Magnus Page 20

  Suicide? Magnus St. Claire? Ain’t no way someone as well put together, as perfect, as punctual and as carefree as Magnus has ever contemplated suicide. Still, the mention of it has me worried. “How do you know he’s contemplated suicide?” I ask, seeking proof.

  “He used to write about it. I was cleaning up one day a few years ago and found some of his journals. Read some of his notes. Don’t mention it to him. He’d probably fire me if he knew I saw them.”

  “What did the notes say?” I ask as she’s turning into the driveway. After the long drive back, she parks out front, shuts off the car and says, “I’ll tell you real quick then we got to get out of the car before he suspects anything.”

  “He’s at work right now.”

  “I bet you any money he’s home—home early because he knows you’re around.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s only 4:17 p.m. Magnus usually works later than that.

  “So, listen—the notes said something to the effect of wanting to have a baby before he died. I could be wrong, but it came across as if he’d be okay with dying as long as he left a child behind.”

  “So, that’s why he wants a baby so badly?”

  She shrugs. “That’s what my gut tells me. If that’s his plan, you have to steer him away from that.”

  “How am I supposed to do that, Lucille? I—”

  “Easy,” she chimes in. “By loving him.”

  “But—but that’s not what he wants from me.”

  “It’s what he needs.”

  “See, now you’re contradicting yourself. The very first day you met me, the day you brought that potato soup, you told me to separate my heart from this.”

  “That was before I realized he’s taken a liking to you. Now, I see—you’re what he needs.”

  “I don’t know, Lucille. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I’m not trying to get my heart broken by a man who’s incapable of feeling anything for anyone. He told me to my face he would never love me.”

  “He also said you weren’t allowed inside his house.”

  She has a point there, but still my mind is warning me to tread carefully with him.

  “Come on. Let’s get out.”

  We emerge from the car, grabbing bags from the backseat and as we’re walking to the door, I see Magnus standing at the top of the stairs in a king-of-the-castle pose. His house is big enough to be labeled a castle. And he’s high in society enough to be labeled a king. His hands are in his pockets. He’s as still as a statue. A powerhouse of a man, still dressed in his suit. I can’t imagine he’d ever do anything to harm himself, but Lucille can’t be making this stuff up, can she?

  “Was she on her best behavior, Lucille?” he asks with a straight face as we’re coming up the stairs.

  “I’m always on my best behavior,” I say. “Tell him, Lucille.”

  Lucille chuckles. “Yes, she was. I did have to make her buy stuff, though.”

  “Is that right?” He’s looking at me when he asks the question.

  “I told you I didn’t like to shop,” I say coming to my own defense.

  He walks to the door and opens it for us. I feel his energy when I’m close to him. Good energy. He’s in a good mood, I think…

  Stepping into the house, I smell food. “What’s cooking?” I ask.

  “I have a chef over preparing dinner for us,” he answers. “Lucille, you’re welcome to stay if you would like. Otherwise, you can leave early today.”

  “I’ll leave early. I have some errands to run, anyway.” She winks at me after apparently telling Magnus a lie. She has no errands. It’s all a part of her plan to get me and Magnus alone.

  She leaves all of my bags on the floor in the foyer then she’s out the door.

  Magnus looks at the bags on the floor and the bags in my hand. “I’ll take these upstairs for you.”

  “Why don’t you get the bags on the floor? I already got the ones in my hand.”

  “As you wish,” he tells me.

  I narrow my eyes at his response then begin up the set of intimidating stairs. He puts the bags on my bed, the same place where I dropped the bags I had.

  “Meet me in the dining room at 6:30 for dinner. Don’t be late.”

  “What if I’m not hungry?”

  “Then you can watch me eat. Six-thirty,” he says, then closes the door to my bedroom.

  I glance at the clock. It’s 5:32. It sit on the bed, relieved after being done with shopping. I can officially attest to the fact that retail therapy doesn’t work for everyone. I got all these clothes and one body. Half of this mess I’ll probably never wear.

  It’s 6:15 when I descend the stairs. I watch the chef remove a deep-dish pizza from the oven. I wasn’t hungry before, but now I am.

  On the table, there’s a salad. It’s a simple dinner. I like simple. I can do simple. Magnus is getting to know me after all. Unfortunately, there’s nothing simple about him.

  Speaking of Magnus, he walks into the kitchen from the opposite entrance of the way I initially came in. I can see him clearly from the dining room. He’s still rocking the gray suit he had on earlier. Still just as fly.

  He’s talking to the chef, says something funny obviously because they’re both laughing. He glances up at me with the smile still on his face. He’d been to the barber today. His hair is edged up and so is his beard. And it’s trimmed along with his mustache. Looks good. Too good. My goodness…

  I quickly look away from all that handsomeness before he reads too much into it. And now he’s walking over to me with a glass. Looks like pink lemonade.

  “Hi,” he says as he enters the dining room.

  “Hi.”

  He sets the glass on the table directly in front of me. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Taste.”

  I take a sip. “Strawberry-lemonade?”

  “Yes. The chef makes it from scratch. How is it?”

  “It’s delicious,” I say, then quickly take another sip. There’s a huge strawberry and mint leaves as garnishment in the glass. It’s amazing. I’ve never tasted lemonade so good. If this is any indication of the chef’s cooking skills, that pizza is going to be off the hook.

  “Why do you still have on a suit?”

  He shrugs, pulls out a chair across from me and takes a seat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in here for dinner,” he says, ignoring my question.

  “You didn’t hear what I asked you?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Then—?”

  “I’m wearing the suit because I didn’t feel like changing.”

  “You don’t like getting comfortable as soon as you get home from work?”

  “The suit doesn’t bother me. I wear them every day—”

  “Except on weekends,” I interrupt him to add.

  “Yes, Shiloh. Except weekends. As I was saying, it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to wearing them.” He takes off his suit jacket and lays it on the backrest of the chair next to him. Then he removes his cufflinks and puts them in one of the pockets on the jacket.

  The chef, acting also as a waiter, brings a big bowl of salad and two salad plates with our eating utensils and dressing. Once we’ve had a serving of salad, the pizza follows, then the chef leaves the house.

  Now we’re alone.

  Lo and Mag.

  I take a bite of deep-dish cheesiness and my taste buds go crazy at the blend of sauce, cheese, the real Italian sausage, pepperoni, ham and mushrooms all converging into flavors that have me eating fast so I can get more. I stuff my mouth with another bite, chewing like I hadn’t eaten in days. I glance up at Magnus hoping he’s not looking at me but he is – looking like I’m his entertainment for the evening.

  He smirks and resumes eating.

  “What?” I ask with a heaping mouthful.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. Your face is saying it for you.”

  He drinks lemonade. A
fter setting the glass on the table, he asks, “What is my face saying?”

  “That you can’t stand the way I eat.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking. I’m honestly glad to see you eating.”

  “Oh.” I take another bite. The flavors take over again. I think I even hear myself moan.

  “So, how do you feel?” he asks.

  “I feel fine.”

  “I mean with your father and all. Let’s talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t.”

  “Trust me, it’ll do you a lot of good to get certain things off of your chest.”

  “That’s probably true, but I don’t feel like sobbing like a baby right now, so I—I just want to eat. Can’t I enjoy my food for once without feeling like I’m about to puke?”

  He eats. Doesn’t answer me. He resumes eating. When he realizes I’m stuffed, he picks up right where he left off when he says, “Talk to me.”

  I know what he’s asking although he’s not being specific so I use it to my advantage. I say, “It ended up being a nice day today, didn’t it? I mean, it was cold, but the sun was shining and—”

  “About your father, Shiloh.”

  I glare at him. “Why?”

  “That’s why I brought you here. We need to talk.”

  “Why?” I ask, raising my voice.

  “So you don’t end up on the floor at a restaurant having a nervous breakdown again. We can address all of this now—right now. That way, you’ll be better prepared to handle it.”

  “You’re not a doctor.”

  “No, I’m not, but I’m experienced in grief, pain and heartache nonetheless. I know what it does to you—what it will do to you if you don’t get a handle on it. All I’m asking you to do is talk to me. Get some things off of your chest.”

  He’s staring at me like he’s craving my words more so than I craved the slice of pizza I just ate. It’s almost like he needs this more than I do.

  “Okay,” I say, deciding to give him what he wants. “Um—I think about him all the time. In my head, I replay conversations between him and I. I think about how I could’ve done things differently. How I could’ve done more to—to take care of him.”

  “What more could you have done? You lived with him. You waited on him hand and foot.”

  “I know but it never feels like enough. My parents raised me. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but they did the best they could. My mother—she didn’t get to see me graduate from high school—” I take a moment to breathe and say, “She taught me so much. I wanted to make her proud in everything I did. Taking care of my father was my number one concern. I just pray she knows that I—” I blink away tears. “I did the best I could.”

  I thread my fingers together, close my eyes and rest my forehead on my hands.

  “You should take comfort in knowing you did that, Shiloh.”

  “I should, but I don’t. I’m haunted by my relationship with him.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just—there’s—” I breathe and try to put thoughts into words.

  “Take your time,” he tells me.

  “Okay.” I take a napkin and wipe the corners of my eyes.

  “Do you mind if I sit next to you?” he asks.

  I stop rubbing my eyes to see that he’s already standing before I answer him. He walks around the table, sits in the chair beside me then looks on. Looks at me.

  I look at him.

  I look at him and lose my thoughts. I remember what Lucille has told me about Magnus. He’s battling his own demons. He’s still coming to terms with the loss of his family. Yet, he’s interested in my feelings – my loss – when he’s lost so much.

  I look at him again.

  Since she told me about his journals, I think no less of him. I still see him as a man. A strong one. An intelligent one. One who can easily be taken as arrogant and self-righteous to those who don’t know him. In getting to know him, I recognize he’s a lot like me.

  Broken.

  Broken with no idea of how to put the pieces back together. The only difference is, I’m literally broke and he’s swimming in billions. But we’re one and the same. Take the money out of the equation and he’s my equal.

  “Shiloh.”

  “Sorry. I was drifting off into my thoughts.”

  “That’s okay.” He rests his left elbow on the table and rotates his body toward me. His hand is so close to my arm, I think he might touch me. If that was his plan, he quickly changed his mind.

  I’m nervous, but I find enough courage to say, “About a month ago, around the same time I met you—actually, I think it was the same day you introduced yourself to me at the bistro—I got home and found the house in bad shape. The day before, I’d cleaned the place from top to bottom and let me tell you—it was an all-day job. All day. I had a bucket of Lysol-water, sponges, the broom, mop, I had on those yellow gloves—I went all in. The day after, the house was a wreck. Looked like Papa messed it up intentionally. I know he didn’t, but that’s the way it looked. There were clothes scattered all over the living room, on the couch, chairs—everywhere. And the kitchen—no exaggeration—this man toasted an entire loaf of bread, two pieces at a time. Burnt toast was all over the counter and, on the floor. There were even a few pieces that looked like he tried to use a knife to scrape off the burnt part and those little bits of burned bread were on and the countertops. And then there was peanut butter left open and globs of jelly on the floor—it was a mess. After a long day of people yelling at me at the bistro for getting their orders wrong and then running into a guy who insisted I was going to have his baby, hint-hint, I was already stressed out. So when I saw the condition of the house, I snapped. I couldn’t believe he did that. It wasn’t a big deal to him because he knew I’d clean it all back up, anyway. Now, when I think about that incident, I remember how much he loved mornings with my mom. She’d always make him toast and they’d sit and have coffee together whenever they could before they left for work. All he wanted was some toast that day. He toasted the whole loaf and he couldn’t get it quite right like my mom used to make for him. And I was mad because the kitchen was all messed up. Instead of trying to comfort him, I was mad and all he wanted was some toast.” I hear my voice crack. Tears roll down my face. “All he wanted was some toast and I was concerned about the stupid kitchen when now, right now, right at this moment, I’ll give anything to see Papa make a whole loaf of burnt toast. But he’s gone, Magnus. My papa’s gone.”

  I lean forward and hide my pain behind my hands. I don’t know how he’s able to do it so quickly but Magnus moves my chair and scoops me into his lap, holding me like a baby he’s rocking to sleep.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he says. I feel his warm, strong hand rest at the nape of my neck. In my sadness, I’m confused by his actions. I don’t know why he’s holding me after telling me he wouldn’t touch me. Maybe it’s the grief. He showered me with the same level of comfort during the week of Papa’s funeral. I’m grateful for all the comfort I can get.

  “How do you know that, Magnus?” I ask in tears. “How do you know it’s going to be okay, or are you just saying what everybody else says? It’s going to be okay. I don’t feel okay. I feel like I’m existing with no purpose. The people who created my life are dead. Do you know how empty that makes me feel?”

  “I have a clue. I grew up in foster care. I never knew my parents, but I don’t want to compare my situation to yours and I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I know you’ll get through this. What’s the alternative, Shiloh? The sad reality is, life goes on and it’ll go on whether we’re ready for it to or not.”

  “I’m not ready.” Still on his lap, I sit up and look at him. My eyes outline his beard. His lips. “You know what I want to do? I want to go home and hide. I should be allowed to be miserable.”

  “That’s not good for you.”

  “I
know, but I don’t care. It’s all a part of the grieving process, right?”

  “Shiloh—”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t shut down when you lost your wife and son?” I sniffle and wipe my eyes with the bend of my thumb.

  “I did. That’s why I can tell you from experience—it’s not good for you to be miserable. Grieving alone will only put dark thoughts in your head and before you know it, you’ll find yourself in a place you’ve never been.”

  “How do you avoid getting to that place?”

  “That’s the tricky part. I’m not sure how to do that exactly. Focusing on work helps. And then I do something Nicoletta was passionate about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Helping the less fortunate.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes. In fact, I’m scheduled for an event tomorrow afternoon and I would like it very much if you came with me.”

  I’m smiling when I respond, “Are you—are you serious?”

  “Yes, Shiloh. I’m serious.”

  “I would love that.”

  “Good.”

  My tears have since dried up. We lock eyes. Our souls are in sync. All isn’t right with the world but I’ll take what I can get.

  “I’m going to go lie down. It’s been a long day.”

  “That’s a good idea,” he says, but his arms are converging and tightening around my waist.

  “Are you going to let me go, or do you plan on taking me upstairs?”

  “Depends on what you want? Do you want me to take you upstairs?”

  “No.” I grab him by the wrists – feels weird grabbing him this way after he laid out his rules – but he’s in a playful mood today. A comforting one. He’s not mean-Magnus. He’s the Magnus with a heart – one that’s not cold-hearted. I unlock his hands from around me only because he’d loosened them already. I stand up in front of him and say, “Thank you.”

  “For what?” he asks, his eyes drifting from my eyes to my lips.

  “For helping me through this. I know you don’t have to and I want you to know I truly appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Shiloh, now go and rest. If you need me, call.”