The Vanishing Year(37)
“It’s pretty,” I say, feeling like I probably don’t understand the significance. I’m not lying, it is pretty. It’s just not Henry’s style: too simple, too trendy. It’s more my style. Then again, Henry is often thoughtful in ways I am not.
I study the beads. The first one is engraved with a small, squat tree, its branches reaching up and wrapping around the gold. The etching is delicate and fine, and the detail takes my breath away. The second bead is carved with a simple flower, what looks to be a gladiolus. The third bead contains a set of wings, each feather intricately scored.
“Very beautiful.” I nod my head, as though I understand it.
Henry watches me with amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh stop. I’m not fooled. I can read you, you know.”
“Well then explain it.” I laugh.
He fastens the bracelet around my wrist, his hair tickles my cheek. “I had these made. The tree is because you give me roots. I want to do the same for you. The tree is actually a bonsai. The Japanese believe that when left in nature the bonsai grows wild and unruly and ugly. That only when carefully cultivated by people is it beautiful.”
“Am I the bonsai?” I have always felt like Henry’s pet project, to some extent Lydia wasn’t far off. I’ve been groomed to fit into his life, among his friends and colleagues.
He laughs and kisses my nose. “I am the bonsai, Zoe. Without you, I am an angry, singly driven man. A man with one purpose. I become one of those loveless rich men. I become Krable.”
I lean back and study Henry as he speaks. It’s surprising how well vulnerability suits him. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever worn.
“Go on.” I tilt my head.
“The wings are easier to explain.” He touches the bead on the end, his thumb massages my palm. “I’m sorry. I have no desire to hold you back. I fell in love with your grit. These past few months I’ve been afraid of losing you. I’ve clipped you too much and I’m sorry.”
“We’re both . . . damaged.” I run my index fingernail over the veins in the top of his hand, his smooth large-knuckled hands. I love his hands.
He clears his throat and holds the center bead between his thumb and index finger, his hands cool on my wrist. “The middle bead is a gladiolus.”
“The flower of infatuation.” My voice hitches.
“Yes, technically ‘love at first sight.’ Which is us, don’t you think?” He stands up, tugs on my hands until I stand with him. “It’s also a symbol of character and strength. It reminded me of you.” He steps back, rubs his forehead and gives me a sideways smile.
“It’s beautiful, Henry.” Which is clichéd and stupid but I’m speechless.
“I want you to go back to the flower shop. I’m saying it’s okay.” He tugs on my hand, leading me away from the table, through the living room, and up the wood steps. I follow him, swaying slightly, tilting my wrist in the moonlit living room to get a closer look at the bracelet. I can’t believe he’d thought of all that, and I have no idea when he’d had it made. It means more to me than all the diamonds and rubies in our safe.
Without warning, the want creeps up on me. I gently push on the small of his back, down the hall and into our bedroom, where I shove him, wanton and drunk, onto the bed. We pull at each other’s clothes, and I am laughing. The room spins, and the next morning when I try to remember the moment, all I can see is Henry’s smile, the love reflected in his blue eyes, and the overwhelming feeling that, here in this secluded country, despite all his flaws and our imperfections, where I know not another soul, I am home.
CHAPTER 12
On Saturday, I’m up at six, brewing coffee in a stainless steel percolator, standing at the gas stove, watching coffee gurgle and spit into the glass top. I can’t sleep. In our penthouse apartment, we hear very little street noise, so I can’t figure out the difference. But I had lain in bed, my leg jittering, shifting one way, then the other, before I finally snuck out and downstairs.
Arms snake around my middle and I jump. “You scared me.” I smile, my head tipped down, and Henry plants a feather kiss on the back of my neck.
“Ah, sorry,” he whispers in the dark kitchen. “Don’t be mad, but I have to drive back for a few hours.”
“Today?” I step forward, putting distance between us.
“I’m sorry. It’s going to be overcast, but not rainy. You could hike out back, there are trails. They’re not all ours, but no one cares. Just don’t get killed by a hunter.”
“What season is it?” I wonder.
He rubs his jaw. “Spring turkey maybe? I’m not sure. I generally hunt in the fall. Spring is too busy with work.”
I don’t understand Henry’s work or his hunting. It’s completely possible, likely even, that I don’t understand Henry. I pour us two cups of coffee in pottery mugs, but as I turn to retrieve the cream and sugar (for mine only, Henry drinks his coffee black), Henry’s eyebrows pucker, his mouth twisting apologetically.
“You have to go now,” I say, flat as stone, and sigh. I pick up his mug and pour the coffee into the carafe. He drops a kiss on my lips and lingers there, his hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
“Don’t pout. I’ll be back right after lunch. I just have to address some unexpected . . . issues.”