The Mistress
Page 89

“It belongs to whomever Wes marries someday.”
“Not you?”
“Not... Jesus, can you flip me on my back or something? I’m going to suffocate on this damn carpet.”
“Of course.” Marie-Laure stood up, put her foot on Nora’s hip and pushed.
“Better.” Nora scooted into a sitting position. Her hands were cuffed in front but the ropes encircled her arms and ankles. She felt half-mummified. She started to stretch out her legs but another rope tightened around her neck. “Oh, that’s lovely. Choke collar. I’m good at those, too.”
In addition to the rope, the tape and the cuffs, someone, Damon probably, had tied the rope around her neck. If she stretched out her legs, she’d choke herself.
“So am I,” Damon said. “I also have very good aim.”
“So does Søren. Oh, you were talking guns.”
Marie-Laure knelt down again.
“You...I’m starting to think you aren’t even a person. Just an animal with an animal’s appetites.”
“At least I’m housebroken. Usually.”
“At the very least. I can’t believe someone like you who makes these kinds of disgusting jokes all the time is even capable of something as complicated as love. You seem like some kind of rutting beast.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Nora knew she was asking for it. But if she died today, she would at least die with her sense of humor intact. She would try to die with her dignity intact but she wasn’t entirely sure she ever had any.
“I want to find out something. Indulge me.”
“Milk bath? Chocolates? Massage?”
“Another story. A short story this time.”
Nora sighed heavily. “Fine. Whatever. What do you want? I can tell you about the time Søren and I spent two nights at this great B & B owned by one of our freak friends. Søren beat me, he f**ked me, we went for long walks on the beach in the middle of the night. The end.”
“Not good enough.”
“Yeah, it needs more sex, doesn’t it? Story of my life.”
“What I want is a very specific story...about this.”
Marie-Laure reached into the pocket of her black robe and pulled out a square of white linen. Nora recognized it immediately.
“No...no. Fuck, you were in my house, weren’t you?” She stared at the linen, aching at the very sight of it.
“I was. Spent a little time in your closet. We made a wonderful mess. It was a bit silly and melodramatic of us. I couldn’t help myself. My only real interest was in seeing the things you hide, the things you cherish. I found this scrap of linen in a locked metal box. When I saw the box I thought, Oh this is where she keeps her most precious possessions—diamonds, pearls, secret papers.... But no. Only this. Tell me what it is. Tell me a story.”
Nora couldn’t even look at Marie-Laure, only at the white linen cloth in her hand.
“Once upon a time...” Nora began, her voice quivering under the words. “A great and fair lady whose heart was made of music and who had given birth to a great and fair son...died.”
* * *
The phone call came late at night and from her hotline. Not even Kingsley called that late, not unless it was an emergency. When Nora answered and heard Søren’s voice saying her name, she already knew what happened.
“Your mom?”
“An hour ago,” he said. “Freyja called.”
“Call your sister back,” Nora said. “I’ll make the flights. I’ll handle it all.”
“Flights? You’re coming?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that.”
“Thank you, Little One.”
Nora hadn’t even been able to speak at that point. She nodded even though he couldn’t see her, wiped the tears off her face and managed only to choke out the words, “I’ll be right over.”
She’d packed in a hurry, focusing on the little mundane tasks one always focused on in times of grief. She’d need clothes for the funeral, for the wake afterward. She needed to call Kingsley and tell him to cancel her appointments this week. She’d call her editor from the airport and let her know that the book would be a week late due to a family emergency that would take her out of the country.
Into her suitcase went her shoes, clothes, makeup, toothbrush, the full-length, rather conservative gray silk robe she wore only when staying with Søren’s family in Denmark. When alone with Søren, she always slept naked so she needed something to put on for nighttime trips to the bathroom. Right before she left the house to go to the rectory, she stopped, remembering something she knew she shouldn’t forget. For almost a full minute she stood at the front door debating whether or not to take it with her. Had she not left Søren three years ago, it wouldn’t have even crossed her mind. But she had left him and ever since the square of linen in the closet had taunted her, whispered at her, told her that it didn’t belong to her anymore.
She decided to take it with her and let Søren decide.
When she arrived at the rectory, she found Søren sitting in the armchair by the fireplace staring into the fire. He had on pants and a shirt. He hadn’t buttoned the shirt yet and his bare chest glowed in the firelight as if it burned from within him. She came to him and knelt at his feet, resting her head on his lap. The moment she felt his fingers twining through her hair, the tears started to flow.