After Her (15 page)

PART TWO

The husband

16

We pull into the manor driveway around 4:00 pm.

I notice the time the second we arrive because as of now, I'm counting the minutes. Asa, the doorman, empties the Porsche of our shopping bags and the valet William commandeers the car to park it.

Once inside, I notice the dim lighting and the smell of food wafting into the foyer from the kitchen. The scent seduces my senses. Vivian drifts upstairs, leaving me in the foyer to fend for myself. I feel like a deserted island, alone and idle. I step forward to follow her. Out of the darkness appears Asa.

I gasp at the sight of him, clutching my chest to calm my pulsating heart from the scare. Normal people would announce themselves before creeping up on others. He just…
emerges
. He says nothing to me for several awkward seconds. He stares me down, authoritatively stoic.

“Dinner will begin in a moment, ma’am,” he finally speaks. “Is there anything I can get you beforehand?”

“Um, I was looking for the restroom,” I say to alibi myself before he can ask why I was wandering off. Asa’s expression suggests that he could care less. He rolls his eyes, choosing to keep the things he’d like to say to himself.

“There are three restrooms on the ground floor. You’re free to use them.”

“Okay,” I say, but he lingers, staring at me as though I'm supposed to be somewhere specific, as if I'm in his way.

“It’s preferable that you wait for dinner in the living room,” he says in a voice more antagonistic than the actual words.

“I have no idea where that is,” I say so I glance at Asa who offers no solace or further instruction as to what I'm supposed do with myself. I head toward the sound of music coming from a door at the end of the foyer. I recognize the piano piece, a Beethoven original that Sasha has played with her violin.

My body moves on autopilot without my consent as if it wants me inside of that room for some reason. I slide the door open a crack to peek into the room. Near the back, aside the lit fireplace, I see the silhouette of a person hovering over a grand piano, playing it with such precision that I can’t help but listen.

I hum the notes aloud, closing my eyes to feel the music in my ears as a mental image of a sunset sketches itself into my membrane. The song ends then the person begins a sonata of
Gymnopedie No. 1
, Sasha’s favorite piano piece. I step into the room in the middle of the performance to meet the piano’s player. The room sits bathed in a gauzy, candlelit glow that shrouds the piano and its player in a half-shadow.

I navigate around the furniture, past the sofa and leather sectional, over the white shag carpeting and through the arched doorway that leads into the fireplace area. I move no further as the player finishes the performance and pauses to steal a sip from the wine glass sitting atop the fireplace mantle.

With his back to me, he says, “I see that Vivian has finally allowed you away from her.”

“She went upstairs,” I say. “I didn’t want to bother her.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want to bother her,” he replies sardonically, implying that he knows something I don’t. “So why are you still here?”

“Vivian is forcing dinner on me. She insists I stay and eat before heading back to my apartment.”

He guzzles the rest of the wine and swivels on the piano bench to face me. In the half-light, I glimpse his face. His auburn hair sweeps to one side, brushed. Neat. Not a single strand out of place.

“She took you to Gia,” he says with a smile while admiring my new hair.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

“Vivian can’t help herself. She can't resist the urge to treat all of her interns like little Barbie dolls that she can dress up. I suspect she took you shopping also? Picked out all of your new clothes? I assume she also treated you to lunch and insisted on ordering all of the food and drinks?”

I don’t reply.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You aren’t her first dress-up doll.”

“She does this to everyone?”

“More or less,” he says. “Vivian wouldn’t be herself if she wasn’t trying to control something…or someone.”

“I remember her saying the same thing about you,” I say and he laughs aloud, his smile stretching the creases around his lips. He stands and runs his hands over the crinkles in his suit to tidy his appearance. In that white tuxedo, he looks dapper, like a life-size Ken doll.

“That’s the difference between her and me,” he says. “I don’t deny
my
control issues.”

I slip my hands into my jean pockets to distract them. I don’t like my hands to be free. Around him, I fear what they may do. I imagine them touching his tuxedo to see whether it’s really made of velvet, as I suspect.

He moves toward me with the wine glass hanging by its stem from his fingers. I step back when he’s too close and stand on my tiptoes to meet his height. I’d forgotten how much taller than me he is.

“I was heading down to the cellar for more wine,” he says while holding the empty glass up for me to see. “Care to join me?”

“I don’t drink,” I say.

He smirks.

“I won’t force wine down your throat, Cassandra. I merely ask you to accompany me to the wine cellar.”

I notice his eyes as they search mine. Vivian’s words are fresh in my thoughts. Nothing I’ve heard about Adrian Lynch is complimentary. He’s a criminal in an expensive suit with a long list of jilted women in his past. Going into that cellar with him would be like a sheep wandering into a wolf’s den. I don’t intend on being the sheep.

“Okay,” I say. He leads the way. He moves through the manor like a skulking cat, quiet on his feet and quick. We head through the dining room where the servants busy themselves with setting the table. We walk past them toward the kitchen where the cook slaves over the stove, preparing dinner.

Near the back of the kitchen is a door that Adrian unlocks with a key he pulls from his pocket. Inside is dark, but he tugs a string on the wall to turn on a light then he heads down a flight of wooden stairs into the room below.

I remain at the top of the stairs, feeling my heart amp up, fearing it may detonate. Being alone in a cellar with Adrian Lynch doesn’t feel right now that I’ve given it some proper thought. When I turn to leave, he glances at me over his shoulder and reaches out for my hand, urging me to grasp his.

“Um, I should probably just head upstairs to check on Vivian,” I say. “She’s been gone for a while.”

“She has Amelia to tend to her,” he replies. “She doesn’t have you on retainer as her personal caretaker.”

I stare at his hand as it slips around mine. There’s no escaping this situation anymore.

“Come on, don’t be afraid,” he says. “I won’t bite.”

The first step I take down feels like it happens in slow motion. Cool air hits the nape of my neck. Sweat trickles from my hairline. Adrian’s hand constricts around mine, leaving my arm numbed by his grip.

“This way,” he says. The dimness of this room is unsettling. What little light that exists is the single bulb in the entrance. Further in, the cellar is dark and too cold—so cold that I shiver and wrap my free arm around my body. I notice daylight peering in through cracks of the walls from outside.

Cobwebs clasp to ceiling crevices and an occasional spider that scurries up the wall. I turn away and glance at the back of Adrian’s head. Here, his dark hair is streaked with faded strands of gray, a subtle acknowledgement to his age.

Adrian releases my hand once we’re within a maze of wooden shelves holding thousands of wine bottles. The room reeks of sour grapes and strong liquor. I don’t know why anyone would enjoy the taste of something that smells so rancid. Adrian smiles at the first bottle he picks up. 

“Ah, here’s one of my babies,” he sighs aloud. “
Domaine Leflaive Batard Montrachet
. The best white wine to ever pleasure any tongue.”

I tense at the word
tongue
. When he says it, it almost sounds vulgar. The prude in me cringes.

“I don’t know anything about wine,” I say. “This is all foreign to me.”

“Ouch,” he winces playfully. “You are seriously robbing yourself of the experience.”

“Oh? Is wine so important?” I ask. “You talk about it like it can bring world peace.”

“Perhaps if our world leaders were inebriated more often, they’d find some common ground long enough to achieve world peace,” he jokes.

I suppress the smile that tugs at my lips. The last thing I need him to see is any sign of vulnerability from me. I won't allow his jokes to coax laughter from me.

“You should pick,” he says while turning to me. “Go on.”

“Are you sure you want to trust your precious wine collection in my inept hands?”

“You don’t have to be an expert to select a bottle of wine,” he says. “I challenge you.”

“You want to turn this into a game?”

“It doesn’t take much to amuse me,” he says. “Humor me.”

I look him in the eye and imagine cogs twisting in his brain. Is he trying to play me? Is this how he gets women to trust him? I bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud at him and this vain attempt to charm me. Instead, I think I’ll humor him. There’s no harm in playing his games as long as I don’t lose.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll pick the wine, but you have to promise not to laugh at my selection.”

“Why would I laugh?”

“I already told you,” I say. “I know nothing about wine.”

“I’ll allow you some leeway,” he says while gesturing at the plethora of wine shelves around us. “Go ahead and make your decision.”

I wander around the room down each row of shelves, inspecting the bottles and reading their names on the faded labels.

“Hmm, how about…this one?” I ask while handing him a bottle with dark colored liquor inside. Adrian examines my pick with curious eyes that widen as he looks up at me with a smirk and says, “Cabernet Franc. Very interesting choice.”

“Why?” I ask, feeling smug. “What does my wine selection say about me?”

“Red wine is considered an aphrodisiac for some women,” he says and I feel heat blaze in my cheeks.

“Oh,” is all I can manage to say as he looks at me like I’m some high-class whore that’s just propositioned him.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Cassandra?”

When I don’t reply, he chuckles at my blanched expression and offers a reassuring smile.

“No worries,” he says. “I'm only teasing you.”

I stagger backwards, using one of the wine shelves to prop myself up while he continues staring at me. I watch his left hand grip the wine bottleneck. My focus lingers on his fingers as they move down the bottleneck in a stroking motion.

Adrian’s choke fetish is rearing its ugly head. I imagine his hands around my throat. That image makes me shudder away from him. Nausea festers in my stomach. My vision doubles and my body wilts backwards against the shelves.

Tension in our silence fills the room, thick enough to cut with a machete. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t even move from where he’s standing. He nails me with a hungry gaze. All I can manage in response is a timid smile.

“I should check on Vivian,” I say. He doesn’t try to stop me when I move. My exit isn’t a graceful one. With him so close and this cellar so damn claustrophobic, I have to slide between him and the shelf behind me.

I nearly topple into him. He grips my waist in time to catch me. I push away and stagger toward the cellar staircase. At the top, I spy Vivian in the doorway glaring at me, accusing me with her eyes after noticing Adrian behind me.

“Darling,” Adrian greets her. “Cassandra was a very helpful companion this evening. I had no idea she is such a wine aficionado.”

Vivian looks to me, expecting an explanation. Why do I feel so guilty? I’ve done nothing wrong. Less than a day ago, she essentially begged me to flirt with Adrian and flat-out ordered me to marry the goddamn man!

“I’m not an aficionado,” I say. “I was only trying to help.”

I see what I think is a smile on Vivian’s face, but under the dim lighting, I can’t tell.

“
You
picked the wine this evening, Cassandra?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then it’s sure to be a marvelous time,” she replies in a casual tone of voice. “Now, if you two are done playing with Adrian’s little toys, you can join me upstairs in the dining room for dinner.”

She turns away, leaving me on the stairway with her unspoken warning. Adrian brushes past me on his way up and exits the cellar without saying another word.

17

Dinner is quiet with the Lynchs. 

Vivian and Adrian sit at opposing ends of the table with me between them. Neither of them speaks for several minutes. All I can focus on is how distracting the classical music playing in the background is. The music is so loud that I faintly hear the servants in the adjoining room rattling plates and fumbling with pots.

Considering their silence, I assume that there must be some subliminal
no talking
rule in effect during dinner. I nibble the fettuccini on my plate one noodle at a time, sipping my cider as quietly as possible to avoid disrupting the ongoing silence.

Vivian hasn’t looked at Adrian or me. I can’t help thinking that I’ve done something to deserve this cold shoulder act. I find myself staring at Vivian, collecting a mound of assumptions inside my head. The orchestra playing through the room speakers hits a crescendo with an ominous cello solo that ends the song with the rest of the instruments kicking in some high octave resolution.

“Neither of you ladies bothered to tell me how you spent your day,” Adrian says in the silence afterwards.

I glance at Vivian wondering if she’ll respond to his inquiry. After a sip of her wine, she replies, “Business as usual.”

Adrian pauses with the brim of his glass pressed to his lips as if he is on the verge of drinking, but changes his mind. 

“What about that fundraising gala you have in store for that scholarship program at Northham?” he asks.

Vivian continues gazing at her plate with a deadpan expression to match the listless tone of her voice. Something about her appears haggard, lethargic. She tucks a handful of hair behind her left ear and swallows a spoonful of peas before directing her focus to Adrian.

“I’m leaving those preparations to Cassandra,” she says. “You have everything under control, right?”

She glances at me. I nod to avoid adding to the tension.

“Sure, um…it should take no time to organize most of it. The guest list is finalized. We should probably discuss the seating arrangements.”

She nods with somewhat of a smile, confirming my suspicions. Of course, this was a test. It looks like I’ve just passed it. Adrian reacts to the sound of my voice. I feel his eyes on me as he slips a bite of steak into his mouth.

“What do you have in store for the entertainment? I'm curious to know just what kind of musical act a collegian can summon up for a roomful of judgmental middle-aged socialites and their boring husbands.”

I sip more cider to clear my throat and refuse to look at him when I answer.

“You might be surprised.”

He chuckles then gobbles another bite of steak.

“I sincerely hope I will be,” he murmurs beneath his breath. “Though I'm sure you’re full of surprises.”

I turn, scowling at him as he gulps the rest of his wine with a smarmy smile. He upturns his glass to empty it completely into his mouth then pours himself more wine. Vivian slips a cigarette between her lips and lights it. I’m starting to see a pattern with these two.

Five servants enter the room at once to retrieve our dirtied plates just as a butler enters carrying a large three tier German chocolate cake. He sits it at the edge of the table and cuts it into several generous portions before distributing a slice onto each of our plates. After making his rounds, he looks at each of the Lynchs expecting further instruction. 

“More wine, please,” Adrian announces. Seconds later, someone arrives with a bottle reserved solely for him. This time he doesn’t use a glass. He pops the cork and drinks straight from the bottle. Vivian sneers and dumps cigarette ashes into a napkin near her plate.

“Darling, isn’t it a bit too early in the evening to drink like that?” she says.

“I could say the same about those damn cigarettes,” he mutters.

Vivian silences. Her face flushes red, but she says nothing else. I gape at her, wondering how a single comment was enough to shut her down. Passivity is something I'm not used to seeing from her.  

Adrian must be the only person with enough pull to tame the ferocity in her. If he can do
that
with a single insult then there’s no wonder how he has managed to sucker her into this troubled marriage for so long.

The music kicks into high gear again, dropping then rising from one dramatic jolt of notes to the soft whistle of a single flute. It’s enough to get the adrenaline pumping and obviously enough for Adrian. As he downs red wine, I watch him close his eyes and hum the sonata aloud.

Vivian abruptly jerks out of her seat so fast that her chair jolts backward, hard enough to hit the wall behind it. I flinch at the noise whereas Adrian merely leers across the room at her, smirking. Vivian’s shoulders tremble. I can tell by the clenching of her jaw that she is repressing a rant of irate words. 

She glowers at Adrian, but she doesn’t say a word before leaving the room in a huff.

At first, I don’t move. I'm not sure how I'm to react or what I'm supposed to do. I glance at Adrian who continues drinking and I wait for him to say something. When he doesn’t, I push away from the table, but he grips my forearm to stop me from leaving.

“Don’t bother,” he says. “She’s just throwing another silly tantrum.”

“Shouldn’t you go check on her or something?” I say.

His expression turns into something else. Something sardonic at Vivian’s expense. He definitely knows something that I'm unaware of. I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to inquire about it. The more I ask questions, the more I discover and the least I want to know afterwards.

“I’ll handle Vivian,” he says. “Please, finish your dessert. Don’t let her petulance ruin your meal.”

“You’ll handle her?” I say. “What does that mean?”

“Finish your dessert,” he repeats then sets aside the wine bottle, stands from his chair and slides his hands across his tuxedo to smooth the wrinkles. This peculiar tendency is starting to become obsessive compulsive. Why does he feel the need to
stroke
everything he touches?

As he exits the room, I notice his fists clenched at his sides. His gait appears much too graceful for a man who has been guzzling liquor all night. That amount of alcohol should be enough to impair every function in his body. He shouldn’t even be able to stand let alone walk.

The door slams behind him. The noise it makes causes me to flinch. I sit alone at the big table, staring at my uneaten cake as that boisterous omnipresent orchestra continues playing through the speakers in the room.

Four more symphony pieces play after Adrian leaves. I glimpse the grandfather clock across the room. It’s been forty minutes since he left. I glance at the kitchen door, listening to the servants whisper. I can’t resist my curiosity. I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against the crack to eavesdrop.

“Did she through another temper tantrum?” asks one of the maids. “I swear she’s going to kill herself someday.”

“If Adrian doesn’t kill her first,” jokes another. They all laugh. I step away from the door when it opens. Adrian appears in the doorframe, smiling down at me. Despite that disarming smile, something is different about his appearance.

He fidgets with his tuxedo jacket to tidy himself. After running his fingers through his hair to neaten the disheveled strands, he saunters past me and stalks across the room toward the dining table.

“You’ve been gone for almost an hour,” I say when he doesn’t explain himself. He turns toward me after retrieving the wine bottle from atop the table and stealing a quick sip.

“And you missed me?” he asks in a slurred voice with a smirk. I cross my arms over my chest for some reason, perhaps after remembering how low-cut my blouse is. Only
he
provokes this involuntary reaction from me.

“Where is Vivian?” I ask.

He shrugs at first then his eyes widen like he’s just remembered something.

“She’s asleep,” he replies. “Thank god for that.” He upturns the bottle into his mouth and swallows a mouthful. His lack of concern for Vivian seems like the status quo around here. It’s time I give up on trying to invoke any kind of spousal concern from him especially when he’s drunk off his ass.

“It’s almost seven,” I say. “I should get home. Vivian drove me so I need you to call me a taxi or something.”

He staggers toward me with the bottle turned on its side in his hand. With each step, droplets of wine trickle onto the floor behind him. He doesn’t seem to care because he is too busy leering at me. I step back as he continues to bridge the gap between us. I don’t want him near me while he’s an intoxicated mess. These kinds of situations never end well.

“You want to leave already?” he asks. I want to retain some measure of composure to avoid any hostility. I force a polite smile while continuing to distance myself. He doesn’t take a hint and continues forward, stopping as I'm backed into a corner with nothing, but him blocking my way.

“Adrian, call me a taxi,” I say and I flinch away when he reaches at me. This method of evasion doesn’t last for long. The second time I turn my head away from him, he grasps my chin to jerk my head back around.

“You won’t stay for a nightcap?” he asks. “We provided you dinner. It’s only fair for you to stay for one last drink.”

Forced to look him in the eye, I glare at him, deciding that it’s time I put him in his place. 

“I told you that I don’t drink,” I say. “If you don’t let go of me, I will be forced to kick you in the one place no man ever wants to be kicked.”

His hand releases my chin as his eyes drift south, following mine to the area below his belt. When he finally steps away from me, I assume he’s gotten the picture. He’s not as drunk as I thought.

While sauntering back toward the table, he slips a small remote control from his pocket and presses a single button. Somehow, the music playing sounds louder afterwards. I’ve seen enough of this drunken display. I stalk after him, fuming.

“Adrian, call me a taxi,” I demand again.

“Not until you have a drink with me,” he says while turning toward me. In his state, he can’t walk a straight line any longer. He staggers backward into the table, gripping it to prop himself up. He presses the wine bottle to his lips and swallows another mouthful. The bottle slips from his hand and splashes the floor, shattering into a puddle of glass shards.

When he kneels to clean the mess, he grabs handfuls of the shards, ignoring the blood dripping between his fingers. I sigh at this pitiful mess of a man and know that I can’t just leave him here with bloodied hands.

“Vivian isn’t the only one with issues,” I say. After swiping a couple napkins from the table, I kneel beside him and wrap his bleeding palms in them. Blood soaks through instantly, forcing me to grab more.

“Follow me,” I order while helping him down the hall. Adrian’s inebriated body leans against me. Like a falling tree, he tilts, briefly pinning me against the wall and knocking the framed pictures onto floor.

“Shit, Adrian,” I mutter while pushing him back. In his drunken stupor, he clamps onto me, draping his arm around my shoulders as we lumber into the living room. I shove him onto the Camelback sofa. His body collapses into the leather cushions; each of his visible muscles unwind in unison. Adrian chuckles as I step away for a breather. I move toward a nearby lamp to flick on a light.

“Don’t,” he says. “I like it better in the dark.”

There’s no reason to argue with this. I only want him stable enough so I can escape this house. If not for my overwhelming sense of obligation to take care of him, I’d already be gone, but I can’t bring myself to leave him like this alone. I’ve experienced several nights like this with Sasha who’d returned on drunk on the arm of some stranger looking to take advantage of her.

Babying Adrian Lynch won’t be any different than taking care of Sasha. He looks like he’s already on his last leg. It won’t be long before he passes out. I plait my hair into a braid to keep it out of the way, as Adrian begins to hum.

“Do you always do this?” I ask after sitting in the recliner across from the sofa. He pulls himself upright while removing his tuxedo jacket and unbuttoning the top three buttons of his collared shirt. I note the sparse patch of hair coating his chest. My eyes linger for a moment on the wispy strands and I scold myself for noticing it at all.

His eyes drift half close. Near the peak of his forehead, I spot a veil of sweat soaking his hairline. He proceeds to tidy his tousled hair. This is more than obsessive. For him, it’s essential that he remain well groomed. I hear muffled music from the other room and listen until Adrian clears his throat to get my attention.

“Are you babysitting me?” he asks.

“Someone has to keep you from accidentally killing yourself,” I say. “Where is the bathroom?”

His eyes widen, expressing surprise.

“Why?”

“We should get your hands bandaged,” I say. “They’ll get infected without proper care. Surely, you have some kind of first-aid kit in the bathroom. Either that or I call 911 and I'm sure you’d rather I didn’t.”

He quickly replies, “There is a bathroom down the hall.”

I nod and head out, down the hall past a procession of family portraits. One is of Adrian and Vivian in formal attire feeding each other cake at one of their weddings. Vivian is beautiful. Adrian is handsome, clean cut and exuberant. Each of them polished with aesthetic smiles,
seemingly
happy.