Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(24)
He veers sharply to the right and slams the brakes. The car behind us honks and swerves around, the driver flipping us off. Aiden’s posture straightens, his muscles rise and he turns his body to face me.
“Elisa, are you in trouble? Because if you are, you should tell me. I can help you. There’s no reason for you to suffer through whatever it is alone.”
How can I share this pain and not forge a bond with him? And then where do I go from there? If you thought you had lost everything only to find out there was a lot more to lose, would you risk it? Or would you play it safe and try to survive?
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. So do we have a deal?” I look him in the eye, trying to hold my face together.
“No, goddamn it, we don’t have a deal.” He looks around wildly. For the first time I notice a whisper of helplessness in his eyes. Unable to resist, I reach slowly to caress his cheek so that he sees my intention. With his force field around him, he may need the warning.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m not in danger. Let’s just try it. Surely the private part of you finds that appealing too?”
He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger, drawing a deep breath.
“As if your paintings and brain were not enough to drive any man insane, now you have thrown this into the mix. But I suppose I’m in a better position to help you if I strike this deal than if I don’t. So, yes, we have an embargo on sharing. For today.” He shakes his head as if he cannot believe this himself.
Yes! Twenty-four hours of paradise smack in the middle of hell. I lean in slowly and give him a small kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”
He looks like he has never been kissed on the cheek before. I pull away in case it makes him uncomfortable. His eyes are unfathomable—light on the surface, dark within.
He starts driving again without a word. We wind higher and higher up the West Hills, curving around the Portland Rose Garden. With a vibration between my lungs, I realize Aiden lives by a rose garden like I used to—although lives may be too soft a word. Presides fits him better.
The Rose Garden is behind now, and we are still climbing. Suddenly, I know we have entered his domain the way we know spring has arrived. With a feeling in our blood, right before ice starts to melt. The pressure of the altitude muffles my ears until all I hear is my own heartbeat. There are no houses around anymore, only dense evergreens and sky. Aiden takes a sharp left and comes to a stop before a modern iron gate. He slides his palm over a pad in a stainless steel monitor. The gates open.
I expect to see a house, but no. An endless hide-and-seek driveway undulates before us, framed by tall oaks and cedars. On the right, in a green clearing, is a paved, smooth circle. It takes a few blinks to realize it’s a helipad.
At last, as though part of nature, a stately house materializes among the trees. Except, the word house is too artificial. This is almost an extension of the primordial forest. Everything about it, from the red cedar wood panels to the charcoal slate, the gray riverbed rocks and the airy spatial windows, is organic. The modern minimalist lines curve around nature rather than bending nature to their will.
Aiden chuckles next to me, and I close my gaping mouth. “It’s beautiful here,” I say.
“It’s getting better.” He smiles, and gets out of the car to open my door. The moment I’m out, he takes my hand again and presses his lips to my hair. I lean into him, sniffing his Aiden scent surreptitiously. I should figure out a way to bottle this.
At the double front doors, he slides his palm over another pad. The doors open into a cream-and-slate foyer. The moment we step inside, lights brighten almost imperceptibly. I blink once and everything is back to normal. Hmm, maybe I imagined it.
Aiden leads me by my waist to a palatial living room. As we cross the threshold, the lights brighten and dim again, blinking fast. I turn to ask him, but he shakes his head. I tuck this away as a world perched between earth and sky surrounds me.
Straight ahead, Mount Hood is almost touchable. Refracting sunrays are my only clue that a back wall separates us, made entirely of glass. I blink, recalling Denton’s lecture on glass optical qualities. This must be the highest—nearly invisible.
Everything from the open-flame riverbed rock fireplace to the barstools in a kitchen the size of Feign Art is bespoke and chic. All light gray and cream, except the chestnut wooden floor and the oversized salvaged oak coffee table. Colors of rivers and forests. Abstract, understated art, none of it my paintings. There is something peaceful about the stunning natural décor.
Yet my first thought is…not loneliness. The controlled minimalism is too intentional for that. Isolation. That’s what it is. I look for signs of the inner Aiden. There are some books stacked on the coffee table. The Brothers Karamazov—one of my favorites, Byron’s Poems, The Things They Carried. Redemption, passion, guilt, war. And poetry. Aiden Hale has soul.
My eyes drift to a shiny black piano, tucked by the glass wall. My breath catches a little at the sight. Not because it’s a rare B?sendorfer. But because on it, is the most astonishing arrangement of flowers I have ever seen. They’re not in a vase—they’re in a low crystal terrarium, like a secret garden. I walk to it in a trance, sensing Aiden’s body heat behind me.
And there, rising over green moss, is a single bloom of probably every flower genus they sell in Portland. Hyacinth, orchid, gardenia, peony, amaryllis, calla lily, rose…