Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1) (26 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Truce

I could lie here all day looking at a sleeping Aiden. His parted lips, the long lashes brushing his cheekbones, the sculpted jaw. But the urge to touch him is so compulsive that I slip out of bed one inch at a time and tiptoe around the bedroom, tidying up. As I gather Powell’s books from the floor—Byron, Neruda, Dickinson, Brontë—I stifle a gasp, realizing what they have in common. Except Byron, they’re the books we never got a chance to sign together on our second night.

I flip through the pages, and there it is: his signature on pages eight, twenty-four and eleven. He signed them all. I caress his autograph, smiling at the difference a night can make. From numbered hours, we went to what? Numbered days?

The books almost cascade from my arms as I sink into his chair. In the rare moments I allow myself these thoughts, my knees inevitably give out and the questions tear through me for five periodic tables.

What if I still have to leave? Or just as awful, what if I can stay but not with him? He said he’ll try but what does that mean for someone like Aiden? How can he overpower his memory? And what happens when the doctor starts delving deep and Aiden has to talk? How long before he shuts down and quits? An image of his flexed jaw forms in my mind, as he mouths,
You’re not my health, you’re my pain
.

I leap to my feet. No! I must not think this way. He can do this. I
know
he can.

I set the books on the dresser and scurry into his closet. Against his suits—like every morning—hangs a new Margolis dress. This one is a simple gray sheath with tiny pearl buttons along the back. I search through the soft cotton, knowing that somewhere I’ll find the next lines of “She Walks in Beauty”. They’re inside the hem this time, embroidered in violet silk.

“The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I bring the hem to my lips and kiss it. And because that’s not crazy enough, I photograph it too. Then I skip to the restroom to get ready before the dress kisses me back.

Fifteen minutes later, my fingertips still itching to touch Aiden, I escape out on the patio to check in with Javier and Reagan.

The backyard is virgin, stretching into a meadow of wildflowers, blackberry shrubs, thistles and yellow-barked Ponderosas. Peaceful and untamed. As though it safeguards all tranquility missing from the man who owns it.

I start weaving through the knee-length grass. It will be easier to handle the call with Javier if I’m moving. But the moment I switch on Aiden’s phone, I trip on a giant fern.

His screensaver is a picture of me sleeping, lips pressed against his pillow. Bloody hell, that’s what I look like when I’m asleep? I pick myself up and tap Javier’s number, pretending I didn’t see the drool on my chin.

The longer Javier’s phone rings, the faster I roam and the less I hear the bluebirds chirping. How am I going to explain things to him? What if he hates Aiden now?

“Mr. Hale?” Javier finally picks up, his voice formal.

I almost collide with a pine this time. “Javier, it’s Isa.”

“Isa?” His voice warms. “You okay? Why are you calling from Hale’s phone?”

“Because you have mine from last night.”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot. It’s in the Honda, locked in the trunk.”

“I’m not worried about it. I just wanted to see how you are. And to say sorry about last night.” My voice drops to a whisper and I plop on the grass.

“Why are you apologizing? It wasn’t
your
fault.”

I split in half. I don’t know whom to protect. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Javier. Not yours or Reagan’s, not even Aiden’s, although he said some awful things. He’s terrified of anything happening to me and lashes out when he feels helpless.”

A long pause. I twist a fern frond, trying to draw in some air. “Yeah,” Javier says at last. “He’s something else.”

“I know but he means well. He’d never hurt anyone I love.” I leave out Aiden’s rant that he’d destroy anything that hurts me. He’d never break me that way.

“I don’t care about his threat, Isa. What’s he going to do that I’m not already in danger of? I’m more worried about you with him.”

“Don’t worry about me. I will take care of myself.”

A six-chemical-elements-long sigh. I picture him squinting his eyes, as he does when he visualizes the finished painting, not the sketch.

“You don’t hate him, do you?” I whisper, twisting the fern into knots.

“Oh, hell! No, I don’t hate him. Actually, after last night, I kind of get him a little more. He’s got issues—that’s true—but no dude freaks like that over a dress. Not unless he really cares about the girl.”

I smile because things sound so true when Javier tells them. The problem is Javier doesn’t know about PTSD and self-loathing men who will destroy themselves before allowing love in their lives.

“All right, stop reciting the periodic table or whatever you’re doing. We’ll figure it out. You’re still babysitting tonight?”

“Of course,” I say, even though it will mean a night away from Aiden.

“Thanks, sweetheart! I gotta go. This new villa won’t paint itself. Maria will wait for you with the girls. Now, you want someone who loves Hale, talk to her.”

I laugh, picturing him rolling his eyes. “See you later, Javier. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up, not wanting to delay him anymore than I already did. But as I start dialing Reagan, a text blitzes on the screen, followed almost instantly by three more.

Jazzman: Hale Storm, WTF? You’re coming if I have to drag you here dick first.

Callahan: Storm, Jazz is jizzing his pants. Told him about your woman. Fuck. Me.

Hendrix: Does she have three tits?

Callahan: Duh!

I don’t realize how hard I’m laughing until the bluebirds startle in the air out of a huckleberry bush.
Hale Storm?
It suits him. There’s no way I’m letting him miss this. Not even for my green card.

* * * * *

Three hours later, after scones with Cornish clotted cream and three more orgasms, Benson is whisking us away down the hill. Aiden throws his arm around my shoulders and tucks me to his side.

“So now that we’re in the car, will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask, relieved that I didn’t need to pack a suitcase.

“You’ll see.” He smiles, drawing circles on my knee.

“How long is your vacation?”

His arm tightens around me. “At least until June thirteenth.”

A shiver runs through me, having nothing to do with his touch. He kisses my temple but doesn’t say his usual “it’ll be okay”, “don’t worry”, “we’ll fix it”. He knows he can’t make that promise.

“Thank you for doing this for me,” I say, kissing his neck.

“It’s for me too…for us.”

I almost catapult out of the sunroof at the pronoun.
I love you
, I think at him and snap a picture. His phone buzzes in his jeans pocket for the nth time. I lost count after buzz number fifty-eight. He looks at it, smiles and thumbs a text. That reminds me.

“Aiden, I have a dark confession to make.”

“Oh? Did you say ‘fuck’ around some weeds?”

“No. I read your texts with the Marines.” I blush cadmium red.

He raises an eyebrow. No words.

“Umm, they popped up when I used your phone to call Javier. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry,” I mumble, looking down at the camera on my lap and wiping the spotless lens with my thumb.

He tips my chin up. I expected a clenched jaw or a deep V but instead, I see the dimple.

“Look,” he says, showing me the bright iPhone screen. There’s a text there. “Read it.” He nods in encouragement.

I skim the last bubble underneath the texts I saw this morning:

Aiden Hale: She’s perfect. Now fuck off.

“Apparently, I find your incorrigible urge to snoop endearing, Elisa. Believe me, no one is more shocked by that than I. But I guess it means you like me.”

I love you
. “I do.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Roots

The sight outside the Rover’s window is so familiar that it should not shock me. But it does.

We’re in front of the enormous trellis of the Rose Garden.

In broad daylight.

With people strolling the paths.

A chill seeps through my pores. I tear my eyes from a giggling little girl and look at Aiden. His shoulders are petrified, eyes cobalt blue.

“I told you I’d try,” he whispers. His fingers are digging into my waist.

“Aiden, baby, you don’t have to do this for me. We can just—”

He puts his finger on my lips. “Yes, I do. I have something planned for you. Besides, it’s Monday. It won’t be crowded.” He looks down as though he’s embarrassed. “I have to start somewhere, Elisa. I’d like it to be here.”

Tears spring in my eyes without warning. I kiss every part of him I can reach, even though Benson is right outside our door. Aiden chuckles with a shaky sound and restrains my hips.

“Tonight,” he promises. Then he takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Stay close to me,” he whispers.

“Always.”

The instant we are out of the Rover, I snake my arm around Aiden’s waist. How different his muscles feel from the last time we were here! They are pulled taut, twitching every few seconds. I almost decide we should go back home but something in his eyes stops me. They’re consuming the garden with a mix of hunger and challenge. The way we look at the water before we jump from a cliff. At that moment, I know he has to try this. Not for me, but for himself.

Something passes between him and Benson, and Benson takes his spot to Aiden’s right, but this time precisely three steps back. Good. His massive frame alone should ward off any passersby.

“Let’s go,” Aiden says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. His voice is determined, eager even. He doesn’t take the trellis stairs but leads us to the domed garden shop with its etched glass windows. We duck inside while Benson plants himself at the door.

Behind the birchwood counter is a plump woman with snow-white hair and a T-shirt printed with roses. She introduces herself as Patty.

“Hello, Patty. I’m Aiden Hale. I called earlier—”

“Ah, Mr. Hale!” she exclaims, clapping her hands. “One moment, sir, one moment.” She shuffles as fast as she can to the back.

I look at Aiden but he shrugs with a smile. Patty returns, carrying a full-grown English rose in a plastic green bucket. My hand flies to my mouth as I realize what we’re doing.

“Here she is, Mr. Hale. Pale pink English garden rose. The most beautiful one I could find.”

The rose is identical to the ones my mum spent endless hours loving. I feel Aiden’s gaze on me but I can’t look away.

“Thank you, Patty,” he says. “Will you give us a few moments, please?”

“Of course, sir,” I hear her say as I stare fixedly at the petals that look just like Clare’s skin. Aiden brushes my jawline with the backs of his fingers.

“I thought it was time your mother’s rose was here too,” he says.

I nod as the tears that started in the car spill over. He tilts my head up.

“Hey! Too much?”

“No. She’s perfect,” I whisper with the only volume I can manage, unsurprised that I cannot call the rose “it”. I’m no longer seeing a flower. I’m seeing my mother’s beauty, alive.

Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and I kiss him, not caring that we may be making poor Benson nauseous.

“Thank you. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He looks like he wants to do more than kiss but at that moment, a small boy about seven years old peeks out from the back door.

“Jack!” Patty admonishes from the inside and he scurries back.

“It’s all right, Jack, we’re ready,” Aiden says but he takes a few steps back, closer to the wall.

Patty waddles out, dragging a big sack of dirt, Jack behind her with a shovel.

“What will you name it, dear?” Patty asks.

“I get to name it?” I squeal in astonishment.

“Oh yes, we have a rose registry. You better pick a good one. It’ll be here a long time.”

There is only one name beautiful enough for this.

“Lady Clare.”

Aiden pulls me against him and kisses my hair. He knows I just gave my mother the title she could not have had in life. Patty scribbles it on a register while Jack looks at Aiden and squares his shoulders in imitation.

“Do you need help planting, Mr. Hale?” says Patty.

“No, thank you. We know the spot.”

He picks up the sack of dirt and hoists it over his shoulder. Jack hands him the shovel, standing straight like Aiden. Patty gives us some thick, green gloves, reeling off instructions on how to turn on the sprinklers.

“Benson? The rose, please,” Aiden says with a smirk. Benson smirks back but picks up the bucket. We troop out of the shop, Patty waving and telling us to come back for the Rose Festival.

“I think Jack wants to be you when he grows up,” I say to Aiden. He chuckles and takes the path to the Shakespeare Garden. I don’t let go of his ever-tense waist. Benson follows us, emanating stay-away vibes despite the rose he is carrying.

The Shakespeare Garden is empty except for an elderly couple with canes, sitting on a wrought-iron bench. We wait outside the rose hedges until they leave. Then, Benson plants himself under the arched entryway while we step inside.

Instantly, Aiden’s eyes lighten as he remembers the same thing I do. Our first night together.

“I thought this would be a good place for it,” he says.

“It is. It’s what I would have picked.”

“By centifolia or by
La France
?”

I know what he means. By Lady Cecilia or by me? “By
La France
.” I point.

He smiles brilliantly. “I agree but I want to know why.”

I shrug. “It makes sense, I suppose. Life with life, death with death.” My voice trails off. Would I ever have been able to make this choice if I had never met him?

For a few heartbeats, he says nothing. Then he grabs the shovel and starts digging. When I offer to help, he protests that I’ll ruin another dress. I ignore him and kneel by his side. For an immeasurable moment, we dig and scoop. I focus only on our gloved hands as they till the earth, the smell of dirt, roses and Aiden, and the vital sound of our breathing. His fingers work fast, eager, as though they are finding catharsis in movement. His shoulders are a bit more relaxed. He must sense my gaze because he looks up and smiles.

“Enjoying the show, Elisa?”

“Every molecule.”

We don’t stop until the hole is deep enough. Then, carefully, with the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth, Aiden lowers Lady Clare into the ground. We cover her roots—a handful of dirt from me, a handful from him. Until in the end, she blooms just like Mum did in life.

“Lady Clare, Genius Peter and Mona Isa,” Aiden whispers.

I absorb the sight he paints, the sight of family, absent and present in every way. “Now we need to plant something for you,” I say.

“How about a cactus?”

I laugh and flick a pinch of dirt at him. “You have little in common with cacti other than a nice prick.”

His booming laugh startles an Admiral butterfly across the garden. He scoops up some dirt and flicks it back at me. Our joined laughter is higher, louder, and for a moment, we’re Aiden and Elisa without pasts. Dirt flies everywhere—hair, clothes, faces—until Aiden tackles me on the grass, kissing me soundly on the mouth.

“Aiden! Benson is out there,” I whisper against his lips. “And people!”

He pulls back, the dimple higher and deeper than ever. “I know.”

Ah!
Exactly like he said this morning. I bring him back to my lips, wanting nothing else but to make his simple wish true.

“Gardening seems to have a very beneficial effect on you,” he muses, his shining eyes speculative.

“And on you.”

He sits up, hauling me over his lap. His hair is messy, bits of bark in the strands, his white shirt stained with dirt and grass. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“You know, Elisa, I have about ten acres of hill behind my house. I’ve never done anything with it. You seem to love gardening. Maybe it’s time you have your own piece of land to do it?”

My hand flies to my mouth but when I taste the dirt, I drop it. “My own land?”

He nods. “If you like. Whatever you want. It’s yours.”

I can’t speak but the tears in my eyes say it all. Even when I can finally form the words, they are whispers.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

His smile disappears and the faithful V cracks between his eyebrows. The tectonic plates shift so abruptly that I almost hear them rotate and lock.

“Come, Elisa.” His voice is low as he stands and lifts me to my feet.

Bloody hell!
What did I say? If he won’t accept even this, how will he ever accept that I love him?

He turns on the sprinkler by Lady Clare and wraps his arm around me in silence. He’s made of titanium again. We start strolling Shakespeare’s circle, retracing our first steps precisely. Floribunda,
La France
. With each step, his eyes are withdrawing. The brief respite his shoulders had while planting is over.

“Aiden, baby, what’s wrong? Should we go home?” I cup his face.

For an instant, I don’t think he will answer. But he pauses by centifolia where that first bloom has wilted and another is opening. Something breaks on his face. His forehead contorts and his jaw locks. He shuts his eyes, his hand clawing deep at my waist. Every muscle band is expanding and quivering. My heart starts pounding. What is this? What’s happening?

He opens his eyes. They’re no longer turquoise or even sapphire. They’re midnight blue.

“Elisa,” his voice is rough. “I think it’s time you know the truth.”