"Bradley, take me home. I want to go home."
Perry had the panicked look of a civilian faced with a medical crisis. "How did you get here?"
"Walked," Finn said tersely.
"Want me to get the car? I don't think she can make it - "
"No!" Clara's refusal was loud and emphatic. She then whimpered in pain, and clutched at her temples.
"Sweetheart," Finn said, and really didn't realize until much later he had used the endearment. "Put your arms around my waist. Now, just slide up on my back. Hang on tight now. I'll take you home."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The apartment was gorgeous. Upper East Side. Awnings. Doormen. Poodles. They had taken the subway. She was in too much pain for him to get his van out of the garage. During the ride uptown Finn had understood how Lady Godiva's horse must have felt. He had also understood what a happy horse he must have been. The flesh of Clara's thighs was warm and moist against his coat. Then Finn got embarrassed, and shut down that particular line of thought.
They trod in stately dignity up Park Avenue. Up the broad steps to the door. Clara's hair was falling down her back, there were patches of sweat on Finn's flanks, and beneath his armpits. The security guard at his horsehoe-shaped desk was giving them the eye. He was going to refuse to let them on the elevator. Finn could sense it. He grinned at the guy, leaned in close. The guard reared back in his chair.
"She always loved horses as a kid," Finn confided.
The guard gulped, put the filthy spin on it that Finn had hoped and assumed he would. Waved them into the mirror-lined elevator. Up to the top floor. Fishing the key out of Clara's handbag. Into the apartment. And a sterile environment. Elegant, expensive furniture, but not much of it. A couple of fine watercolors on the walls. There was a big computer on the dining room table. Some heavy medical tomes lying on the coffee table and sofa. Empty diet Coke cans. And virtually nothing of Clara.
He was not a stupid guy. Seeing this cold box explained a lot about Clara van Renssaeler. She denied warmth, emotion, herself. And he wondered, why? Since he didn't have an answer, Finn decided not to waste time looking for one. He carried Clara into her bedroom, tilted so he could slide her onto the bed, and with perfect, clinical, doctorly, saintly, reserve, undressed her.
She wore pretty underwear. He didn't touch the lace briefs, but he did unsnap the lace and wire bra. She had lush breasts. Freed, they tumbled off to either side. Ivory white with dark rose nipples. Sainthood was vanishing. Finn prayed for forbearance. God heard. Clara groaned, rolled to the side of the bed, and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the pale lemon-colored carpet.
After this reminder that lustful thoughts carry then-own penalty, Finn got serious. He snagged a steel mixing bowl from the kitchen, ice and Evian from the fridge, a wash cloth from the bathroom, and settled down for the long haul. The nausea lasted for hours. Finn bathed Clara's face after every bout of the heaves, slipped ice slivers between her lips, kept cool cloths across her aching eyes, wrapped her in blankets when she became chilled, and wiped away the sweat when she became feverish.
After a few hours she took to sleeping with his hand clasped in hers. He folded his horse body down next to the bed, and rested his head on the pillow next to hers. It wasn't comfortable, but it sure was sweet, and finally, around four A.M. the spasms stopped, and Finn and Clara drifted off to sleep.
The annoying beep of his wristwatch alarm awakened him at five-thirty. Groaning, Finn got all four feet beneath him, and heaved to his feet. Clara didn't stir. Finn rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away tiredness, and felt the harsh rasp of stubble against his palm. He canvassed the bathroom, and found a used razor on the side of the tub. Remembering the last time he'd tried using a lady's razor on his face made him wince, and he decided he'd just go to the clinic looking like a bum. He washed his face, propped his front feet onto the back of the toilet, dropped and aimed, and relieved himself without mishap. Squeezing some toothpaste onto his index finger he tried to rub the fuzz off his teeth. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a parrot's cage.
"And when did you sample the bottom of a parrot's cage, Dr. Finn?" he asked his image in the mirror in a bad Groucho imitation.
There was a faint noise from the bedroom, and Finn backed rapidly out of the small bathroom to check on his patient. Clara had shifted onto her side, her cheek pillowed on a hand. It was really sweet. Finn noticed her hair was matted. Crossing to the dressing table he picked up her hairbrush, and returning to the bed, smoothed out the worst of the snarls. He then leaned down like a bowing circus horse, and softly kissed her on the cheek. It was taking advantage. He hoped God and his conscience wouldn't mind too much, but she just looked so sweet.
"Sleep tight, sweetheart. I'll check in on you later."
He left for early morning rounds at the clinic.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The ringing phone woke her. She kept the damp cloth pressed to her forehead and wished the sound would stop. Eventually it did.
Bradley Finn's voice floated in from the other room. A warm feeling she didn't want to examine too closely filled her; she waited for him to appear at the bedroom door. But a beep told her he wasn't there. He was leaving a message on her phone.
She remembered now: he'd stayed and cared for her all night.
Her headache was gone, though she still felt groggy. She stretched, sat up and yawned, scratching her head.
The LEDs of her bedside clock announced that it was past ten. With a groan, she threw off the covers and stumbled into the Bathroom to take a hot shower. She was supposed to have checked the latest test cultures last night. And now she had to get downtown to the clinic. She was late.
The steam and soap cleared her senses, and she remembered what had triggered the migraine. The night before, that visit to see that couple: Perry, and the joker woman who had hidden from them.
Perry had reacted so oddly to Clara's name. The china was the same as Grandmaman Moresworth's heirloom design. And she'd seen the face of the snake woman in the photo on the mantle, and then caught a glimpse of the joker herself.
It was the lamia from her dreams. And the creature wore the face of her mother, who had died when Clara was five.
Only she hadn't died. At that instant in the hallway as they were leaving, the memory had surfaced from where she'd buried it when she was five.
Maman had turned into a snake. A joker. And then she'd gone away.
Clara recalled Papa holding her, Clara, and she was hitting him, screaming, trying to run after her transformed mother, who slithered away down the hall.
That's not your Maman. Maman is dead. Maman is dead.
He'd lied to her. Her mother had been alive all these years. A joker, living not five miles from her. All these years, he - and she, Maman - had conspired to keep the truth from her.
And who else knew? Papa's long-time lover Chloe must know. And Pan? Her grandparents Moresworth? How many others were in on this lie?
She could understand why Papa would do such a thing. He hated the wild card, and a joker wife would have ruined his ambitions. He'd want to keep a joker wife as far from his life - and Clara's - as possible. But Maman ... how could she have agreed to abandon her own child? To pretend she was dead, to hide - not to give her own child the knowledge of what had happened, and the right to make her own peace with it?
She pressed her forehead against the cool tiles. A tear fell. Another. The tears mingled with the heated water from the shower, drenching Clara in grief. She backed into a corner of the shower and clutched her sponge. Water sluiced over her, and sobs ripped their way out of her chest, and the water carried them away.