“Mmmm,” she moaned very softly. Just a low breathy sound that told me a lot about her true feelings regarding the blindfold. I wouldn’t forget.
“Your surprise,” I said, pulling the scarf away.
She blinked up at the portrait of herself, silently observing. I wondered if she saw it as I did. The mile-long legs pointing straight up with crossed ankles, the arm shielding her br**sts, the strategically splayed fingers between her legs, hair spread out on the floor to the side.
The same image Tom Bennett had sent along in an email to me, when he asked for my help in keeping his daughter safe. The captivating photograph of her I’d seen in the gallery the night I met her, and bought on impulse, not knowing the gallery required six months of display before they would release it me. The portrait of my beautiful American girl—now in my sole possession.
Utterly breathtaking.
“You finally have it.” Her voice was low and soft as she studied the huge canvas taking up the dominant wall in my office study at Stonewell.
“I do indeed.”
“Having this picture of me really means a great deal to you, Ethan.” She leaned her body into mine as we both looked at the image.
“Oh, yes it does.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Well, this image was the first part of you my eyes ever looked upon. I saw this picture and knew I had to have it. It was just a defining moment I can’t really explain properly, but one I understand perfectly.”
I rubbed up and down her arms slowly, dropping my lips down to the base of her neck. I flicked my tongue out for a taste of her skin, loving how she tilted and exposed her neck for me. So generous all the time, she never ceased to amaze me.
“I had never met a collector before that night I met you,” she said wistfully. “The idea that you’d bought my portrait, and then were meeting me in person…was a very defining moment for me, too. That night—you standing there in your dark grey suit—the way you looked at me from across the room—was something I will never forget as long as I live.”
Her words shot straight to the center of me. “I couldn’t forget that moment even if I tried, Brynne. It’s seared into my memory.”
“Why, Ethan?”
“Come here.” I turned her so I could look into those beautiful brown-green-grey eyes of hers and rubbed my thumbs over her cheekbones. “I couldn’t forget you that night because when I saw you in person for the first time…it was the moment I came alive again.”
Her eyes got the glassy look in them. When she feels a great deal of emotion I see it in her, so I knew my words were something meaningful to her. They were true. Seeing Brynne that first time…brought me back to life somehow, some way, and none of it was planned or expected. It just happened that way.
“It’s true. You made me want to live, at a time when I knew I’d never really thought about, or cared much about, what the future held,” I repeated.
“I love you, Ethan.”
“I love you more, my beauty.”
Her expression changed from emotion to something else. Something just as wonderful in my opinion—a sultry, I-want-you look.
“So, you said something about plans to keep my mouth busy,” she hummed in a low voice, her eyes darkening as the lids lowered slightly.
“Are you offering, baby?” I managed to ask without my voice cracking too badly.
She dropped to her knees on the thick Oriental carpet beneath us, and gave me the most excellent response. With her equally excellent and very busy mouth.
“BRYNNE, my darling, you are to be congratulated for an outstanding meal. To Thanksgiving,” my dad toasted enthusiastically with his glass of wine, “which I say is a lovely idea that I think we should repeat every year. Make it a tradition for this family.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, Jonathan,” Marie began. “Yes, my sweet Brynne, it was so lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed an American Thanksgiving meal as you’ve prepared it with the yams and the cranberry sauce. Fetches back some really happy memories for me. I am so glad you decided to bring Thanksgiving to us, and I would love to make it our new tradition, as Jonathan said.” She glanced over at my dad with a look of total devotion.
I knew Brynne’s great aunt was half American by birth, but had spent all of her adult life in England. Marie had also caught the eye of my father. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on between the two of them, but I had a pretty good idea. I’d know after tonight for sure, depending on what rooms they used or didn’t use for sleeping.
Everyone went ’round the table in turn, giving their toasts and acknowledging my girl for her efforts, as they should. Even Zara gave her sincere appreciation for the pumpkin pie, which reminded her a bit of gingerbread but much “squishier.”
Brynne thanked them all for coming to share it with us, blushing under their praise, so graceful and humble. She was an accomplished cook, but this I already knew. She had been cooking for me as soon as we’d gotten together and I just chalked it up to my tremendous capacity for luck in getting a girl who was good at everything she did.
There were two areas of my life when I’d been blessed with luck. One of them was at cards—for a time—until I left it behind me. The other was in finding her. And that gift was for forever—until I drew my last breath.
“I have a toast,” I said, raising my glass. Looking at all the faces of my family and our friends who’d come to be with us, and share in a celebration of thanks together, it all felt very fitting.
I realized thankfulness was my truth for the first time.
“To my beautiful American girl, for reminding us all to be thankful.” I put my eyes solely on her. “But mostly me…because she’s helped me to see all of the blessings in my life I didn’t notice before. She’s the reason I have anything at all to be thankful for.” I spoke the truth out loud for everyone to hear. “She is my thanksgiving.”
Part Three
WINTER
As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms
Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?
For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt
Mumford & Sons ~Winter Winds
CHAPTER 13
13th December
London
I texted Ethan and wondered if he’d make it before my name was called by Dr. Burnsley’s receptionist. It wasn’t like him to miss a prenatal check-up. In truth, Ethan was probably more into all the details than me. He spent more time on the website and reading the book than I did, for sure. He was always telling me little snippets and factoids he learned from his research, about how our baby was doing and the developmental stages. I teased him relentlessly about being a super nerd who knew “everything about birthin’ babies”—to quote Prissy from Gone With the Wind—and as long as he was the expert he could just give me all the info, saving me the work of looking it up on my own.