Christian emerges from his study, looking ashen, and follows his parents into the great room. His eyes widen when he sees the glass in my hand.
"Kate," he greets her coolly.
"Christian." She is equally cool. I sigh.
"Your meds, Mrs. Grey." He eyes the glass in my hand.
I narrow my eyes. Dammit. I want a drink. Grace smiles as she joins me in the kitchen, collecting a glass from Elliot on the way.
"A sip will be fine," she whispers with a conspiratorial wink at me, and lifts her glass to clink mine. Christian scowls at both of us, until Elliot distracts him with news of the latest match between the Mariners and the Rangers.
Carrick joins us, putting his arms around us both, and Grace kisses his cheek before joining Mia on the sofa.
"How is he?" I whisper to Carrick as he and I stand in the kitchen watching the family lounge on the sofa. I note with surprise that Mia and Ethan are holding hands.
"Shaken," Carrick murmurs to me, his brow furrowing, his face serious. "He remembers so much of his life with his birth mother; many things I wish he didn't. But this—" He stops. "I hope we've helped. I'm glad he called us. He said you told him to." Carrick's gaze softens. I shrug and take a hasty sip of champagne.
"You're very good for him. He doesn't listen to anyone else."
I frown. I don't think that's true. The unwelcome specter of the Bitch Troll looms large in my mind. I know Christian talks to Grace, too. I heard him. Again I feel a moment's frustration as I try to fathom their conversation in the hospital, but it still eludes me.
"Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I'm sure you weren't expecting all of us here this evening."
"It's great to see everyone." I smile. Because it's true, it is great. I'm an only child who has married into a large and gregarious family, and I love it. I snuggle up next to Christian.
"One sip," he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.
"Yes, Sir." I bat my lashes, disarming him completely. He puts his arm around my shoulders and returns to his baseball conversation with Elliot and Ethan.
"My parents think you walk on water," Christian mutters as he drags off his Tshirt.
I'm curled up in bed watching the floorshow. "Good thing you know differently." I snort.
"Oh, I don't know." He slips out of his jeans.
"Did they fill in the gaps for you?"
"Some. I lived with the Colliers for two months while Mom and Dad waited for the paperwork. They were already approved for adoption because of Elliot, but the wait's required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to claim me."
"How do you feel about that?" I whisper.
He frowns. "About having no living relatives? F*ck that. If they were anything like the crack whore . . ." He shakes his head in disgust.
Oh, Christian! You were a child, and you loved your mom.
He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.
"It's coming back to me. I remember the food. Mrs. Collier could cook. And at least we know now why that f*cker is so hung up on my family." He runs his free hand through his hair. "F*ck!" he says suddenly turning to gape at me.
"What?"
"It makes sense now!" His eyes are full of recognizance.
"What?"
"Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird."
I frown. "That makes sense?"
"The note," he says gazing at me. "The ransom note that f*cker left. It went something like ‘Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby Bird.' "
This makes no sense to me at all.
"It's from a kid's book. Christ. The Colliers had it. It was called . . . ‘Are You My Mother?' Shit." His eyes widen. "I loved that book."
Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches— Fifty!
"Mrs. Collier used to read it to me."
I am at a loss what to say.
"Christ. He knew . . . that f*cker knew."
"Will you tell the police?"
"Yes. I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information." Christian shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. "Anyway, thank you for this evening."
Whoa. Gear change. "For what?"
"Catering for my family at a moment's notice."
"Don't thank me, thank Mia and Mrs. Jones. She keeps the pantry well stocked."
He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?
"How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?"
"Good. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine." He frowns . . . not understanding my concern.
Oh . . . in that case. I trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-so-happy trail.
He laughs and grabs my hand. "Oh no. Don't get any ideas."
I pout, and he sighs. "Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?" He kisses my hair.
"I have some ideas." I squirm beside him and wince as pain radiates through my upper body from my bruised ribs.
"Baby, you've been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you."
Oh?
"You wanted to know . . ." He trails off, closes his eyes and swallows.
All of the hair on my body stands on end . Shit.
He begins in a soft voice. "Picture this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can continue his secret drinking habit." He shifts onto his side so that we're lying facing each other and he's gazing into my eyes.
"So I was in the backyard at the Lincolns', clearing some rubble and trash from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place . . ."
Holy f*ck . . . he's talking.
I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of disquieting memories.
"It was a hot summer day. I was working hard." He snorts and shakes his head, suddenly amused. "It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was on my own, and Ele—Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass remark . . . and she slapped me. She slapped me so hard." Unconsciously, his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at the memory. Holy shit!
"But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again." He blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.
"I'd never been kissed before or hit like that."
Oh. She pounced. On a kid.
"Do you want to hear this?" Christians asks.
Yes . . . No . . .
"Only if you want to tell me." My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind reeling.
"I'm trying to give you some context."
I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock.
He frowns, his eyes searching mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.
"Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot older woman comes on to you like that—" He shakes his head as if he still can't believe it.
Hot? I feel queasy.
"She went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. She acted as if nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading the rubble into the dumpster. When I left that evening, she asked me to come back the next day. She didn't mention what had happened. So the next day I went back. I couldn't wait to see her again," he whispers as if it's a dark confession . . . because frankly it is.
"She didn't touch me when she kissed me," he murmurs and turns his head to gaze at me. "You have to understand . . . my life was hell on earth. I was a walking hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The girls at school—" He stops, but I've got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive adolescent. My heart twists.
"I was angry, so f*cking angry at everyone, at myself, my folks. I had no friends. My therapist at the time was a total a*shole. My folks, they kept me on a tight leash; they didn't understand." He stares back up at the ceiling and runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I stay still.
"I just couldn't bear anyone to touch me. I couldn't. Couldn't bear anyone near me. I used to fight . . . f*ck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To tolerate some kind of physical contact." He stops again. "Well, you get the idea.
And when she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn't touch me." His voice is barely audible.
She must have known. Perhaps Grace had told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him.
"Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect.
And I'll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that's how our relationship started."
Oh, f*ck, this is painful to hear.
He shifts again onto his side so he's facing me.
"And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear.
Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air. Making the decisions, taking all that shit away from me, letting me breathe."
Holy shit.
"And even when it was over, my world stayed in focus because of her. And it stayed that way until I met you."
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray lock of my hair behind my ear.
"You turned my world on its head." He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are raw. "My world was ordered, calm and controlled, then you came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence, your beauty, and your quiet temerity . . . and everything before you was just dull, empty, mediocre . . . it was nothing."
Oh, my.
"I fell in love," he whispers.
I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek.
"So did I," I murmur with the little breath I have left.
His eyes soften. "I know," he mouths.
"You do?"
"Yes."
Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. "Finally," I whisper.
He nods. "And it's put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn't do for her. And she did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school . . . You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn't had before, allowed me to experience things that I never thought I could."
"Touch," I whisper.
He nods. "After a fashion."
I frown, wondering what he means.
He hesitates at my reaction.