Indeed, Marlowe feels that she has wandered into a strange and inhospitable continent. If the backseat is the tropics, the front seat is, appropriately, the arctic. Lucas has completely shut down. Now when she is grasping for his thoughts, she comes up empty. A simple explanation would open up a dialogue, but she isn't ready for that. She's having trouble with the manic monologue that is raging in her brain.
Whatever is said about her, Marlowe does not like to offend or upset anyone. That is the primary reason why she is so ruthless about keeping people at a distance: she wants to avoid hurting and being hurt. Her scheme works in its way, though it does result in the logical side effect of her being alone all the time. She had thought that she could accept that.
But she hasn't accepted it. She's only become accustomed to it; loneliness is a habit that she puts on, an ancient and ill-fitting relic. And like a starving child weaned on bread and water, she can't stomach richer fare. Ordinarily, she is left to her suffering; few people go out of their way to provide her with a feast of affection. But suddenly, unexpectedly, someone has. Lucas has. He held her.
Marlowe shivers involuntarily. The boy embraced her, caressed her. The very idea sets her quivering. She had refused to believe that she needed that. Then in one moment, eight years of denial came crashing down like a busted plate glass window. It was her need that rose up from her core. She'd suppressed her needs after Nate and then buried them with her parents and sister as though her needs were prayers that would never be answered. Such an easy thing for a woman to believe when she is raised to think that she is racing against an invisible clock, when she is told that she has to barter her compliance for love before it is too late. What else was a woman to think when she bartered everything she had for love and then love failed, and failed again? I'm a failure - that's what she thought. No matter what she does to fill up the vacancies in her life, to find her true self, to love herself, the fear of failure is always there at the back of her mind. It will always be there until someone else loves the real Marlowe Ross as much as she does.
These are the things that she can't explain to Lucas. It would be foolish, surely, to expose her weaknesses to this man, to explain to him why she got all weepy just because he hugged her. Would he understand, or would he laugh at her? She's been laughed at before; it left a cold chill on her skin that she is still trying to rub away.
After he pulls up at the house and cuts the engine, Lucas turns to the backseat and clears his throat to get attention. "Break it up," he says gruffly but kindly, like a parent commanding his children. "We're home."
Tamara giggles maniacally and buries her flushed face in her husband's shirt. Roderick raises his hand to stroke his wife's hair. Then he turns to Lucas, winks, and mouths the words, "I owe you one," before opening the car door.
Lucas blinks and then smiles broadly. Roderick isn't drunk after all. He should have known that a couple glasses of wine wouldn't affect his friend, not after the night they'd spent in Panama. Because Lucas rarely drinks, they rarely drink together. He'd simply forgotten. Lucas chuckles as he turns around. The only thing Roderick is drunk on is love.
He sobers immediately when he notices that Marlowe has gotten out of the car. She has circled around the back to retrieve the pastry boxes from Ivan's. As pissed as he is that she ran from him, Lucas is still a gentleman. He gets out of the car, walks around, and unlocks the truck gate. He hands the keys to Marlowe as he pushes up the hydraulic lifts. "Unlock the front door."
Marlowe takes the keys, nods, and leaves.
Lucas tenses like a coiled steel spring. He scrapes out the boxes and slams the truck bed cover. He isn't sure what to do. He has run out of polite and civilized options; everything he has in mind involves locking a door, grabbing Marlowe, and quite possibly taking her over his knee. Lucas heaves a deep breath. His anger and his animated thoughts make him think twice about the whole situation. He doesn't relish the idea of being with a woman that he has to treat like a child. That is why he is going to go to bed and think about it a third time. Marlowe isn't childish. But she is complicated and difficult and . . . challenging, he decides finally. She isn't coy; she is really and truly challenging. As he steps over the threshold of the house, Lucas pauses over a sudden realization: it is her challenge, her grit, which make him want her so much.
He closes the front door softly and turns the locks, observing the silence of the house. Roderick and Tamara have retired to their bedroom; he can hear the faint thump of footsteps overhead. He moves toward the kitchen but stops before he takes two steps. The dim light of the table lamp washes over the kitchen floor tile like a spotlight. Marlowe is in there.
It isn't safe for him to be alone with her, not in his current frame of mind. But he has to do something with the pastry boxes. He snaps the tape on the lid of the top box. He frowns. Ice cream is melting all over the cardboard. He has to go to the fridge.
Lucas takes a breath and strides through the silent living room. When he arrives at the kitchen, he makes a beeline for the refrigerator, shoves the boxes in, and turns to make his exit.
"Tea?"
The single word is clipped and curt, but it rings in the spacious kitchen like a mayday shouted from a mountaintop. Lucas hears in Marlowe's voice something that he has never heard before: trepidation. He turns slowly towards her. She is hovering over the stove in bare feet and that gorgeous pink dress, her back displayed for him like a living canvas. She shifts and glances at him over her shoulder.
"Yes," Lucas murmurs.
"Five minutes," Marlowe replies. "Sit down."
He doesn't sit down. He moves toward the counter next to the refrigerator and falls against it with a soft thud, shoving his hands in his pockets, watching her, waiting.
He doesn't have to wait long. "I'm sorry," Marlowe says. There is nothing polite or polished about her now. Her apology seems ripped right out of her gut.
Lucas swallows, considering. He respects her. It is the kind of thing he would have done: cut right to the chase, apologize without preamble or explanation. He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip as he makes his decision. He can let her keep her privacy, for now, as long as he is somehow a part of it. He just can't stand to be left outside. He's spent all of his life outside, watching people from a distance. It is cold territory. "Okay. Apology accepted."
Marlowe whirls around, the skirt of her dress playing softly over her thighs. "Okay?" she repeats, incredulous. "That's it?"
Lucas shrugs. "That's it. We're back on level ground. Where we go next is up to you."
Marlowe's eyelashes flutter wildly; she turns back to the stove. The words are vague but the meaning is totally clear: Lucas is propositioning her. It isn't romantic; it isn't sexual. It is something nebulous that involves both of those things and much more. It is a statement of intent. And he wants to know, right now, what her intentions are.
She didn't plan for this. She came into the kitchen expecting him to show up, expecting to apologize for being rude even though she hadn't meant to be. She expected to make him some tea, thank him for a nice time, and insist on reimbursing half the check so that she could share in the gift he'd made to Roderick and Tamara for hosting them. She expected him to give up on her - hadn't she made it perfectly clear, especially by virtue of her sudden outburst, that she wasn't interested?
The wheels in her head turn as Marlowe stares at the hiccupping tea kettle. Or did she give him reason to believe that she was interested with the way she fell into his arms and let him hug her? Hold you, her mind corrects. Embrace you. Marlowe heaves a deep sigh. Whatever her thoughts, she feels that she would go to bed happy if he held her like that again. She shivers, yet again.
"You're cold."
"Nope," Marlowe replies quickly.
But Lucas is already moving up behind her. Without warning, he rubs his hands slowly up and down the length of her arms.
Pull away, she thinks. You have to do it now. But again, she feels differently; she feels that his touch is not enough. She wants what she had before: the feast of affection. Her feelings lead her where her mind will not. She turns and buries her face against his shoulder.
Lucas' arms immediately go around her, without question or hesitation. Her relaxation is complete as it had not been before; he takes advantage of the opportunity to gather her as close as he desires to. He kisses the top of her head, leans in and whispers, "I'll hold you all night if you want me to."
Marlowe's arms are folded and flattened against his chest. She turns her head to the side and huffs, blowing a stray curl out of her eye. "I don't know what I want. I need to think about it."
"You think too much." He releases her as soon as she pulls away. She backs up and collides with the stove; her arms grope blindly, seeking purchase. "Don't put your hands there; it's hot." Lucas advances and clicks off the burner under the boiling kettle. As quick as a snake striking, he latches onto her waist and slides her body along the edge of the counter until she is nestled in the corner. He brackets her with his arms and leans in very close to her face. "Don't run from me."
"Don't boss me," Marlowe retorts.
"Please don't run from me," he corrects impatiently.
"Please?" Marlowe snorts. "Everything you say to me sounds like a command." She looks him up and down and then fearlessly leans in even closer. "I don't like that," she remarks in a silky, dark tone. "Who the hell do you think you are? I already have a daddy. . ." Her biting remark lodges in her throat like a stone. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, but it's too late. The tears come anyway.
Lucas' heart stops to see her fine featured face muddled with conflicting emotions. She is contrary, unrepentant, grieving, needy, and ashamed of her need. Tears streak down her cheeks like silk thread and yet her eyes are as hot as coals. He draws her into his arms and holds her again, stroking her back with his thumb, quieting her.
He understands now why she fled from him. She doesn't want him to see her like this: out of bounds, out of control. That which is sadness for some is for others a loss of life, a wound to the heart that won't stop bleeding. Marlowe's heart is one that holds on forever, one that bleeds forever. Lucas has that same kind of heart.
"I need a cigarette," Marlowe mumbles, sniffing.
"You need me."
Marlowe struggles to free herself. "Let go."
"Quiet," he says softly. "Stop saying things you don't mean."
Marlowe goes limp. Her rational mind can't accept the fact of this man talking to her as though he knows her, as though there is no need to observe the usual rules. She doesn't understand his freedom but she feels his power. Lucas says what he means and does what he pleases. A tiny spark lights inside of her in the cold confused place where she has lived for years. An awkward crack of laughter escapes her lips. "I don't even really like you."
Lucas smiles. This is what he wants: the real Marlowe Ross, immediate and unfiltered. He releases her, but she doesn't move away. She pushes her shoulders back and squares up in front of him. "I'm not sure if I like you either," Lucas replies. "You're difficult."
"You're bossy."
"So are you."
"You're white."
"You're my best friend's sister."
Marlowe pauses. That wasn't an accusation so much as an admission of his concerns. She realizes suddenly what it has cost him to tread lightly around her, to observe conventions that he doesn't really respect. "You do like me. A lot," she murmurs.
"Yes." He doesn't hesitate or falter with embarrassment. He simply looks at her.
"Why?"
Lucas shrugs. "I don't know why. I could give you a list of reasons but they wouldn't add up to how I feel when I'm around you." He shakes his head and sticks his hands in his pockets. "You feel good on."
Marlowe's brow creases. "What?"
"You feel good on." He stops and clears his throat, searching for words. "Do you have a favorite jacket? It's old, beat up, practically a piece of junk. But every time you stick your arms in, it's the perfect fit. It feels good on. That's what I mean."
Marlowe snorts. "I don't know if you're really deep or really simple."
"I'm really simple," Lucas replies. "And even though you think way too much, you're simple too. You love hard, you fight hard, and you'll probably die hard. But not from grief," he says carefully. "You wake up with it everyday, don't you? Everyday, like it just happened the day before."
She frowns, stares at him, huffs, and then falls silent. "I can't afford to be sad all the time. I'm a teacher. My kids . . ." Marlowe trails off, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Your kids have disabilities," Lucas supplies.
"Disabilities? No." She laughs gruffly. "Not unless you call being hard-headed a disability. They're remedial kids at a juvenile facility. Petty theft, assault, stuff like that. Girls with problems."
Not retarded, Lucas corrects silently. Remedial. "You're not just a teacher. You're a person. People have feelings. If you run from them, they'll catch up to you. They'll jump you and claw at your face like a wild animal. You shouldn't hold things in."
Marlowe opens her mouth to speak, stops, takes a step, and then turns in a circle. "Why are you talking to me like that?" she snaps.
"Like what? Telling you the truth? What do people usually tell you?"
Spilt milk, Mo. That's what they say to her. Get over it. Don't be so sad; don't be so angry. See a shrink; take a pill. Act right before it's too late. "I miss them. I would cut out my heart and serve it up on a plate to get them back. It's not supposed to hurt so much, but it does." She swipes her hand across her nose. "But that's what they say - let it go, Mo."
Lucas studies her carefully. She's too calm. She's sad but it's a quiet sadness like an old bruise. It isn't the sharp pain that he saw in the car, the pain that sent her stumbling to the ladies' room. "Tell me what's really bothering you." His eyes are as sharp as screws boring into hers.
Marlowe looks away and then turns away, moving towards the stove. And suddenly she is hemmed in against the counter again. Lucas' hands fall hard on either side of her, his arms unyielding.
"Don't run," he demands softly. His eyes seek a link with hers while her gaze drifts to every place in the room but his face.
Finally, Marlowe heaves a breath and looks him right in the eyes. "You actually get by in life treating people like this?"
"Answer my question."
"Answer mine."
"I asked first."
"'Ladies first' is the saying."
Lucas' lip twitches. "I don't usually talk to people like this."
"Sure you don't."
"Usually I don't talk this much because I don't care enough, or because people are typically very forthcoming with all the stupid things that pop into their heads." He thinks of Sara Brasher-Meadows; he grins. "Most people are careless. Most people are easy. Answer my question," he finishes, not missing a beat.
All the stupid things that pop into their heads, Marlowe repeats silently. She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. "I'm tired of talking."
"Great. Me too. We can move on to the not talking portion of the program if you want, but you have to tell me sooner or later."
Marlowe frowns. "How'd you come up with that? I don't have to tell you anything."
Lucas stares at her for a long time before speaking. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but I have serious designs on you. Life and death serious," he murmurs, moving a fraction of an inch closer to her face. "I'm not a big talker, but I want you to confide in me. I was hoping that you would go ahead and do it so we can move on to bigger and better things."
"What things?" she asks caustically.
"'Show' then 'tell' is the saying." He closes the gap between them another half an inch.
"You got some kind of nerve, white boy," Marlowe snaps. "If you think I won't slap you into the middle of next week, you better think again."
Lucas pulls back and takes a long careful look at her. His eyes are as cool and matte as platinum. "If you're not attracted to me, say so. Say it right now or drop it."
Marlowe adjusts her stance against the counter, considering him. She lets her gaze roam over the almost geometrical angles of his face, too harsh to be handsome but too compelling to be overlooked. He has too many lashes around his owlish grey eyes, as though his face needed something soft to compensate for its overwhelming starkness. It is the kind of face that women spend hours thinking about, wondering what sharp thoughts he's hiding behind his seemingly sleepy bedroom eyes. "You're attractive, alright? But attractive ain't everything. I need to think about it."
It is as honest an answer as she can give. He accepts it because he wants her to come to him with complete confidence, or not at all. "Sleep on it," Lucas says softly before kissing her on the cheek.
He is nearly out of the kitchen when he stops and turns around. Marlowe is still standing where he left her, nestled in the intersection of the countertops, her head framed by a row of glass fronted cabinets. "I didn't tell you how you look tonight. Good enough to eat," Lucas says, his sandpapered tenor gritty and jagged with frustrated desire. "I'll put that on the to-do list for next time." And he walks out, leaving Marlowe with her red aura flashing like a flare.
