Eyes Wide Open: The Blackstone Affair, Book 3

I was relieved when Ethan returned to me from wherever he’d been. I needed him, and everything seemed easier to bear when he was near. It made me very weak, which I despised in myself, but I couldn’t help it, and was too exhausted to care. He was the only lifeline I had here. I wanted to go back home. London—home.

He had two plates of food with him when he walked up.

“I brought you a little bit of everything,” he said.

“Oh, thanks . . . but I’m not hungry at all. I can’t eat that.” I looked at the fruit and the croissant sandwich.

He frowned and set his jaw. I knew I was in for an argument. “You have to eat something. What’ve you had today besides a little tea?” He whispered. “Think of the baby . . .”

“You can’t force someone to eat. Trust me, I know from experience.”

My mother’s disdainful voice broke into our exchange. No sentiment of “Ethan’s right, Brynne, you need to eat because your baby needs food even if you don’t feel hungry.” No “You’re eating for two now, dear” comment. Yeah . . . what did I expect?

I saw Ethan’s head turn and peg my mom. I think there was a little smoke rising from his ears too, but he didn’t lose it as I thought he could have. He just turned glacial and ignored her.

“Come sit with me and have a little something,” he said to me with a gentle voice paired with some serious intent to see it through.

How could I turn him down? I never could. What he did, he did out of concern for me. I did need to eat, even though my appetite was nonexistent. Ethan was right. I had someone else to consider besides myself. Especially now.

I looked at my mom and roamed my eyes over her perfectly coiffed and dressed presentation today for her ex-husband’s funeral. Why in the hell had she even come to the service? She’d barely spoken to Daddy after I moved away to London. She certainly couldn’t have any true grief for him. Could she? I had absolutely no idea. It saddened me to realize that I couldn’t tell because I didn’t know her well enough to tell. My mother and I weren’t close like that. We didn’t share deep feelings or secrets. I never knew why she suddenly divorced my dad, or if she’d ever even loved him. I didn’t know why they ever got married in the first place. How had they met? Where had he proposed? Stories of them dating? I had nothing.

I turned away and went with Ethan to a table, my heart closing off from her a little more with every step I took.

“You are so very beautiful,” Ethan said softly as I tried valiantly to ingest some of the food he’d gotten for me, “on the inside as much as the outside.”

I tried to swallow the honeydew melon that must surely be a hunk of wet sawdust from the way it tasted on my tongue, and told him, “I want to go home.”

“I know you do, baby. I want to take you home. There’s not much left to worry over now. Since your dad had everything in a trust . . . we can come back in a few months and see to things then. Mr. Murdock said it’s best to wait a bit anyway . . . you don’t want to make decisions about something so personal right at first.” He put his hand over mine.

Yes. Pete Murdock was Daddy’s business partner in his law firm. Or . . . he had been. Living trust was the way to go, Dad always said. I now controlled a house in Sausalito, all my dad’s money and investments; everything of material possession he had acquired in his fifty-one years now belonged to me.

I didn’t want any of it. I just wanted my dad back.

A friendly voice interrupted my thoughts. “Brynne . . . oh, honey, here you are.”

I turned to find Jessica with her arms open. I went into them and hugged my friend tightly. Jess and I went back to elementary school. First grade, Mrs. Flagler’s class. Nearly inseparable all the way up till our senior year of high school, Thanksgiving break, to be exact.

Yes, Jessica had been with me the night it happened. She had been a true friend in my time of need, but I had been too sick for friendships after the event. I’d needed to go away. A necessary component to my recovery process. We’d kept in touch over the years since I’d been in London, but hadn’t seen each other in more than four years. She still looked tanned and athletic, her blond pixie haircut the perfect complement to her petite shape. I was touched she showed up here today to pay her respects to my father.

“I’m so sorry, Brynne. Your dad—he was just the sweetest man—l enjoyed our conversations every time we saw each other at the gym. He loved to talk about you.”

“Oh, Jess . . .” I felt my eyes go wet and the emotions come pouring out. “Thank you for coming—it means a great deal to me to see you here. He really liked you too. Thought you were very sweet.” We hugged again and I really looked at her. “It’s so good to see you again.” I turned to Ethan. “Jess, this is Ethan Blackstone, my fiancé.” I held up my hand and showed my engagement ring. “Ethan, meet Jessica Vettner, my friend since the first grade.”

“It’s a pleasure, Jessica,” Ethan told her as they shook hands. I wondered if he remembered that Jess was the one I went to the party with on that ill-fated night of my life. If he did remember, he didn’t show any signs of it. Ethan was smooth as silk in these situations.

Jessica turned to her companion then and made introductions. Another face from my past. Karl Westman stood beside Jess. Wow . . . so many emotions there. I needed a moment to take it all in, I was so overwhelmed. Seeing Lance Oakley’s father earlier had been crazy enough. I had been in such a fog, though, I barely registered whatever it was he’d said to me. My mom had spent more time talking to the senator than I had. Now Karl was here too?

“Brynne, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Karl said and moved in to hug me.

“Hi, Karl. It’s been a long time.” It felt awkward, but I know it had to be for him as well. We had a small past together, but it wasn’t really that which made my broken heart feel like it was being squeezed from the inside out. It was that all four of us standing here together knew about it. They had either seen the video of me or they had knowledge of its existence.

I really wanted to go home more than ever now. “Thanks for coming today. It was very kind of you.”

“My pleasure.” Karl ended the hug and I searched his dark eyes. I didn’t see anything hurtful in them. Just some kindness and maybe a bit of curiosity. That had to be normal, right? We’d met at a track meet the season we were juniors, and then ran into each other at the beginning of my senior year. We’d gone out on dates that ended as all my dates had back in those days—covert sex in some private location. I’d liked him a lot. Karl was a cute boy then, and a handsome man now. We both shared a love of Hendrix and had had many discussions about his music. Jess was absolutely right about Karl still being “hawt” in her message on Facebook. He had always treated me well. Not a bit like Lance Oakley had treated me.

Lance had been away at college, and I had been young and stupid. A long lifetime ago. Another world ago. Did Karl know he was the reason Lance became angry enough to drug me, and then film his buddies using me on a pool table? If I’d never gone out with Karl, maybe Lance and his friends wouldn’t have made the video of me at the party that night. The scenarios were endless. Woulda, coulda, shoulda . . . Yeah, did me absolutely no good to go there.

“I heard about it from Jess, of course,” he said, reaching an arm around her shoulders in a familiar affectionate gesture, “and I wanted to pay my respects in person.” Jessica looked up at him with stars in her eyes. It didn’t take a genius to see that my old friend had fallen hard for Karl Westman. He seemed very into her as well. I sincerely hoped it worked out for the two of them. They made a great couple.

I forced a smile and did the best acting performance of my life. “I’m so happy to see you both. It’s been far too long.”

Ethan drew me against his side as we made small talk with the two of them. It was a possessive move on his part, and one I was well familiar with by now. He rubbed his hand slowly up and down my arm as he gave Jess and Karl his full attention. Especially when Karl told us how his company was sending him to the Olympics for a research trip and that we should get together while he was in London. Um . . . probably not going to happen, Karl.

Ethan made sure to mention our upcoming wedding, and the date, while linking his hand with mine, bringing it curled to his lips, and kissing the back of it. Same effect as a dog pissing on a lamppost, really, just done very elegantly, with me being the metaphorical lamppost. Ethan managed to get away with such behavior, and make it look gallant. He always had.

And again, I wondered if he’d identified my “past” with Karl. I swear he was capable of figuring it out. Ethan’s Spidey sense was ultra-keen when it came to other men and me. Remembering his blowup when I’d met Paul Langley on the street in front of the coffeehouse, I recognized Ethan’s vivid jealous streak in regard to my past relationships with other men. I definitely had a past, that’s true. There had been more than a few men, and he had to acknowledge that fact. Nothing I could do would change anything. But Ethan had a past too, and acceptance of what couldn’t be altered was part of learning to trust in a relationship. We both had to let go of some things. I wasn’t going to avoid speaking to people like Paul and Karl just because Ethan was insanely jealous of any man who had been with me before him. I was not with those others now, I was with him.

I shrugged it off as best I could. Didn’t matter. The past was just that: in the past . . . finished . . . over and done with. Even though I was aching inside, and desperately low from losing my dad, I still understood what was most important. My eyes were opened clearly from this experience, and they would stay that way. Loss of a loved one will shift your priorities in an instant, I had learned.

My father was gone, but my mind was intact.

I knew what mattered, and what didn’t. The person holding me against his strong body in protection with loving care, and, the tiny person growing inside me were my whole world now.

♠

Having Brynne sleeping against me on the flight home to London made me feel the best I had in days. She was utterly spent and so exhausted she’d nodded off almost immediately after taking our seats. I didn’t blame her either. The send-off from her mum had been . . . painful, for lack of a better description. I was exhausted from the experience myself. God, I really did not like that bloody woman even a miniscule bit. I was headed for absolute fucking my-worst-nightmare mother-in-law hell. And there was not a thing in the world I could do about it. My sweet girl had a gorgon for a mother. She was very beautiful in a designer-chic way, just as I had imagined she would be, but a hideous gorgon all the same. I envisioned Tom Bennett was now receiving his saintly wings for putting up with her for as long as he had. I suppressed a shudder.

Mummy dearest had tried to get Brynne to extend her trip and let me go on home alone. I ground my teeth together in remembrance. As if I would ever allow such a thing! She would have tried to influence her to terminate or get her to move back to the U.S. probably.

In the end, Brynne hardly reacted to her mother at all. She just turned away and said she was going back home to London to marry me and have our baby. I don’t believe I was ever more proud of anyone as I was of my girl when she said those words and looked to me.

Brynne opened her eyes and I caught that moment of innocence, the waking up blissfully unaware of all the bad things that have been happening in your life . . . like losing a beloved parent. It only lasts for a fraction of time, anyway. I know from lots of experience.

Her eyes were bright at first, and then they shuttered, showing the pain of her reality, before closing off to shield herself from the painful thoughts so she could get through the rest of this very public journey. First class was better than coach, but we were still in a cabin with strangers around us and nowhere near private. Brynne was holding it together so far. She’d not broken down yet, and I have to say it worried me more than a little, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t grieve for her. She would have to do it in her own way, and in her own time.

The flight attendant came by to take our orders for dinner. Salmon or chicken parmesan topped the menu tonight. I looked over at Brynne and got a tiny head shake and a sad face. I ignored it and told the attendant we’d both take the salmon, remembering how much she enjoyed it for dinner that night with Dad and Marie.

“You have to eat something, baby.”

She nodded and her eyes got wet. “What—w-what am I going to do now?”

I picked up her hand and pressed it to my heart. “You’re going to be back in our home and take some time to rest and do whatever makes you feel better. You’ll go see Dr. Roswell and talk to her. You’re going to work on your research for the university when you feel up to it. You’ll plan the wedding with the girls and Ben. We’ll go see Dr. Burnsley for the second appointment and find out how green-olive is doing. You’re going to let me take care of you and go forward with your life. With our life.”

She listened to every word. She soaked each one up, actually, and I was glad to give her something I think she really needed to hear. Sometimes having another person tell you that everything will be okay is all you really need to get you through the toughest part. I know Brynne needed to hear it, as much as I needed to say it.

“And I will be right with you every step of the way.” I brought her hand up to my lips. “Promise.”

“How do you know about green-olive?” She actually smiled a little.

“I put Bump dot com in my favorites and check it religiously, just like you suggested. We have a green-olive this week, and next week we get a prune.” I winked.

“I love you,” she whispered very softly, and ran her hand through her hair.

“I love you too, my beauty. So very, very much.”

The attendant arrived with the hot towels and drink service. I got the wine, and Brynne got cranberry juice on ice. I waited until she took a sip. I didn’t want to have to force-feed her, but would resort to persuasion tactics if I had to.

To my surprise and relief she seemed to enjoy the cranberry juice.

“This tastes really, really nice.” Another sip. “I’m picking up your words.”

“I can assure you that you still sound like my American girl, baby.”

“I know that, I mean I’m picking up the words you say, like saying ‘this tastes nice’ instead of saying it ‘tastes good.’ It’s rubbing off from being around you so much,” she said.

“Well, since you’re never getting rid of me, then I guess that means I’ll have you speaking like a native in no time.”

“Well, you can certainly try.” She sipped some more juice and looked a bit brighter.

“By the time green-olive is born, you’ll be unrecognizable as a Yank, I’m sure.”

Her face lit up. “I just realized something kinda cool.”

“What’s that?” I asked, intrigued but happy to see her more animated than she’d been in many days.

“Green-olive will call me Mummy instead of Mommy or Mom.” She wrinkled her nose a little. “Seems a little weird . . . but I suppose I’ll get used to it . . . and I like the way it sounds.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You’ll be the best mum green-olive has ever known.”

She smiled at me briefly, but then it went away just as fast as it had appeared. “Not like mine, that’s for sure.” The hurt and anguish rang out loud and clear in her words.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” I shook my head, not wanting to badmouth her mother, but finding it very hard not to.

“You mean bringing her up.”

“That too,” I countered. I really didn’t want to get into the complexities of Brynne’s relationship with her mum, but if that’s what she wanted to discuss, then I could surely give my opinion. I just hoped I didn’t have to.

She saved me by asking a different question. “What about your mother, Ethan?”

“Well, I barely remember her. All I have now are the memories suggested by the photographs mostly. I think I can remember things about her, but I’m probably just imagining those experiences because of the subject of the photos and the stories Dad and Hannah have shared with me.”

“You said you got the wings tattooed on your back because of your mom.”

No, I don’t want to do this right now.

I almost sighed, but I just managed to hold it in. I knew better than to shut her out in this moment. Brynne had asked me about the tattoo before, and I know she wanted me to share with her now, but I just didn’t feel ready for that yet. Not here on a public flight under tragic circumstances. This wasn’t the right time, nor the right place, for me to let out those emotions.

The salmon showed up just then and reprieved me.

Brynne continued to sip her juice and avoided the food, which wasn’t bad at all for airline fare.

“Here.” I offered a forkful of fish, deciding if she wasn’t going to eat on her own, then I would feed it to her myself.

She eyeballed the bite carefully before opening her mouth to accept it. She chewed slowly and deliberately. “The salmon is nice, but I want to know why the wings remind you of your mom.”

So that’s how this game would be played, huh? Emotional blackmail in exchange for eating a meal . . . I offered another bite of fish to her.

She kept her lips pursed together. “Why that tattoo, Ethan?”

I took a deep breath. “They’re angel’s wings and since I think of her as such, it was very fitting to have the wings across my back.”

“That’s a beautiful idea.” She smiled.

I offered a fresh bit of salmon, which she accepted with no argument this time.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Laurel.”

“It’s pretty. Laurel. Laurel Blackstone . . .” she repeated.

“I think so,” I told her.

“If green-olive is a girl, I think we have a perfect name for her, don’t you?”

I felt my throat move as I swallowed hard. And it wasn’t from eating the salmon. Her suggestion meant something to me—something deep and very personal.

“You would do that?”

“I really do love the name Laurel, and if you want it, then . . . yes, of course,” she answered, her eyes a little brighter than before.

I was stunned, utterly humbled by her generosity and willingness to give to me such a beautiful gift, especially in a time of such horrible grief for herself. “I would love to name our girl Laurel after my mum,” I said truthfully, before holding up a small piece of bread torn from a roll.

She took the bit of bread and chewed it slowly, never taking her eyes off mine. “Good, that’s settled then,” she said softly, her voice wistful and sounding rather far away.

I imagined what she might be thinking about, so I went for it. “And if our green-olive is a boy?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She started to cry. “I want to . . . name him Thom-m-mas,” she managed, before breaking down right over the Atlantic Ocean, in a first-class cabin, on British Air flight 284, the red-eye, San Francisco to London Heathrow.

I pulled her to me and kissed the top of her head. I held Brynne and let her do what she finally needed to do. She was quiet about it and nobody even paid any attention to us, but still it hurt me to have to witness her going through this next step in a very normal process.

The flight attendant, wearing a badge with the name Dorothy and a soft Irish burr, clued in, though, and rushed right over to offer assistance. I asked her to take away the dinner and bring us an extra blanket. Dorothy seemed to understand that Brynne was grieving, and worked quickly to get the food removed, the lights turned out and a blanket for us to cover up. She took extra care of us for the remainder of the flight, and I made sure to thank her sincerely for her kindness when we disembarked several hours later.

For the rest of that flight, I held my girl against me until she’d exhausted her tears and fell into sleep. I slept too, but on and off. My mind was moving all over the place. I had worries galore and could only hope and pray that calling Oakley’s bluff at the funeral service would work. I was prepared to do everything I’d promised if anyone made a move on Brynne. I knew how heavily guarded she would be from here on out.

I didn’t know who was responsible for Montrose’s and Fielding’s deaths. I didn’t know if Tom Bennett had been part of that mess and was murdered. I didn’t know who sent the lunatic text message to Brynne’s old mobile or who called in the bomb threat the night we were at the Mallerton Gala. I didn’t know a lot of shit that I really needed some answers to.

I had fear inside of me.

Batshit, crazy-as-fuck, have-me-committed, I’m-petrified-out-of-my-bloody-skull, fear.