Page 96 of Hell Bent
“You’re eating, though, Ben!” I said. “It got so late, I know, but I wanted to have this?—”
“I can eat more,” Ben said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh. And hey. You put away the groceries.”
“I told you,” Ben said, “I’m not a kid.”
“No,” I said, overcome with affection for him. My hand went out to ruffle his still-damp hair, and he jerked away and said, “Hey!” But when I laughed, he did, too. After which I went to Sebastian, put my arms around his waist, kissed his mouth, smiled into his eyes, and said, “Thank you for my flowers. What are they?”
“French roses,” he said, looking a little embarrassed, too, but gratified.
“Roses are roses,” Ben said. “They don’t have, like, nationalities.”
“Now, see,” Sebastian said, going to the coffeepot and pouring a cup, then adding a generous dollop of half and half and handing it to me, “that’s where you’re wrong. French roses are bigger and shaped differently, with more petals, and they smell better, too. I know that, because it was on the website.”
“There must be two dozen of them,” I said, fingering the huge, heavy pink blooms.
“Thirty,” he said. “I wanted you to feel good. Like you were having a birthday.” And shrugged.
“Well,” I said, giving him another kiss, “you succeeded. And if you give me just a minute, we can have quiche and salad and berries. And possibly a chocolate croissant, because I’m sorry, but I bought one, plus an almond croissant, since I couldn’t decide which one I wanted more. If my lack of discipline bothers you, look away, but hey, itismy birthday.”
A wonderful birthday on which I did my cooking-ahead for the week, Sebastian helped me with the chopping and stirring, and Ben sat at the breakfast bar and complained about his schoolwork. In particular, English.
“Why do I have to read Shakespeare?” he asked. “It makesno sense. I mean, it makes no sense to have to read Shakespeare, and Shakespearealsomakes no sense. A twofer. And it’sRomeo and Juliet, which is all these people talking over and over, using about a million words, about how they’re dying of love. People don’t die of love.”
“Have you finished it?” Sebastian asked.
“No, but I won’t understand it any better once Ihavefinished it. Why? Nobody actually does die, do they? It’s, like, a romance. Romances always end with a big speech from the guy and the girl crying and then the couple probably getting married. My mom says they’re a tool of the patriarchy, to convince women that getting married will make them happy, when actually,notliving with men makes women happy.”
“That’s one opinion,” Sebastian said, continuing to chop onions.
“I pointed out thatI’ma man,” Ben said, “and she said, ‘That’s different. You know how to clean a toilet and run a washing machine.’ Like that’s some kind of big accomplishment.”
“I have a question,” I said. “Has anybody heard of Sonnet 116, since it’s Shakespeare?”
“No,” Ben said. “You mean there’smore?”
“Oh,” I said, “there’s so much more. My grandmother mentioned it on the phone this morning like everybody should know it, that’s all. I’m glad nobody else does.”
“I do,” Sebastian said. “It’s pretty famous.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then it’s just me. Oh, well. I’m not romantic. Sue me.” And sautéed my ground beef as I wondered what to wear tonight. I’d worn the blue dress on Christmas in front of the same exact people, and I didn’t have it with me anyway. I wasn’t exactly Miss Beauty Treatment, but I could at least …
I almost burned the spaghetti sauce.
They were seatedat a banquette table at the far end of a big, dark, extremely cozy room dominated by a roaring fire at one end, with a brick wall and six or seven tiers of wall-to-wall shelves stretching all the way up to the ceiling behind a gleaming bar, the two library ladders on rollers providing access to the contents. The furniture was all leather and polished mahogany, too. It did look like a library, one of those English ones in stately homes. It wasn’t a book library, though. It was awhiskeylibrary. There had to be well over a thousand bottles up there, glowing rich and bright, cleverly lit from below, the focus of the room.
We were probably the last ones to arrive, I thought,notreaching to pat my hair or straighten my skirt, trying to look like I visited exclusive private clubs all the time in my hard-hatted life, as three men stood to greet us. Harlan Kristiansen and Owen Johnson, both of them looking like actors playing NFL stars, they were so clearly cast for the part. And another man, too, as tall and nearly as good-looking as Harlan but even broader across the shoulders, as dark as Harlan was fair and as tough-looking as Harlan was surfer-cool. I’d better not let my grandmother catch sight of him, or she’d be kicking Cary Grant to the curb. Tech bros these guys were not. Harlan said, “This is Alix … uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name. And Sebastian Robillard.”
“Blake Orbison,” the new guy said, shaking both our hands. “And my wife, Dakota Savage.”
“Glucksburg-Thompkins,” I said. “My last name. And Dakota Savage the artist? Really?” She was as striking as her husband, and as dark, with cheekbones that looked sculpted and dark-framed glasses that looked severe. She’d stood, too, and was shaking hands with both of us, not kissing cheeks the way some women did. Her grip as firm as mine, her palm as tough.
She said, “That’s the first time anybody’s said that to me.Or did you know I’d be coming and look me up?” She laughed. “Wait. That sounds terrible, like I’m full of myself. Sorry. I’m just surprised.”
“No,” I said, sitting down beside her and smiling at the other woman, the one I knew. Jennifer, Harlan’s wife, who waved and gave me her sweet, sunny smile. “I didn’t know you were coming,” I explained to Dakota. “I just—I saw a feature on you and thought how beautiful the pieces were, not like any stained glass I’d ever seen, and then I was shopping—well, shopping for the dress I wore to meet all these people for Christmas, in fact, since I only had jeans at the time and I was intimidated—and I walked by a gallery and they had a piece of yours hung in the window, with a little blurb about you. It was sort of abstract, but I thought it could be—but I’m probably wrong.” I was flustered. I’d never met a well-known artist before, and her dangling earrings were complicated and rich-looking and geometric, her skin gleaming bronze, her whole self exuding a sort of effortless cool in the most stylish sort of jeans, a scarlet sweater, and a wide belt made of hammered silver metal. I didn’t get intimidated that often, but she was doing it.
“What did you think?” she asked. “I’d love to know.” She smiled, and her face, which looked somber in repose, lit up again.
