Taltos

And he was his old self again, philosophical but undefeated.

Finally he stood upright and picked up the glass and wiped it with an old white napkin.

“Ah, that’s one thing,” he said, “that is really nice about being rich.”

“What?”

“Having a linen napkin,” he said, “anytime you want it. And having linen handkerchiefs. Celia and Bea always have their linen handkerchiefs. My dad would never use a paper handkerchief. Hmmm. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

He winked at her. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. What a dope. But who the hell else could play off a wink like that with her? Nobody.

“You haven’t heard from Yuri, have you?” he asked.

“I would have told you,” she said dismally. It was agony to hear Yuri’s name.

“Have you told Aaron that you haven’t heard from him?”

“A hundred times, and three times this morning. Aaron hasn’t heard anything, either. He’s worried. But he’s not going back to Europe, no matter what happens. He’ll live out his days with us right here. He says to remember that Yuri is incredibly clever, like all the investigators of the Talamasca.”

“You do think something has happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said dully. “Maybe he just forgot about me.” It was too dreadful to contemplate, it couldn’t have been that way. But one had to face things, didn’t one? And Yuri was a man of the world.

Michael looked down into the drink. Maybe he would have the brains to see it was flat-out undrinkable. Instead he picked up a spoon and started to stir it.

“You know, Michael, that just may shock her out of her trance,” Mona said. “I mean, while she’s drinking it, right at that very moment, when half the glass is sliding down her throat, just tell her in a clear voice what’s in it.”

He chuckled, his deep-chested, fabulous chuckle. He picked up the jug of slop and poured a full, egregious glass of it.

“Come on, come out there with me. Come and see her.”

Mona hesitated. “Michael, I don’t want her to see both of us together, you know, standing side by side.”

“Use a little of your own witchcraft, honey. She knows I am her slave till the day I die.”

His expression changed again, very slowly. He was looking at her in a calm but almost cold fashion. And again there came over her a sense of how bereft he really was.

“Yeah, bereft,” he said, and there was something almost mean in his smile. He didn’t say anything more. He picked up the glass and went out the door.

“Let’s go talk to the lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s go read her mind together. Two heads, you know, and all that. Maybe we should do it again, Mona, on the grass, you know, you and me, and maybe she’d wake up.”

Mona was shocked. Did he mean that? No, that wasn’t the question. The question was, How could he say that?

She didn’t answer him, but she knew what he felt. Or at least she thought she did. On some level she knew she couldn’t really know, that things were painful for a man of his age in a different way from what they were for a young girl. She knew this in spite of so many people having told her this, more or less. It was a matter not of humility but logic.

She followed him out onto the flagstones and along the pool and then into the rear gates. His jeans were so tight, she could hardly stand it. His natural walk was a seductive swagger. This is nice, think sexy thoughts! No way! And his polo shirt wasn’t exactly loose-fitting either. She loved the way it moved over his shoulders and back.

Can’t stop it. She wished he hadn’t made that bitter little joke. Do it on the grass! An awful restlessness took hold of her. Men were always complaining about how the sight of sexy women aroused them. Well, with her it was words as well as images. His tight jeans, and the sharp images that had invaded her mind after what he’d said.

Rowan was seated at the table, the way she’d been when Mona left her; the lantana was still there, the sprigs scattered a little, as if the wind had stirred them with one finger and then let them alone.

Rowan was frowning slightly, as if weighing something in her mind. Now that was always a good sign, Mona thought, but she would get Michael’s hopes up if she talked about it. Rowan didn’t seem to know that they were there. She was still looking at the distant flowers, at the wall.

Michael bent to kiss her on the cheek. He set the glass on the table. There was no change in her, except the breeze caught a few strands of hair. Then he reached down and he lifted her right hand and he placed her fingers around the glass.

“Drink it, honey,” he said. He used the same tone he’d used to Mona, brusque and warm. Honey, honey, honey means Mona, Rowan, or Mary Jane, or any female being perhaps.

Would “honey” have been appropriate for the dead thing, buried in the hole with its father? Christ, if she had only laid eyes on one of them, for just a precious second! Yeah, and every Mayfair woman who laid eyes on him during his little rampage had paid with her life for it. Except Rowan….

Whoa! Rowan was lifting the glass. Mona watched with a fearful fascination as she drank without ever moving her eyes from the distant flowers. She did blink naturally and slowly as she swallowed, but that was all. And the frown remained. Small. Thoughtful.

Michael stood watching her, hands in his pockets, and then he did a surprising thing. He talked about her to Mona, as if Rowan couldn’t hear. This was the first time.

“When the doctor spoke to her, when he told her she should go in for tests, she just got up and walked off. It was like a person on a park bench in a big city. You’d think someone had sat down beside her, maybe too close to her. She was isolated like that, all alone.”

He collected the glass. It looked more disgusting than ever. But to tell the truth, Rowan looked like she would have drunk anything that he’d put in her hand.

Nothing registered on Rowan’s face.

“I could take her to the hospital for the tests, of course. She might go along. She’s done everything else I’ve wanted her to do.”

“Why don’t you?” asked Mona.

“Because when she gets up in the morning she puts on her nightgown and her robe. I’ve laid out real clothes for her. She doesn’t touch them. That’s my cue. She wants to be in her nightgown and her robe. She wants to be home.”

He was angry suddenly. His cheeks were red, and there was a frank twisting to his lips that said it all.

“The tests can’t help her anyway,” he continued. “All these vitamins, that’s the treatment. The tests would only tell us things. Maybe it’s none of our business now. The drink helps her.”

His voice was tightening. He was getting angrier and angrier as he looked at Rowan. He stopped speaking.

He bent down suddenly and set the glass on the table, and laid his hands flat on either side of it. He was trying to look Rowan in the eye. He drew close to her face, but there was no change in her.

“Rowan, please,” he whispered. “Come back!”

“Michael, don’t!”

“Why not, Mona? Rowan, I need you now. I need you!” He banged the table hard with both hands. Rowan flinched, but did not otherwise change. “Rowan!” he shouted. He reached out for her as if he was going to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but he didn’t.

He snatched up the glass and turned and walked away.

Mona stood still, waiting, too shocked to speak. But it was like everything he did. It had been the good- hearted thing to do. It had been rough, though, and sort of terrible to watch.

Mona didn’t come away just yet. Slowly she sat down in the chair at the table, across from Rowan, the same place she’d taken every day.

Very slowly, Mona grew calm again. She wasn’t sure why she stayed here, except it seemed the loyal thing to do. Perhaps she didn’t want to appear to be Michael’s ally. Her guilt just hung all over her all the time these days.