Blood and Chocolate

Finally Gabriel spoke. "I guess I'll be paying Miss Astrid a little visit," he said softly. He looked up and his pupils caught the glare from a distant streetlight -  they glowed red.

What have I started? Vivian thought.

Chapter 12

12

Vivian dumped her shopping bag of new paints at the base of the stairs. It fell over, and an economy-sized tube of burnt umber, fat as a sausage, rolled out and rocked gently on the hardwood floor at the edge of the hall rug. The house was so quiet that the muted rumble of the tube's brief passage echoed in her ears. Where's Esmé? Vivian wondered. Monday was her day off, but no music blared through the house, and no smell of dinner wafted through the air.

Vivian's answer came when she walked into the living room and was startled to find her mother sitting on the floor surrounded by photographs, more tumbling out of an upturned shoe box beside her.

Esmé looked up with tears in her eyes. "I couldn't remember his face," she said.

Vivian sank to the floor beside Esmé, her mouth tense with worry. There were pictures of her father spread all over the rug: Dad laughing, Dad chopping wood, Dad in the kitchen at the inn, making sauce.

"I tried so hard to forget him so losing him wouldn't hurt anymore," Esmé said, "and then today I thought of him and couldn't see him. It was like I'd torn away a part of me and crippled myself. Like I'd looked into a mirror and couldn't see my reflection." The tears rolled down her cheeks.

Vivian ached to see her mother this upset. She didn't know what was worse, the hard glittering jewel her mother had become this year, or the heartbroken woman beside her now. She couldn't think of anything to say. Instead she picked up a picture of herself at age three, in OshKosh overalls and nothing else, at her father's side as he weeded in the herb garden. She'd been "helping" him, and she could still hear in her mind his patient voice saying, "No honey, not that one." He'd had to say it over and over.

"Dad would have straightened everything out, wouldn't he?" Vivian said. "We wouldn't be in such a mess if he was around."

Esmé shook her head. "I don't know."

Shock cut through Vivian like a sharp little knife. "Sure he would. He'd know how to keep Astrid in line. He'd stop anything bad happening."

"But he didn't, did he?" Esmé said. "The inn burned. People died. If he'd lived, he'd be challenged as unfit."

"That's not true!" Vivian cried.

"You know it's true," Esmé said. "In his wolf-skin he was as strong as any of them, but he was a gentle person in many ways. He'd feel so bad about failing he'd probably step aside for someone else without a fight."

Esmé was right, but for a moment Vivian hated her mother for saying it.

Esmé didn't see Vivian's anger; she was absently shuffling the photos around on the rug as if she could read the future in them like Tarot cards. "Maybe Rudy's right. We need a different kind of leader now. One who doesn't hesitate to hurt if he has to, for the good of all." She reached out a trembling finger and touched the lips of a face that would be nowhere now, ever, except on a square of Kodak paper. "But for his time," she whispered, "oh, he was the best."

Esmé's shoulders heaved in helpless sobs and Vivian's anger shriveled. She put her arms around her mother, buried her face in Esmé's hair, and cried with her in dissonant duet. Esmé clung to her.

There was nothing they could do. He was gone and the world was an alien landscape.

"Let's go out," Esmé said abruptly, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. "Let's cheer ourselves up." She grabbed Vivian by the shoulders, then planted a quick kiss on her daughters nose. "We'll treat ourselves to dinner. We deserve it." She leaped to her feet.

Vivian, momentarily confused by her mothers change of mood, didn't answer.

"We'll go to Tooley's and see if any of the pack are there," Esmé said. "But I can only afford burgers."

"I can't do that," Vivian said. "I'm underage."

"Nonsense," Esmé insisted. "As long as you don't drink, no one's gonna throw you out. Especially since you will definitely improve the décor." Esmé smiled proudly at her daughter. "You look just like me."

Vivian couldn't help chuckling. Esmé was her usual arrogant self again. Maybe it would be fun at that.

Maybe she'd enjoy some roughhousing and teasing in the local bar. Maybe she'd like the feel of her palm across the cheeks of some fresh young fool who'd only laugh if off. "Sure, Mom. Let's kick ass."

"Its a deal," Esmé said. "Now I gotta go wash my face. I know I look like shit."

At the door, she paused and turned back to Vivian. There was a slight tremble back in her lower lip. "Thanks, my precious," she said.

There was a scattering of people among the tables and booths at Tooley's; some bikers were at the bar, and four men gathered around the large-screen television watching the Orioles lose. No pack, Vivian thought until they were greeted by an enthusiastic howl from a shadowed corner booth.