he was nervous. She wanted to put him at ease.
“You have a hotel here, right?” she asked, hoping to distract him.
“Yes.”
“Does it look the same as the one in Folsom?”
“It’s bigger.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you have a penthouse you keep there?”
“No. I rarely come to France anymore.”
She was silent. Her mind worked to think of a neutral topic. “Have you spoken to your sisters?”
“No. I should probably call.”
“Do you think Jamie and Toni will get married?” she blurted.
He squinted at her. “Are you trying to stress me out?”
“No, just asking.”
His legs shifted in his seat as he fidgeted with his tie. It was the first time since they left the States that he’d dressed up. It was a show of power.
“I don’t know,” he said after a long contemplative moment.
She frowned. “Don’t know what?”
“About Shamus and Antoinette. I don’t see it, but then again, my sister always seems to get what she wants, and she’s always wanted Shamus.”
He picked up her hand and his finger brushed over the knuckle of her ring finger. She wondered if he’d ever propose again. “We haven’t played chess in a while,” she said, remembering how he’d asked her.
“The last time I played, I lost.”
“Perhaps you should try again.”
“Perhaps.”
The limo turned onto a rounded stone driveway, and an old mansion came into view. He sucked in a deep breath and sat more stiffly. “Brace yourself. Claudette will likely squeeze the life out of us.”
“Who’s Claudette?”
“My father’s maid.”
The car slowed to a stop and the chauffeur opened the door. Evelyn climbed out and stretched. Lucian paid the driver and took their bags. They climbed the stone steps and he rang the bell.
A female voice sang a French greeting and the door opened. If this was Claudette, Evelyn loved her on the spot. She was short, round, soft and gray haired. Her face drooped, eyes wide, as her mouth fell open. “Lucian!”
“Hello, Claudette.”
“What . . . what are you doing here?” Her accent was thick.
“This is Evelyn Keats. We were in England and decided to visit.”
Claudette stared at Evelyn and back at Lucian. She rapidly shot off words in French that sounded as if she were praying. “My goodness, you have a woman!”
Lucian smiled. The maid trilled and lunged
, her arms gobbling him up in a hug. Her small form somehow engulfed his towering body, and Evelyn grinned. He laughed and the maid released him. “What is this?” she demanded, pointing to his cast.
“That’s nothing, a small accident. It will be coming off in another week or two.”
She tsked and suddenly Evelyn’s face was being pinched between chubby fingers that smelled of pastry. “And let me look at you, mademoiselle. Oh, you are quite lovely. You must be charming too, to capture garçon’s heart.”
As the maid threw her arms around her, Evelyn whimpered. They were relieved of their bags and bustled into the house. “Your father is resting. Shall I wake him or would you like to settle in first?”
“We’ll settle in upstairs first.”
“Oui,” she said. “You can use the room you stayed in last time. Will that do, garçon?”
“That will be fine,” said Lucian, his voice level.
The maid’s speech volleyed between French and English, sometimes using both languages in one sentence. It was overwhelming. When Lucian switched to French, something inside of Evelyn quivered.
As they carried their bags up the stairs, she admired the banister. The house was old, like Lucian’s home in Carlingford, and Evelyn was strangely homesick for Ireland. Who would’ve thought she’d ever have a right to such emotions when she never had a home?
She followed Lucian down a wide hall and he opened the door to a bedroom. The furniture was made of thick, dark wood. The smaller pieces perched on ball-and-claw feet. The bed was adorned in dark velvet drapes pulled back at the four posts, and a chair and ottoman sat in front of the empty fireplace.
He placed their things on the bed. There wasn’t much. Lucian had the majority of their clothes delivered to the jet. “You know,” she said, shutting the door. “It’s very sexy when you speak French.”
He quirked an eyebrow and looked at her over his shoulder. “N’est-ce pas?”
She smiled. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“Alors peut-être que vous pourriez enlever vos vêtements.”
Her body reacted, coiling and heating low in her belly. She laughed. “What did you say?”
He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “I said, ‘is that so?’ Then I said, ‘Perhaps it would help if you took off your clothes.’” His fingers plucked at the light cardigan she wore over her dress.
Her lips pulled to the side, hiding her smile. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I usually am,” he whispered, pulling off the cardigan and dropping it to the floor.
***
Evelyn’s fingers went numb as they walked to the den. Lucian knocked briskly and opened the doors. Evelyn took a deep breath and followed him in.
Lucian’s father, a tall and remarkably handsome older man, stood. “I could barely believe my ears when Claudette told me you were here. And with a woman no less.”
“Hello, Christos. This is Evelyn Keats.”
Christos Patras nodded with little evidence of affection towards his son. His hair was white as silver fox fur. He turned to Evelyn, and she watched his unapologetic, dark eyes move over her appraisingly. “Keats. That isn’t a name I’m familiar with.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Patras. And no, my name doesn’t mean much.”
“Who are your parents?”
“Dad.” Lucian’s tone was sharp and warning.
His father waved him off. “Calm down, Lucian. I’m only curious. This is a long way from Folsom. I imagine you’d only bring a woman here if she meant something to you.” He turned back to Evelyn. “Are you in love with my son or his money?”
She bristled. His question was rude and took her by surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“We may be a continent away, but we still get the news from home. I’ve seen your picture. I’ve read the stories. I’ve never been one for beating around the bush, so I figured I’d give you the courtesy of answering for yourself.”
“That’s just it, Mr. Patras, the only person I answer for, and to, is myself. If you want to know my intentions, I suggest you take the time to get to know me and make a decision on your own. That’s the kind of man you are anyway. Am I correct? Words only hold a small value next to your instinct.”
Lucian sniggered.
“She’s feisty,” Mr. Patras said to his son. “You’ll have your hands full.”
Lucian said something in French. His father’s brows lifted and he replied quickly, also using French.
Lucian looked his father in the eye and simply said, “Oui.”
She cleared her throat and mumbled to Lucian. “Not sexy anymore. What did you just say about me?”
He didn’t answer, and now his father was really studying her. “I see,” Mr. Patras said. “Well then, the pleasure is all mine, Ms. Keats.”
He shook her hand and she hated that he might feel her fingers trembling. “You can call me Evelyn.”
“And you may call me Christos. Shall we have coffee?”
They settled into soft upholstered chairs that were too dainty and feminine for both men. Claudette brought in a tray of biscuits, and coffee in a polished silver kettle. She smiled sweetly at Evelyn and quickly bustled out of the room.
“So tell me, Evelyn, are the stories true? Did my son take advantage of you?”
She stilled, her biscuit suspended between her mouth and her tiny plate. “What?”
“You’ve read the rags, haven’t you? Your age is a mystery. And then there was one rumor that you had a child in grade school. Are you a mother?”
“Christos, stop with the inquisition.”
“I don’t read the tabloids,” she said, hiding her discomfort.
“Good girl,” Christos commented, sounding so much like Lucian. “And the child? Are you a mother?”
“No. I have no family.”
“How very . . . simplistic for you.”
Lucian ran a hand over her knee. “Only you would see it that way,” he said with dry acceptance.
“Indeed. So what brings you to Europe?”
“Lucian wanted to show me the mountains.”
“Evelyn’s never been outside of Folsom.”
Christos cocked his head. “Really?”
The questions were growing tedious. She decided to put an end to them so that she could actually get to know Lucian’s father and perhaps show Lucian something new. They only had a short time in France.
Placing her plate on the table, she faced the older man. “Christos, I also don’t beat around the bush, so here’s the truth of the matter. I have nothing. I’ve never had anything beside a name. Your family’s financial situation overwhelms me. I’m not capable of measuring such wealth and, while I’m a realist enough to know it’s impressive, it’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I just lost my mother, who happened to be the only parent I ever had. She disappointed me more than she ever made me proud, and I hate that I was never lucky enough—in my entire life—to have a conversation with her not weighted with resentment or necessity.”
He was silent for a long moment. After clearing his throat, he said, “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Thank you.”
He sighed. “You’re a smart girl.”
“Smart enough to know that no amount of poverty or wealth erases a child’s desire for a parent’s approval, their friendship, and love. It takes effort, and one person’s determination isn’t always enough. Your son is one of the most resolute men I’ve ever met, but even he doesn’t have the power to fix your relationship unless you want to fix it as well.”
Both men wore expressions of discomfort and averted their gazes. She stood. “I’m suddenly tired. Why don’t you stay and talk with your father for a bit while I lay down, Lucian?”
“Evelyn.” Lucian’s tone was laced with war
ning.
She kissed him and whispered, “I never had a dad. I’d like to know what that feels like.”
His eyes narrowed and she turned away, quickly leaving the room. Her heart raced as she slid the doors closed, waiting for him to storm after her, but he never did. She paused on the other side of the door and listened as the rumblings of words finally came. Sighing with a smile, she turned and stilled.
A woman with dark black hair and striking eyes watched her from a few feet away. She asked something in French and Evelyn shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t speak French.”
“You are the woman who brought Lucian here?”
“Yes. I’m Evelyn.”
She held out her dainty hand. “Bonjour, Evelyn. I am Tibet.”
Ah, the mistress. She shook her hand. “Thank you for letting us stay.”
“Christos’s children are always welcome here, although they never come. It is a surprise to see Lucian twice in only a few months. He spoke to me about you during his last visit.”
That took her by surprise. “He . . . he did?”
She gestured to a door and Evelyn followed her. It was a room completely made of glass. The garden blooms created a whimsical splash of color on the walls. “I told him I knew he was in love.” They settled into wicker chairs cushioned with floral pillows. “He did not deny it. I told him not to waste time. His heart was clearly in the States.”
Was that what sent him back to Folsom before the supposed thirty days had passed? “I’m glad you told him that.”
“I also told him we fall in love with people who resemble our parents. I asked who you were most like, his mother or father.”
“I never met Lucian’s mother, and I only just met his father.” It was a strange comparison to make, but she was suddenly curious of the answer.
Tibet smiled sadly. Her fingers laced over her crossed legs as her gaze drifted. “She was a lovely woman, the kind of woman who was difficult to look at, because she was always so perfectly put together. But most of her beauty was inside. She had a grace about her that could not be mimicked. She was serene, angelic, and delicate.”