couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say to his father that he should repeat in public. “Forget it; don’t tell him anything.”
Another slight tilt of his head and Jean-Paul was gone. Out of view, Michael imagined that he was leaning back against the black leather interior of the car, feeling its warmth, reaching over to touch Nakano’s waiting hand, whispering something to him in French, something sweet and provocative.
“That doesn’t add up,” Ronan said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Michael agreed. “How did Nakano ever land somebody like that? Jean-Paul’s like . . . an adult.”
Ronan remained quiet. He didn’t contradict Michael and inform him that he wasn’t referring to Nakano’s latest conquest but to his father’s latest contentious action. Once again, Vaughan was unable to follow through with a plan, and that didn’t make sense. He seemed so eager to have dinner with Michael, so willing to bridge the gap that was separating them, and then he just up and leaves to fly halfway across the world without even calling his son. And to make matters worse, he sends an employee to apologize. What could be so important with his factories that he couldn’t take a moment to call Michael himself? And why did families have to be so complicated?
“I’m sorry,” Ronan said. “I guess you were right.”
“That my dad’s a workaholic and a jerk?” Michael said.
“Yeah, well . . . I was hoping I was wrong too.”
Ronan kissed Michael gently and slid his hand into his coat pocket. Their fingers interlocked and the soft, fleece lining embraced their hands, making them feel warm and cozy. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you flirting with the Frenchie.”
Caught, Michael tried to escape from Ronan’s hold, which only made Ronan hold on to his hand even tighter. “I was not flirting,” Michael protested.
Kissing him again, this time a bit rougher, to remind him of the passion they shared, Ronan felt Michael’s hand stop resisting. No need to resist because it was exactly where it ought to be. “Yes, you were,” Ronan whispered. “But remember, an Irish brogue is a lot sexier than a French accent.”
He was right about that. “Let’s go home,” Michael said.
Walking home with Michael, his arm around his shoulder, Ronan wished everything could be this simple, glitches, bumps in a relationship were expected and should be resolved quickly. But he knew better. He knew that fathers couldn’t be relied on to stick around and that sisters would always cause trouble. Family simply couldn’t be trusted.
chapter 7
At first the flame only flickered. Like a baby trying to stand for the first time, it was unsure that it could succeed, take root, and flourish, but soon, its confidence building, its strength growing, the flame expanded. Just as the baby’s outstretched arms clutched at the air, claiming more territory for its own personal space, the flame devoured more of the haystack, burning the straw until it turned black, then disappeared to be reborn, violently, miraculously, as fire. The man tied to the stake that stood in the center of the haystack didn’t see the transformation take place, but when he felt the heat intensify under his feet, he knew what was happening.
“Burn, demon, burn!” the voice cried.
Ronan had never heard such hatred before. He never knew a voice could be capable of such a sound, so harsh, so brutal, so inhuman. His parents’ voices were always filled with such kindness, such love, especially his father’s, except now his father remained silent as all around him the voices grew louder.
Saxon closed his eyes when the first flames nipped at his feet. He didn’t want his son to see fear, he didn’t want him to know that his father had spent his last moments on earth frightened, uncertain if God would welcome him or if he would be plunged into a larger pit of fire as the men, the mortals rioting around him, encircling him, murdering him, had predicted. He knew he was going to be destroyed. He didn’t want his son to suffer the same fate.
Eyes shut, he focused on a different, much happier, time. He watched himself entering the cave, kneeling before The Well, Edwige by his side, her long black hair cascading down her back, the back he loved to touch, caress, and he could hardly feel the flames devour his feet. He was stronger than these men, they would take his life, but they would not take his spirit. When he opened his eyes, he was confident that he would not make his son afraid, only more powerful. It would be a wonderful final gift.
“Go back to the devil that spawned ya!” the man holding the torch cried.
Ronan was confused. He recognized the man and had thought he was a friend. He often saw him leaning his head close to his mother’s, smiling at her, putting his arms around her to make her feel good and happy like Daddy did to him after he fell and scraped his knee or was feeling sad. This man shouldn’t be yelling so loudly; he shouldn’t be trying to hurt Daddy with the fire, that’s not something a friend would do. “Leave my daddy alone!”
His mother’s friend reeled around and stared at Ronan, his eyes gleaming bright, illuminated by the sparks. “You want to join your old man?!”
“Ronan, come to me!”
He heard his mother’s voice, but he couldn’t see her, there were so many people, all of them shouting, jumping up and down, filled with excitement as if they were watching a parade instead of his father. Maybe he was performing some magic trick. Yes, that had to be it! They were all shouting because they were being entertained.
Ronan looked up and saw his father smiling at him like a magician smiling at a spectator just before doing one last spellbinding trick. And what a trick it was. A column of fire surrounded the lower half of his body, red, orange, and yellow flames floating all around him like autumn leaves swirling in a sudden gust of wind. He could hear the flames crackle and there was an odd smell in the air, but his father never stopped smiling, so everything was all right, there couldn’t be anything wrong. But why was his mother still shouting?
“Ronan! Come to me!”
Didn’t Daddy tell her that he was going to perform a trick for all the people? Didn’t she know that everyone had come to see the magic?
The man with the torch spoke a few more words that Ronan didn’t understand, but the onlookers must have, because they gave a great cheer when he was finished. This man, who had to be his father’s assistant, threw the torch onto what remained of the haystack, turning it into an inferno of heat and vibrant color unlike anything Ronan had ever seen. He stood up on his tiptoes to try and find his father amid all the fire, but he was no longer there, his smile, his whole body, all that he remembered, was gone. That’s okay, he thought, he just disappeared, went some place where there wasn’t any fire, it was all part of the trick. But if it was, why was his mother crying?
“Ronan!” Edwige was running toward him so swiftly it was as if she were flying. How lucky he was that both his parents had special powers. She scooped him up in her arms and held his body tightly to hers. He could feel her heart racing. Daddy’s magic show must have made her as excited as the crowd. She whispered in his ear, repeating the same words over and over again, “I told you to come to me.”
Standing outside of St. Florian’s, there were no flames, no heat, only the cold night air and the fallen snow. There were no crowds obstructing Ronan’s vision, no people at all, no one except Edwige. “Mother,” Ronan asked. “What are you doing here?”
Wearing a white fox jacket, a winter white beret that hid almost all of her hair, and wide-cut pants of the same color, Edwige was almost invisible. If it weren’t for the slash of red lipstick, she might have receded into the background, become part of the landscape, but Edwige was not one to blend. “I want to know how dinner went with your father-in-law,” Edwige said.
A breeze blew past them, lifting some snowflakes from the ground, disturbing their slumber so they could be airborne once again. Ronan crossed his arms and wished that he had put on some more clothes before answering his mother’s telepathic command. He wasn’t cold of course, but standing in front of his mother, wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his bare feet pressed firmly into the snowy ground, he felt more submissive than
