Magnus Page 19

  “Parking.”

  “I know that,” she says, nudging me. “I mean, you said I’m not allowed at your house.”

  “Well, now you are.”

  “You don’t have to be nice just because my father died, Magnus.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” I say, looking at her. I shut off the engine.

  “Then why am I suddenly welcomed into your home.”

  “Because I want you here. Let’s go.”

  She opens her door at the same time I open mine to get out. She looks around the garage – sees the Maserati and the Range Rover – cars I hardly ever drive. When we’re inside the house, she marvels at how big and spacious it is although she doesn’t say a word. She’s looking everywhere. Examining the layout. The décor. The architecture. It’s what everyone does the first time they walk into my home.

  Standing in the kitchen like she’s lost, her eyes finally settle on me.

  “Have you had anything to eat?” I ask.

  “Not since lunch, but I don’t want anything. I’m fine. All I really want is to take a shower and go to sleep.”

  “Okay. Come with me.”

  She follows me upstairs and I show her to one of the guest bedrooms. All the bedrooms in my house come with their own bath. The one I take her to is one of the more exquisite ones. It’s like a master, only smaller. It’s much bigger than what she’s accustomed to.

  “You can sleep here.”

  “Wow. This room is amazing,” she tells me.

  “If you need anything, let me know. Also, help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Towels, soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes—you’ll find all of it in the bathroom.”

  “You keep things like that in the bathroom?”

  “Yes. Whenever I have guests, I want them to be comfortable.”

  “How often do you have guests?” she questions.

  “Take a shower and relax. I’ll check on you later.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I leave her room in a haste, uncomfortable with my decision to bring her here simply because it’s the first time I ever brought a woman here like this. In my mind, it’s borderline betrayal – the first step in forgetting about Nicoletta and bringing someone else here to take her place – something I vowed never to do.

  But I brought her here.

  Shiloh.

  I’m not sure how long I’ll allow her to stay. If I know her like I think I do, she won’t be here long at all. She’s a free spirit like her sister Selah (minus the drugs). She just doesn’t know it yet because she’s been cooped up with her father all her life. Now that he’s gone, her life can begin. That is if she can figure out what to do with it.

  But hey, who am I to judge? I don’t know what to do with my own life after Nicoletta and MJ.

  When MJ was three, we went on a family vacation – flew to the Bahamas and stayed for a week. It was Nicoletta’s preference to go there. She said it was kid-friendly and less exotic than the places I’d rather visit. I still have recordings in my phone of her playing with MJ, running along the shoreline with him. Water splashing. The sun shining. She rocked a smile bigger than the ocean. So did he. My son. My replica. They were my heart.

  After their deaths, I used to watch those videos repeatedly for the first year, then when my sadness turned completely into anger, I had to stop for my own sake. It was draining my sanity faster than the battery on my cell phone after hours of video-watching.

  Knowing Shiloh’s here, safe and sound and not at her father’s place getting tow-down drunk or coming up with other interesting ways to ease her pain, brings me peace. I did the right thing by bringing her here. It’s what I tell myself. What I want to believe.

  I slip into the shower for a few thinking how shocked Lucille will be to see her in the morning.

  * * *

  When I’m up, I follow my normal routine. After a shower, I take my time in my walk-in closet to pick out the perfect suit for the day. I go with a light charcoal one, pairing it with a pair of black Gucci’s. I head downstairs where I hear Lucille talking to someone. She’s either on the phone or—

  When I step into the kitchen, I see Shiloh sitting at the table. Her hair is in a wild, barely tamed ponytail like she rolled out of bed and came on downstairs. She has a spoon in her right hand. Her left arm is wrapped around a bowl of oatmeal like she’s protecting it from being stolen. I’m certain Lucille talked her into eating.

  “Well, good morning, Magnus,” Lucille says, looking at me with inquisitive eyes. I can see the questions burning inside her mind: What is Shiloh doing back? What is she doing in the main house? I thought women weren’t allowed in the main house? Why didn’t you take her to the guesthouse? Where did she sleep? Your bed? Or did you give her one of the guest bedrooms?

  “Good morning, Lucille. Shiloh,” I say.

  Shiloh looks up from her bowl. Her eyes scan my face then rolls down to my feet. I’ve peeped the fact that she likes my swag although she’ll probably never say it.

  “Good morning, Magnus,” she says.

  I walk over to where she’s sitting and sit directly across from her. I stare intentionally – not to intimidate her or make her shy away from me, but that’s what ends up happening.

  “Can I get you some coffee or something, Magnus?” Lucille asks. I see her looking at me out of my peripheral.

  “Sure. I’ll take a cup. Black,” I tell her. I’m still looking at Shiloh. She drops the spoon in the bowl and pushes it away from her. She’s done eating oatmeal.

  I take the bowl and pick up where she leaves off, not because I like oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. I just want to taste her mouth on this spoon.

  This morning, I like oatmeal.

  “How’d you sleep last night?” I ask her.

  “Good. The bed was comfortable.”

  “Good.”

  Lucille places a mug of hot coffee in front of me and goes about her business.

  I take a sip, lower the cup to the table. “Last night, you implied I was being nice to you because of your father.”

  “That’s the way it feels. Before, I wasn’t good enough to look at your house. Now I’m in it.”

  “It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t want you in my house because I never allow women I’m dealing with in my house. It’s not a rule that applies only to you.”

  “Yet, here I am.”

  “Yes. Here you are.”

  “And you’re dealing with me.”

  I take another sip of coffee, feeling out her mood. She seems to be a bit on the grouchy side this morning. Nothing I can’t handle. Her lips, on the other hand, are a different story. They look extra delicious this morning. Her face, smooth. I’ve never touched it but I know it’s smoother than porcelain. Her eyes are wide and attentive. Her lashes are thick and full.

  She takes a sip of water. Licks her lips. My fingers twitch. I’m anxious to touch her – any part of her.

  “Are you in an argumentative mood this morning, Shiloh?” I ask.

  “No. I’m just saying...some things you do doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Then allow me to explain. I wanted you here because I know what you’re going through and I feel like we can help each other. I lost my wife. I lost my son. You lost your father. It’s a different kind of loss, but it’s still the loss of someone you loved. I haven’t been able to get over my family’s death and it’s been five years.”

  “Five years?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you cope?”

  “By avoiding it as much as possible. I work. Run. The more I involve myself with something, the easier it is not to think about how much I’ve lost.”

  She nods. “That’s how I feel about my father. It’s why I was at work yesterday. I thought I could work it off, you know. When I’m at his house, I’m cleaning nonstop—making sure the house is tidy. I still can’t bring myself to go into his bedroom, by the way. I don’t know if or when that’ll change.”

  She rubs her fingertips
along the grooves of the wooden table. My eyes follow the trails she makes.

  “Did you find it difficult to get rid of your family’s things after—or maybe the question should be, did you get rid of anything?”

  “I did. It took two years. I was holding on to everything like I thought they were coming back. My therapist told me how unhealthy it was, so I decided to donate everything.”

  “I see.”

  She stretches her arms up in the air and her chest pokes out. I try not to stare, but I can’t help myself. Her breasts are round and perfect, sitting nicely in the white shirt she has on.

  She lowers her arms and asks, “Is that why you want to have a baby? To replace the child you lost?”

  “I don’t see it as a replacement. I’ve always wanted children—”

  “So why not fall in love again, get married and have one the normal way instead of—you know—what you did with me?”

  “I don’t want to fall in love again.”

  “But you want a child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I want a part of me here when I leave this earth. I want to leave behind somebody who’s attached to me. Someone who’d acquire my entire empire.”

  “Why’s that so urgent?” she inquires.

  “I never said it was urgent.”

  “Your actions said it was. You were willing to marry me quickly to get the ball rolling on your plan.”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “And we’ll need to address that at some point,” she says.

  “We’ll need to address what, exactly? Be more specific when you speak.”

  “The marriage. I think an annulment is the best option.”

  A smile settles on my face. This particular one is slightly cocky. It’s the kind of smile I give to engineers when they tell me they won’t be able to make a component I need for a prototype.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asks.

  “Because that’s not going to happen.”

  “Be more specific when you speak,” she says out of spite. “What’s not going to happen? The annulment?”

  “Yes, Shiloh. I have no plans to let you go.”

  “But I gave you everything back.”

  “I understand that.”

  She frowns. Pouts. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, I’m not releasing you into the arms of another man when I haven’t quite figured out what I want to do with you yet.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I know that sounds selfish, but it’s where I am.” I finish my coffee while she sits there in shock.

  “Are you—did you—do you hear what you’re saying?”

  “Of course I do,” I say standing. “I’m headed to the office for a few. When I get back, we’ll talk. Go upstairs and get changed. Lucille is taking you shopping today.”

  “Get changed into what?” she asks. She looks down at herself and says, “These are the clothes I came here with.”

  “I put some clothes on your bed before I came downstairs.”

  “You—”

  “I ran out last night and bought you an outfit. I don’t know what your exact tastes are in clothes, but I did the best I could. Lucille has my card. Get yourself some clothes.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t say you don’t need any because you do,” I say interrupting her yet again. “Get all you want. I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll see you later.”

  I take a few steps away, waiting for a response then stop and ask, “Did you hear me?”

  She looks up, still confused but says, “Yes. I heard you.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Shiloh

  I’m not releasing you into the arms of another man when I haven’t quite figured out what I want to do with you yet.

  I haven’t had time to process what that means. The statement sounded arrogant and cocky, yet there was some feeling behind it. There’s feeling behind everything he’s done for me. The man who said he didn’t want to get too close not only invites me to his castle but buys me clothes. Puts me up in one of his exquisite rooms and allows me to spend the night. He helped me make all the arrangements for Papa. Now, he hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with me yet. Perhaps he was telling the truth at the restaurant when he said we could help each other. He needs me more than he leads on. Why else would he have allowed me to come into his home?

  While I’m out riding with Lucille, Shelby calls to offer her condolences. She doesn’t stay on the phone long. We don’t have that kind of relationship. Her message is short and businesslike. I get the feeling she had her secretary put a call-your-half-sister reminder on her calendar and when it popped up, she called. She’s emotionless and unsympathetic but she called. Said she’s sorry for my loss. My loss is not her loss since we share the same mother – not the same father. She’s not close enough to me to be empathetic.

  Back to Lucille…

  It takes us nearly forty-five minutes to get to Southpark Mall, a drive that should’ve only taken fifteen or twenty. Lucille was literally talking my ears off – going on and on about how I’m different and special when it came to Magnus. Said he’d never treated any woman like that for as long as she could remember – except for Nicoletta, of course.

  Walking through the mall, she’s steering me toward high-end retail – the stores where a plain T-shirt costs eighty-five bucks and low-end sterling silver earrings cost more than most people pay for their mortgage.

  She takes me to Macy’s where I smell Magnus’ scent like he’s somewhere lurking around in here. My stomach immediately tightens. The man has me under a spell.

  I follow my nose to the cologne counter and pick up a bottle of purple-tinted, Yves Saint Laurent. I take a long whiff of it – smells like Magnus. Now, I know the source of his smell, but while the cologne smells good as is, there’s something about him wearing it that makes it smell even better.

  “Girl, you better get you some nice rags,” Lucille says. “Magnus is very generous and you know he has it. You could blow twenty grand in here today and it wouldn’t put a dent in his account.”

  “That’s probably true, but I’m not a name-brand kind of girl,” I tell her. The outfit I have on now – the one Magnus bought – looks simple. It’s a black blouse and a pair of blue jeans but the price tag on the blouse said $129 and the jeans cost nearly two-hundred dollars. Two-hundred dollars for some freakin’ jeans…for that price, they better be self-washing and capable of folding themselves.

  Lucille’s plowing through racks like she’s the one on a shopping spree. “What size do you wear, hun?”

  “Pants, size ten. Shirts, medium.”

  “Medium? You can fit those coconuts in a medium?” she asks looking at my breasts.

  “Yep. That’s my size.”

  “Okay. I’ll help you pick out some things to try on.”

  “Okay,” I say. I’m not the least bit enthusiastic about this.

  We leave the mall with about ten pairs of jeans and pants – nearly the same amount of shirts and sweaters. On the way out of the mall, I run into a bookstore for the sole purpose of buying something for Magnus.

  “You’re into books, Shiloh?” Lucille asks.

  “Not so much, but Magnus is. Maybe I’ll find something that might interest him.”

  “That’s not a good idea. Magnus doesn’t accept gifts from anyone.”

  “That’s because no one gives him anything because they think he has everything,” I tell her.

  “No. He just doesn’t—”

  “He’ll like this,” I say picking up a bookend. It’s metal, stone-gray and heavy, shaped like Superman pushing books that’ll be resting against it. Cute. “I think it will go well in his office.”

  Lucille raises her brows. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  Lucille, AKA Driving Miss Daisy is doing well under the speed limit on the way home, still excited about Magnus’ supposed change of heart
.

  “I’m telling you, girl—you the one. He sees something in you. And speaking of something in you, you pregnant yet?”

  “No. I told Magnus I couldn’t do that anymore.”

  “I thought you had already.”

  I look at her sideways. “How do you know?”

  “Honey, I know things. I’ma leave it at that.”

  “Yeah, we—uh—we tried once. And it was cold. And awkward. And no, I’m not pregnant.”

  “You probably are. It’s hard to tell during the early stage.”

  “Okay, excuse my frankness but are you nuts? You don’t seem at all bothered by this. By what he’s done. What we’ve done. Aren’t you supposed to talk about how weird this all is and how people back in your day had more morals and respect about themselves.”

  She cackles and accidentally swerves into the right lane. Some guy in a black pickup lays on the horn and flips her off. She’s unbothered by it. Actually, I don’t even think she knows what’s happening.

  “Honey, look, I ain’t here to judge nobody. I’ma leave that to the man above. I’m just excited because Magnus has you. He’s starting to come around. Loosen up more. Can’t you see the change in him?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know him as well as you do.”

  “Just know he likes you and he ain’t gon’ let you leave that house. You can mark my word on that.”

  “This morning when he was in the kitchen drinking his coffee and eating my oatmeal, I told him we should get an annulment and he laughed at me. Then he proceeded to say he wasn’t willing to let me go so somebody else could take me away from him or something. To be honest with you, I’m not sure what Magnus wants. I don’t think he knows what he wants.”

  “I know what he wants,” Lucille says. She flicks on the turn signal. Takes a right.

  “What’s that?”

  “He wants love. He needs it. He can’t function without it.”

  “He’s been doing fine so far.”

  “From what your eyes can see, yes. What your eyes don’t see is all the damage to his soul. Or the fact that he’s contemplated suicide, probably still is contemplating it for all I know.”