Page 15 of So Close

Mr Black stands when she finishes speaking, turning to face the panoramic view of the city lost in a grey haze of rain. Large banana leaf plants frame the unadorned wall of windows, bringing a bit of the green from Central Park below into the clouds where he resides. He rubs the back of his neck; a blatant tell that fully betrays his frustration and anxiety. There are no answers to the question he has asked repeatedly:Why won’t she wake?

Since her momentary spell of consciousness on the day of the accident, Lily has slept without ceasing. And with every day that passes Mr Black grows more agitated.

Thunder splits the sky with a roar as if heaven itself resents the hubristic height of the tower in which we reside. The clamour is so enveloping that it very nearly drowns out the sound of a woman’s terrified scream.

Mr Black skirts me at a dead run, agile and quick as a gazelle, displaying the athleticism and speed that once hallmarked his game as a point guard in basketball. I wait, allowing Dr Hamid to precede me, then following her quick, steady pace while sorting through a mental checklist of possible scenarios and the resulting required actions. Through open doorways, I see the windows dripping with tears from the sky.

We enter Mrs Black’s bedroom and come to an abrupt halt.

Amy Armand hugs herself as she leans against the wall. My employer already sits on the side of the bed, both hands fisting the duvet on either side of his wife’s slender hips. Lily sits upright, her pale arms wrapped around his shoulders, her cheek pressed to his as tears sparkle on inky lashes. The bright red of her nails glistens like drops of blood amid the dark strands of Mr Black’s hair.

In her present surroundings, Lily Black embodies the brightest of full moons on the darkest of nights.

Bending, I collect the junior Mrs Armand’s handbag and shoes from the floor and approach her, lightly encircling her upper arm in a respectful grip.

“Mrs Armand,” I murmur, “allow me to escort you to the door.”

“What?” Her gaze is riveted to the tableau on the bed.

I smell the alcohol on her breath and sigh inwardly. Such a lovely girl, with so much potential, but she fights demons of which I’m unaware.

“The doctor will need to examine Mrs Black,” I murmur as I lead her gently out of Lily’s bedroom, “and we must afford her privacy.”

She resists when I exert slight pressure, her eyes wide and staring. I want to stare, too. It is so rare and strange to see Mr Black in an embrace, with his head bowed and knuckles white with strain. An unwilling supplicant.

He is not a demonstrative man. He avoids physical contact in public aside from what is necessary for proper etiquette and politeness. I’ve often thought of him surrounded by an invisible wall that keeps others a safe distance away.

But there are evidently no barriers capable of protecting him from Lily.

The sky opens, and a torrent descends.

12

LILY

With my cheekpressed to yours, I exhale. A shudder moves through you as my breath caresses your ear. The restless flexing of your fingers in the duvet makes me shiver, and I can’t stop once I start. The need to crawl inside you, to be united with my heart, is overwhelming. Holding you in my arms is everything I’ve ever wanted or needed.

You nestle your nose against my throat and inhale a hard, ragged breath, pulling the scent of my skin into your lungs. You nuzzle me as you exhale. You aren’t returning my embrace, but it’s not necessary. You mark me like an animal and take my mark on you in return. I feel you breathe me in again, then again, as if you’ve been submerged and without air for too long. Suffocating.

I know the feeling, my love. All too well.

Your body against mine is both hard and feverishly hot, like a column of stone that’s spent hours beneath the glare of the sun. You’re vibrating, every muscle reacting to the press of my body to yours. My indrawn breath fills my senses with the smell of you, a scent that takes me back to the night we met. Bonfire and salty air, the sharp bite of a storm carried on the evening breeze.

Ah, lilies, too. My chest aches with suppressed sobs.

You haven’t forgotten Lily.

13

WITTE

I waitwith the younger Mrs Armand until she enters the lift with a blank, dazed expression. She is digging frantically into her handbag as the doors slide shut, not looking at me and offering no farewell.

I nod at the two guards flanking the penthouse entrance as I pass them, shutting the door soundlessly. Alone, I can admit that the scene I’ve just witnessed has shaken me to the core.

I cannot reconcile the woman who ran from Mr Black in the heart of Midtown with the wife clinging lovingly to him in the bedroom. The reactions are so outrageously different as to defy logic.

Thrusting aside my disquiet, I traverse the long, mirrored hallway to Mrs Black’s bedroom. My employer now stands in the farthest, darkest corner. He stares at the two women, who speak in hushed tones, and doesn’t acknowledge my return, his attention riveted, his stance wide and arms crossed. Commanding. Aggressive. The nurse, Frank, stands behind and near the doctor, at the ready. I call upon years of experience to disappear into my surroundings.

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