A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

We passed each other in the hall later that same day. Turning a corner, I almost bumped into him. His hand shot out to steady me for only a moment, before he quickly pulled it back––as if I had some incurable disease he didn’t wish to be infected with. Then I watched his eyes wander over my average breasts. “You can always buy yourself a pair,” he muttered. I stood there slack jawed while he walked away. He always did get the last word.

I was living on an emotional tight wire. It was exhausting, and worse, sucking up precious energy that I needed to focus on my career. The thing was, though, that as soon as he managed to convince me that he was the devil in the flesh, he did something that shocked me into believing there was still a scrap of humanity left in him.

Shortly after the ‘we’ll pay you to leave the country’ incident, I overheard the muffled sound of crying coming from the kitchen. I didn’t want to interrupt someone’s private moment so I stood at the bottom of the staircase, out of sight, and listened as Mrs. Arnaud gently consoled Claire. “Don’t you worry, Claire, we’re all here for you. If you need money to pay Jack’s legal fees, we’ll all chip in.” Another muffled sob from Claire.

“It’s the damn drugs, Marianne. They’ve ruined his life, you know. I don’t know what to do no more.”

“He’s only twenty-five. He can still turn it around if he wants to,” Mrs. Arnaud tried to assure her.

“What the fuck’s going on? I called the kitchen phone and nobody answered.” My heart skipped a beat. He sounded irritated and impatient, in other words, his usual self. There was a heavy pause of silence before Mrs. Arnaud spoke.

“It’s Claire’s son, Jack. He was arrested again.”

All I could do was pray he wouldn’t be cruel to Claire at a time like this.

“I’ll call David. He’ll bail him out. We’ll get him out of this mess.”

“David is the best lawyer in the country, Claire. You see––it’ll all be fine.”

If a unicorn had suddenly trotted into the room, I would have been less astonished.

“Claire, can you convince him to go to rehab. I’ll pay?” he asked in a soft, low voice.

“I don’t know. I’ll try.”

I stepped further into the kitchen, still unnoticed.

“Try real hard,” I heard him say. And then his eyes snapped up and found me. For a moment, I felt something soft, a silken tentacle, reach out for me but it was gone in an instant. His gaze darted away. Then he turned and walked out, leaving me to sort out what had happened for hours.

I couldn’t put him in a box, label it heartless monster, and throw it away. That’s what messed with my head worse than anything. So I did what I always do. I forged on, tried to put a brave face on it even though I was completely demoralized.

I was in the kitchen, slicing fresh zucchini and contemplating how to extricate myself from this quagmire, when Mr. Bentifourt rushed into the kitchen holding the arm of one of the gardeners.

“Marianne! Marianne! Giovanni cut himself. I need the first aid kit!” he shouted, grave concern etched on his face. Servants poured into the kitchen, the loud commotion stirring everyone’s curiosity.

Giovanni was short and stocky, around thirty years of age. The smile almost always fixed on his boyish face had begun to sag with the loss of blood. He had a dirty towel wrapped around his forearm. Mrs. Arnaud toddled as quickly as she could on short legs to a cabinet and unlocked it. Visibly shaken, she squinted at the labels on the vials as she tried to read without her glasses. I peeked inside and found a small refrigerator well stocked with vials of anesthetic and antibiotics.

Years of education and instinct propelled me into action. I coaxed her aside, her expression a mix of confusion and anxiety as she watched me grab everything quickly. Antibiotics, anesthetic, a package of sterile needles, syringes, and thread. “I know what I’m doing, madame. Trust me.” Consenting with a quick nod, she stepped away and gave me room to work. “Charlotte, I need clean towels, and grab the cotton and bandages I have here.” Charlotte scrambled forward and I dumped them in her arms. We moved towards the table where Giovanni, his usually florid countenance turning sallow, looked close to passing out.

Bentifourt stepped in front of me before I could reach for Giovanni. “Now see here young lady––”

“I have a medical degree, sir.” It must have been the pronounced note of authority in my voice because, although he did it apprehensively, he moved out of my way.

I lifted the bloodstained towel and inspected the wound. It was deep, but it appeared that no major vessels had been cut. When I looked up, Giovanni gave me a wane smile. “Someone needs to hold on to him,” I said, looking around. “He’s going to hit the floor in about ten seconds.” Two young men I recognized as gardeners grabbed his shoulders. They held Giovanni steady while I cleaned the wound, disinfected it, and stitched the jagged cut that wrapped around the top of his forearm. As I finished wrapping it in surgical cotton and securing it with medical tape, I glanced up and found a devilish glint in Charlotte’s eyes. Her lips parted into a bright grin. Mrs. Arnaud still hadn’t recovered from the flurry of activity, her pudgy hand clutching her chest while it rose and sank with each agitated breath she took.