Page 44 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

FAMILY TIES

Alix

The problem with getting up at five A.M. six days a week is that on that seventh day, you have trouble sleeping past it.

That was why I was easing myself out of Sebastian’s bed before six the next morning despite only crawling into it about five hours earlier.

Also despite how beautiful he looked sprawled on his stomach, one hand above his head, the white sheet all the way down at his waist and the lean muscle of his back and arm, his tousled brown hair, scruff of dark beard, and the dark eyelashes any woman would have killed for on full display.

He didn’t even stir, though, so I got dressed as quietly as I could, tossed my laundry into his washer and started it, made a cup of tea, and let myself out of the apartment.

In my truck, parked in Sebastian’s second space next to his own SUV, noticing how even that felt way too cozy, starting the engine and turning up the heat, then making the call I’d neglected for too long, to the only other person who’d be awake .

“Alix,” her clear, high voice rang out. “Herzliche Glückwünsche zum Geburtstag!” In other words, Happy Birthday.

“Danke sehr, Oma,” I said, the guilt rolling straight over me. “I’m sorry I haven’t called for a couple of weeks. I don’t even know how to?—”

“We could talk about that,” she said, “or I could be thrilled to talk to you now. I choose to be thrilled to hear your voice, especially on your birthday. So tell me all about it.”

“Not much to tell,” I said automatically, then thought, Are you nuts? “Actually, I guess there is something to tell. A lot has happened. Or changed. Or both.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re getting the clarity you needed, then. You’re moving forward again. It’s interesting that our feet sometimes know what our brains don’t. Tell me everything you want to tell. The job?”

“It’s fine,” I said. “A lot of work, though. I mean, the work’s fine, but it’s—it’s long, OK? Six long days a week plus the commute—I forgot just how much that is.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I remember when you did it before. It’s good that you’re strong, but?—”

“Yes,” I said. “If I tell you this, will you please not tell my mother?”

“Of course.”

“It’s been a little hard,” I said. “On my body. Thirty isn’t the same as twenty-five, I guess. It shouldn’t make that much difference, but?—”

“You’re right,” she said. “Thirty isn’t the same as twenty-five, and thirty-five is even less so. Pain?”

“Yes.” I admitted it. “How are you, though? Physically?”

“Oh, that’s a boring story, Liebchen. As boring as talking about your pain is to you. If you don’t want things to hurt, don’t get old. What else? I can tell there’s more.”

“I met somebody,” I said slowly .

“Ah.” It was a sigh.

“Yes. And I really like him. He’s—he’s a special person. But it’s complicated.”

“Oh, dear. That usually means, ‘He’s still married.’”

“No. Never married. Never had a live-in girlfriend, even, but he wants me here. Is that odd?”

“It could be,” she said. “Or it could be that he likes you more than he’s ever liked anyone before. I may be biased, but that makes him sound sensible to me. Which do you think it is?”

“OK,” I said, “but there’s another wrinkle. His sister’s dying, and he’s taking his nephew in. Adopting him, I think.”

“Ah,” she said. “And you think he wants you there for the boy? Is that it?”

“Yes. No.” I rubbed my forehead. “It’s too soon to have any of these thoughts, but like I said—complicated. And he has an unusual job that means he travels a lot. Again, it’s good I can be here a bit for Ben—the boy—but …”

“Are you the only one caring for his boy?” Her tone a little sharper now.

“No. Not at all. He’s got somebody—a young man—to help with that.

No. I—” I broke off, then started again.

“How do you know if you’re falling in love with somebody?

I’ve never really fallen, you know? I’ve liked somebody, and dated them, and with Ned, I thought, ‘this is amazingly comfortable,’ even though I was sometimes annoyed, but you’re always annoyed, right? Especially if your mind’s a little …”

“Brighter,” she said.

“I was going to say ‘different,’ I said. “Ned’s very bright.”

“But you’re much quicker. And were annoyed by his slowness. But not this man.”

“No, and that’s bizarre, because he never even graduated from high school. He left as soon as he turned eighteen.”

“And I,” she said, “was not schooled after sixteen. ”

“Oh.” Well, that brought me up short. “That’s right. Sorry.”

“Life brings its own education,” she said. “And a person can read, of course. Education doesn’t have to end when schooling does. Go on, then. This feeling is new.”

“Yes. I’ve never really … I’ve never felt like part of my heart’s walking around outside my body before.”

“As it does when you have a child,” she said. “Or when you love somebody so deeply, losing him feels impossible. Inconceivable.”

“Yes. And I think he feels a little … a little off-kilter too, because it’s been so fast. I met him before, you see, out with Ned, in November, and again while I was running away, and since then, it’s been crazy.

And—OK. Here’s the other thing, the one that bothers me most. I need to say this.

He’s an NFL player. A glamorous person. And I’m not. ”

“Other than being a princess.” My grandmother’s voice was bone-dry.

“Yes, but that doesn’t count. It’s nothing I’ve done. I didn’t want anybody rich, and anyway, he’s terrifyingly accomplished. Determined. Strong. All of that. So this is probably just a bad crush.”

“Which would make him,” my grandmother said, “a good match for you. As you’re all of those things yourself. But you’re not used to a marriage of true minds.”

“What? Nobody’s talking about marriage, Oma.” I was laughing.

“Americans receive almost no education,” she said.

“Even in university. Why is that? That’s Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

I’m not talking about that, though. I’m talking about confidence.

And kindness. You asked how I felt on my wedding day.

Not how you’re saying. Not ‘in love.’ But so very much in like.

Your grandfather had a quiet confidence about him I’d never seen before.

Not because he was wealthy, or royal. He was neither of those things.

Because he was himself, and he was secure enough in that to be kind.

To be gentle. He spoke to everybody the same, a general or a peasant.

It’s very American, I think, that confidence.

He was deeply affected by the … the things he was experiencing there in Germany, in Nuremburg, but it didn’t make him hate, not the way others hated.

It made him want to understand instead. To want to help.

He was decent, and I hadn’t known many decent men. And on the wedding night …”

“What?” I asked. “Please, Oma, tell me, if you can. Because that part’s the most confusing of all. How I feel. So vulnerable. So raw. Like we’re touching?—”

“Souls,” she said.

“Yes! Isn’t that stupid?” I was trying to laugh. “This sounds like a conversation I’d have had when I was sixteen, if I hadn’t had glasses and braces and had actually, you know, gone out with anybody. But I need to have it anyway, because this is just too confusing.”

“You don’t sound confused,” she said. “You sound afraid of your feelings.”

“Probably,” I said, and remembered Sebastian saying something like that, too.

“On my wedding night,” she said, “I found out about something I’d almost forgotten. Tenderness. Joy. And something I’d never experienced. Passion.”

“You really didn’t have sex until after you were married?”

“Where would we have had it?” she answered crisply.

“I was sharing a tiny room at the baker’s with two other girls.

I was sharing a bed, and he was in Army quarters.

And he wouldn’t have asked. Never. I had no idea what to expect, though, what it would be like.

My mother had told me that it might hurt sometimes, especially if he was rough, with the bruising and so forth, but my husband would need me that way, so I should explain to him about my condition, should ask him to be gentle.

” She laughed. “I was terrified. Kissing was nice, and the bit of touching we did, too, but the part that would hurt? I wasn’t looking forward to that. ”

“But it didn’t,” I said.

“You wanted to know when I fell in love,” she said.

“I fell in love that night. Because the way he touched me … it was so careful. So gentle. But so confident, too, knowing what a man did to please a woman. So intense, like all he wanted was me.” She sighed.

“I never did find out where he learned to make love like that, a nice Jewish boy like he was. I always thought I should have sent her a card.”

I was laughing. “Oma. This is sharing.”

She laughed, too. “And why not? Your grandfather isn’t here to be embarrassed anymore. So is it like that, then? Is it good?’

“Yes.” I had to admit it. “It’s—he’s the most exciting man I’ve ever known. Maybe because he’s so physical.”

“And so are you,” she said.

“Oh.” That one surprised me. “I guess so. All right, now that we’ve disposed of my love life—I’d say more, but it would be boring, gushing on about how great he is—I need to say, I’ll come see you as soon as I can. Like I said, there’s no time. I’m a foreman now, and that’s good, but I?—”

“But you want to have a life,” she said. “And you should have a life.”

“Now if I can only figure out how,” I said.

She laughed. “I have every faith in you, mein Schatz. You haven’t done badly so far, have you? But there is one thing. I don’t like to discuss it, not now that you’ve told me all of this. But it’s there, bothering me still.”

“What’s there?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“The tiara,” she said.

I blinked. “The tiara?”

“I’ve left the past behind,” she said. “I’ve never wanted to go back there, to Germany, not even after the Wall came down.

To Dresden. To the Residenzschloss. Go back to all the horror?

Never. But it was my mother’s tiara, and my grandmother’s.

Now it’s mine, but more importantly, it’s going to be yours. I think we need to try to get it back.”