Lucky: Dorian Gray Novels Book 1 Page 9

  Once I’m standing, Dorian gently takes my hand, wraps it around his arm and gently holds it in place on his forearm. With our arms linked like this, he leads me around the car and up to the front door of his home. He releases my hand when he reaches for the lever on his door and once it’s open, he leads me inside with his hand on the small of my back.

  His touch there makes me feel like a warm current has just spread over my skin radiating from his fingers on my back. I don’t know if it’s so powerful because it was so unexpected or because he touched me someplace that he had never had before. What I do know is that I want more.

  I look down at my feet as he closes the door, and I can feel heat rising in my checks, so I know I’m starting to blush.

  Coming around to stand in front of me, Dorian leans down and places his finger under my chin tilting my head up. “Do you like it?” he says. His hand on my back? Oh, yes. I realize then that he must be talking about his house which I hadn’t even looked at because I was so distracted.

  Turning my head away from his gaze, I look around at his grand home.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, and it’s not just an empty complement of politeness. The interior of Dorian’s home is not at all what I would have expected from the outside. I’ve seen the walled-off and isolated interiors of Victorian houses, but this home has a very open feel. Standing at the front door, you can see through the back of the house thanks to a wall of glass. There is a beautiful and modern curved staircase off to one side and on the other is a kitchen right out of an HGTV dream.

  The decorations and furniture seem to fit well inside the modern interior, but they’re so many contrasting styles. There is a table and chair carved to look like branches and flowers naturally entwined to fit their form, and on that table there is a modern sculpture with sleek metal curves. All around there are examples of new and old pushed together into one space – contrasts just like the interior and exterior of this house.

  Looking around at more of the detail, I realize that this mix of styles couldn’t be more appropriate for Dorian. His life hasn’t been contained by one generation – these things represent the collection of lifetimes’ worth of existence spread across continents.

  “Would you like a tour before lunch?” Dorian asks.

  “Yes, please”, I say. I don’t know if I could eat right now anyways.

  Dorian holds out his elbow and I can tell that he means for us to link arms again. I’m happy to do it, so I quickly step into place. Dorian leads us toward the back of the house and the wall of windows. I can see a few large trees behind the house, but getting closer, I see that the cliff face of the bluffs must not be far beyond. In the small spaces between the trees I can see glimpses of the town. The college must be right below us. The other thing I notice is that all of the foliage around his house is already in its full fall coloring – like this one small area is a few weeks deeper into fall than the rest of the forest.

  “From here I can be anywhere on campus with less than a five-minute walk. I had a staircase built going down the bluffs just over there,” he says pointing toward a path that looks to lead right off the edge of the cliff. “If you ever need anything while you’re on campus, please feel free to come here.”

  “Oh.” I say a bit surprised to be receiving an open invitation to his house. “Thank you.”

  Dorian turns and heads for the stairs which leads us right past the carved table and chair that I noticed before. From this angle I can see that the modern sculpture resting on the table is of a couple embracing – is it an image of what he longs for? Looking closer at the table I begin to wonder if it really was something that was grown instead of made. The branches, vines and flowers all look so real that it’s hard to imagine that someone could carve something so delicate.

  Noticing my gaze, Dorian answered my unspoken question. “That table and chair are probably my favorite pieces. My grandfather brought them back after a trip through Asia when I was just a boy. He never let me sit on or even touch them the whole time he was alive,” he said with a fond smile of remembrance on his face. Reaching over, he trails his fingers across the chair as we pass.

  It makes me smile to think of Dorian as a child getting into trouble.

  Dorian leads me through the rest of the house making comments when he notices my gaze lingering on something. His bathrooms are bigger than my bedroom at home, and his movie room has a screen bigger than the local theatre.

  Even with the obvious grandeur of his home he still seems nervous that I won’t like something and very pleased when I do. That makes a question come into my head. “Do you bring people to your home often?”

  “No. Other than staff, you are the only other person that I’ve ever brought into my home,” he says looking straight into my eyes.

  “You have staff?” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s obviously rich and this place is huge, but the thought of having staff is so outside my sphere of reference that I can’t even imagine what it would be like. I’ve never even met anyone that had staff before him.

  “Yes, but I don’t allow them here when I’m at home. I give them my schedule and they do all their work while I’m out – I wouldn’t force someone to spend that much time so close to me on an extended basis.” Oh, he must have thought my surprise was due to something other than extreme wealth.

  I don’t have time to respond before Dorian continues speaking. “Would you like to have lunch now?” he says. His mood has obviously shifted, and he is back to his more withdrawn demeanor.

  “Yes,” I say, keeping my response short so I don’t give him any more wrong impressions mistakenly.

  Dorian leads me to the end of the large island in his kitchen and pulls out a stool for me to sit on.

  He holds my hand while I sit and says, “I hope you don’t mind dining in the kitchen. Since I am doing the cooking, I thought it would be the most convenient location, so we could talk while I worked.”

  “Sure.” After all, Dorian’s kitchen is nicer than the interiors of all the restaurants in town.

  “Do you have any allergies or any aversions to food I should know about?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say doing a quick mental checklist. The truth is that I haven’t really tried a lot of different things. I like everything that my mom makes, but I imagine that her list of ingredients is very limited compared to what Dorian might use.

  “I’m glad,” he says with a little of his good humor returning. Dorian turns and begins grabbing armfuls of ingredients out of his refrigerator and putting them out on the counter. I don’t recognize some of the things that he’s pulling out and I’m starting to get a little nervous.

  Soon there are pots boiling on the stove, chopped piles on cutting boards and a towel flung over Dorians shoulder. I have so many questions that I want to ask him, but I just don’t want to interrupt. He really seems to enjoy himself while cooking and I’m enjoying watching him move around the kitchen with such precision.

  Every few minutes between chopping and stirring he looks over at me and smiles before returning to work.

  Before long he’s putting glasses and silverware in front of me and in a place on the opposite side of the island for himself. The last thing he places down in front of me is a white square plate with food that looks more like a work of art than something you’re supposed to eat.

  “This is a purple asparagus salad with yogurt sauce, menton citrus and chickweed,” he says. “If you taste anything you don’t like, please don’t be embarrassed. Just let me know and I can make something else.”

  I have never seen a salad like this. There are various sauces drizzled on the plate in decorative swirls and dots. There are pieces of asparagus sliced in wide, thin, almost transparent pieces arranged in spirals around thin strips of pink citrus.

  “It looks absolutely delicious,” I say to reassure him that he’s done well. Dorian smiles and sits down across from me in front of his own plate and waits anxiously for me to take the first bi
te.

  Somehow it tastes even better than it looked. “It’s really, really good,” I say holding my hand over my mouth to hide my chewing. I didn’t realize I had this many taste buds. Dorian must be able to tell how much I’m enjoying it because his smile grows with each bite I take.

  After we finish our salads, Dorian stacks our used plates off to the side and takes a few minutes to prep the next dishes.

  “These are pan fried scallops with oysters, mussels, leeks and garlic on top of buttermilk foam,” he says carefully sets them down. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten half the ingredients he just listed, but after that first dish, I think I’m willing to try anything he would make.

  On top of and around the food there are small yellow flowers arranged with sprigs of greenery. Unsure if they are intended to be eaten or not, I watch as Dorian takes his first bite. Dorian has several petals with his first bite, so with greater confidence I take a bite too.

  It’s divine! There are so many different flavors and somehow they remain distinct even though they are all on the plate together. There is also an amazing mix of hot and cold ingredients that add excitement to the dish.

  After we finish, Dorian again clears the plates and takes a few minutes to prepare the next course.

  About the next plate, Dorian says, “This is smoked Scottish lobster with lime and herb butter on top of a wild rice pilaf.”

  Finally, for dessert Dorian serves each of us a dish of crème brulee after using a torch to cook a sugary crust on top.

  That was hands down the best meal of my life. It was so good that I almost forgot all about the answers Dorian promised to provide – almost.

  Chapter 10

  “You promised to explain why you left,” I say as I set down my spoon after finishing the perfect meal that Dorian made for me. I wish I could be a little more graceful bringing up the topic, but that’s just not a skill of mine. I slowly look up at him from under my lashes hoping that I haven’t wrecked the happy mood he was in while cooking and eating with me.

  Thankfully I see that his face is still warm, and his eyes are looking straight into mine in a way that makes me want to melt right on the spot.

  “I did,” he says. “But let’s go sit someplace more comfortable before we get into all that.” He directions towards the living room with his hand.

  The counters and stove are piled high with pots, pans and dishes from our lunch and my manners kick in. “Let me help clean up first. After such a wonderful meal, it’s the least I can do.”

  I stand and start to pick up the plates in front of me, but Dorian is there with his hand on mine nudging it away, keeping his eyes locked with mine.

  “Being able to cook for you and enjoy a meal with you has brought me more pleasure than you can imagine,” he says with so much sincerity it throws me off guard for a second. It’s a reminder that this is something he couldn’t do with anyone else. It makes me feel a little more comfortable – like we’re a little more even because this was an amazing first experience for him too.

  “The kitchen maid can deal with all of this,” he continues. “Come, I owe you an answer.” He leads me over to the oversized leather sofa that faces the modern stone fireplace. The sofa is surprisingly soft, and it feels like we’re sinking down into a cloud as we sit on it side by side.

  “Exactly how much did Coan explain to you?” he asked.

  “Umm…...” I remember some of the things he said, but I don’t think much of it explained anything.

  “It’s okay. Sometimes I think Coan speaks more for his own benefit than for anyone else’s,” Dorian says and smiles while looking around the room. It’s obvious that he intended for Coan to hear that message.

  “So, when we were first talking in the quarry, you may not realize, I was trying very hard to not mention anything about Coan or Druids,” he says.

  “If you did, I wouldn’t remember it anyways, right? Because I didn’t have this ring then?” I say holding up my hand with the delicate gold band.

  “It’s true that you wouldn’t remember, but I didn’t want to do that to you,” he said.

  “What’s so bad about not remembering something? I wouldn’t even know I forgot, right?” I asked, not understanding why his mood seemed to be shifting to a darker place.

  “A spell would have made you forget, but spells have consequences,” he said.

  “I thought Witches were the ones that went around creating spells without regard for consequences? This forgetting spell is a Druid thing, right?” I say, remembering the horrible consequences that Dorian is dealing with from Sybil’s mother, Lavinia.

  Dorian must be thinking something similar and his eyes are cast down before speaking. “All spells have consequences. The difference is that Witches cast spells without knowing what the consequences will be. Druids watch Witches, so they can learn what the consequences of various spells are before they cast them – Druids know what will happen before they cast a spell.”

  “So, what would have happened if you had said something about Druids before I had this ring?” I ask, a little alarmed and worried about the danger I didn’t even know I should have been worried about.

  “It would have left a gap in your memory. When something like that happens, the mind tries to fill it in, but each gap makes it harder for the mind to make sense of its world and it brings the person closer to madness,” Dorian said with pain again etched on his face.

  It almost looks like he’s deciding if he should withhold information, but he continues after a brief pause. “When I spoke to Coan, he warned me that if I was going to see you again, he would need to bind you or would get too close to the truth and memories would start to be removed.

  “I wanted to see you again, but I couldn’t stand the thought of you going mad or dealing with the burden of being bound. I left so you would be sparred. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice strained with emotion.

  “I’m not.” I say it and I know that I would trade almost anything to be near him. Dorian looks at me and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I wish I could bring him back to the bright mood he was in while cooking. I’m glad that I know more now, but I wish that I hadn’t pressed for more information so quickly - I could have spent more time with him in a light and cheerful mood.

  What troubles me more than the chance that I could cause harm are Coan’s actions. “How could Coan do those spells?” I say. “I thought he was your friend?” I know that Coan is probably listening to everything I’m saying, but I just don’t care.

  “Ellie, he’s my best friend; and it’s not just because we’ve been talking with each other for more than a hundred years. There are good reasons why those rules exist. He is a better friend than I deserve, and he fulfills the rules of his covenant to avoid far worse consequences,” Dorian’s tone is urgent and pleading. He wants me to believe that Coan is good, but I just don’t see what makes him so different from Witches.

  “Isn’t it worse that he knows the consequences of his spells, but still does them?” I’m also a little mad that Coan didn’t tell me this right away – I could have pushed someone toward madness without even knowing it.

  “Ellie, he knows the consequences of not doing the spells too. Sometimes you need to choose the lesser of two evils. I’m sorry – it’s a horrible explanation for anything, but it’s the only one I’ve got for so many things in my life.”

  I know he isn’t just talking about Coan anymore. It still doesn’t make sense to me, and I’m not sure that I could call Coan a friend. I can see by the way Dorian defends him that I’m not going to get anywhere on this topic, so I decide to change to something new.

  “Why did you come back?” I ask. He obviously feels bad about me being bound under Coan’s spell, but I wonder what changed after 3 weeks that made him choose a different course.

  “I saw that the tree I had jumped from was still alive, but I’ve been answering all the questions today, so I think it’s your turn,” he said. J
ust as fast as his mood shifted to dark before, I can see it lightening. His answer makes me think of his comment about Coan – it seems that Dorian and Coan can both give you an answer and leave you with more questions than you started with. Usually I wouldn’t let someone change the topic on me like that, but the happy and expectant look in his eye tugs at my heart strings. I don’t want to see his mood darken again now that it’s shifted lighter. I don’t want anything to ruin my chances of getting to spend more time with him.

  The rest of the afternoon I answer Dorians questions about movies and books. I’m dying to know why a live tree would make him come back, but every time I see how interested and happy he looks as I answer his questions, I put off the difficult topic. He asks about all my favorite things, which characters I identified with from history and fiction, and how I would change books or movies if I could. He asks so many questions in such quick succession that I don’t have even a spare second to ask any of my own.

  I’ve never had a conversation like that in my life. Everyone else I’ve known has been a part of my life for so long that I’ve never had to explain myself to them – they were there as I was figuring it out.

  Dorian asked questions about me that I hadn’t ever answered for myself like ‘What character from a movie or book had the biggest impact on me?’ I blurted out that Arial from The Little Mermaid was the one that made me want to see more of the world. After I said it, I felt silly and childish for a second before Dorian said, “It probably helped that you’re both red-heads too”. He smiled at me and I couldn’t see any judgement in his face – I could feel then that Dorian was someone it would be too hard to hide things from. It’s too easy to just answer his questions without thinking through the consequences; he’s someone I can’t hide my true thoughts from. He’s someone I can be myself with because he won’t judge me. Up until now, Wyatt was the only other person that made me feel this way.

  He asked me about how I got my nickname, and I told him the story, even though it always made me feel a little uncomfortable. My parents were told they couldn’t have children. After they had me, they spoke to each other so often about how lucky they were that eventually the word just got intermixed with how they referred to me. After that story, he just looked at me with a pleasant smile lighting his face. It was almost like he was looking at me and seeing me as more than I am. “Yes,” he said, “Everyone in your life is lucky to be around you.”