A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“What am I doing?” he asked with poorly feigned innocence.

“I just…it’s just that I thought I did it all on my own. Don’t you understand? And now, I know I didn’t––even though I’m unbelievably grateful for your help.”

Dropping the towel, he brought me up against his warm, wet body, and hugged me tightly, his cheek resting on the top of my head. “Vera, you’ve done everything in the last six years on your own. You’ve done more on your own than most people accomplish in a lifetime.” The comforting sound of his deep voice reverberated off his chest as he spoke. Softly adding, “Let somebody help you for once.”

I hated it when he made perfect sense.

* * *

“I don’t…know…if I can…do this.”

It was midnight, twenty-six hours since his last pill of oxycodone. Alternating between cold chills and burning sweats, he was in full-blown withdrawal, shaking so violently that I had to get on the bed and press the entire weight of my body on top of him just to give him some relief. I did anything and everything I could to ease his suffering. I rubbed his back while he threw up. The last few times were painful to watch as he dry heaved until he almost passed out. I tried to keep him hydrated but it was difficult because of the nausea. I held him when he shivered; it seemed to make him feel marginally better.

Sifting my short nails through his hair and scratching his scalp, I murmured, “You can do this. The worst is almost over, I promise.”

That was a major lie. It wasn’t anywhere near being over.

“Keep…doing…that…pleeeeze.”

Heartbreaking. In the midst of excruciating suffering, he was grateful for every little thing I did for him. There was always a ‘please’ and a ‘thank you’ after I emptied the bucket with his vomit, or rubbed his leg, or changed his sweat soaked t-shirt. He seemed surprised that I would do that for him.

It was bad enough finding out that no woman had ever cooked him a lousy meal, other than an employee, but I was beginning to wonder if anybody had ever done anything for him ever. It seemed preposterous that a man that was so generous, so kind, never had a woman want to take care of him. Specifically, this supposed angel he had married and was still in love with. It didn’t make sense and, frankly, it made me furious.

“Talk…to…me.”

“Okay, let’s see––” I struggled for a neutral topic, my mind lazy from lack of sleep. “I’m really scared of pigeons. I never even got to see the inside of the Duomo, the cathedral in Milan, because I could never get past the army of pigeons. Umm, what else? Oh! I love how quiet it gets when snow falls.”

I glanced down and discovered his face had softened. His thick lashes cast shadows on his high cheekbones. My dissertation on pigeons and snow proved to be a powerful sedative. He had fallen asleep. Thank God. He needed some relief. Sweet dreams, my love, I thought, while I stroked the hair off his forehead.

The door cracked open and Mrs. Arnaud peeked her head in. I crept off the bed quietly and tiptoed into the hall.

“Vera, you look terrible. You need to eat and rest. You’ve been going for over a day.”

She was right. Even though my mind was racing, my body was spent. “I’m fine, really. He’s finally asleep. The last few hours have been…difficult.”

“Let me sit with him.” I shook my head but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I insist, now go, or you won’t be any good to him tomorrow.”

Exhaustion finally caught up with me. I ate and showered in a listless fog. When my head hit the pillow, I fell into a coma, sleeping like the dead through the night. The light filtering in at dawn woke me. Jumping out of bed, I dressed in a hurry, mindful that poor Mrs. Arnaud had been there all night and was probably ready for some sleep herself. As I was taking the stairs two at a time, I crashed right into Isabelle. “Sorry!” I shouted.

She narrowed her eyes as I hurried past her. A cold sense of foreboding followed me up the stairs. Undoubtedly, I would have to deal with her later.

In Sebastian’s bedroom, I found Mrs. Arnaud snuggled into the oversized armchair near the fireplace with her legs up, snoring loudly. Sebastian was still asleep––restless and fidgety but asleep. I placed my hand on Mrs. Arnaud’s arm and she jerked awake. “Go to bed,” I whispered.

Nodding weakly, she pushed herself out of the chair and left. Her warmth lingered in the empty space she had occupied only moments ago. I dropped into it and watched him sleep for hours. My very own sleeping beauty, I thought, as he twitched uncomfortably. If only.