Hilary changed tactics as she sat down at the table next to Megan. Her voice became soothing. “A man like that doesn’t think about relationships in the same way that you would, Meg. He’s only out for his own gratification and he’s not going to give a damn if you get hurt along the way. He doesn’t even live here in Chicago.” Megan started in surprise. When Hilary noticed, she pushed her point home. “He didn’t even tell you, did he? He only lives in that penthouse for about a month out of the year.”
Megan refused to let Hilary know how much her words hurt. Christian wasn’t even a permanent resident here? “How do you know so much about him?”
“Tons of people in the neighborhood know about him. He’s our resident celebrity.” She sighed when she saw Megan’s bewilderment. “I know you prefer a book to television or Hollywood gossip, so I can easily believe that you would never have heard of Christian Lasher. What I can’t believe is that a man like Lasher didn’t brag about how famous he is—or infamous, as the case may be—even if he likely did delete the parts about his host of love-affairs with string of starlets and models, each of which lasts for about the duration of a TV sitcom,” Hilary remarked scathingly.
Megan stood abruptly, knocking the table with her thighs. Terry started back in surprise. Her sister’s news had struck her like an unexpected blow. “I’m really tired, Hilary. I’m going to bed.”
Hilary shared a worried look with her husband. “I’m sorry if what I said hurt you Megan. But it’s better you should know the truth now, instead of later, when it would be much more painful for you,” Hilary said softly. “You’re not like him.”
Her ears rang in the silence as she recalled saying something similar to Christian last Saturday. She didn’t know if what Hilary said clarified his enigmatic statement or made it even more confusing. “Maybe I’m not like him. But I’m not as different from him as you and Terry and Mom and half of the people in St. Cat’s Parish would probably think, either. Don’t you think it’s time we stopped letting Henry Nightingale determine my identity? I’m not a victim, Hilary.”
Megan ignored her sister’s look of stunned bewilderment and kissed her on the cheek. She walked to her front door.
“Give Emily a kiss for me,” she said as she opened the door and stood beside it with calm determination. Hilary and Terry had little choice but to say goodnight and file past her.
Her posture sagged when she was alone at last. Hilary’s harsh words buzzed in her mind like a dangerous insect. She hadn’t felt confident enough to defend Christian and that bothered her more than anything. Had she not defended him because part of her believed in the probability of at least some of Hilary’s accusations? Not the part that he was a braggart or that his previous love affairs lasted for a half hour.
Wasn’t that about the period of time it took to have sex? Megan groaned when she finally recognized the level of promiscuity of which Hilary was accusing Christian.
“She’s bluffing,” Megan muttered to herself. She got out of her clothes, put on a short cotton nightgown, brushed her teeth and washed her face before she climbed wearily into bed. There was no way that Hilary could reliably know those things.
There was little doubt that Hilary would go to extremes to protect Megan. She’d done it for the better part of their childhood—ever since Nightingale Daycare, ever since Henry Nightingale. In other words, ever since before Megan had consistent memories. Hilary certainly didn’t show signs of stopping now that Megan was twenty-six years old.
Still, she’d seemed entirely confident when she made the remark about Christian not even living in Chicago.
She turned restlessly in bed. Images of the intimacy she’d shared with Christian over the past week playing across her mind’s eye, haunting her. Would he really say such tender things to her and touch her with something close to reverence when he planned to leave Chicago in a few weeks, or even a few days?
“Of course he would, you fool,” she murmured into the darkness. Hilary was right about one thing. She and Christian undoubtedly were oceans apart in their understanding and expectations regarding sex.
She heard Christian’s exasperated voice in her mind. Christ, Megan, you do know about boy meets girl, right?
She smiled sadly into her pillow. Maybe that was the problem. She really didn’t know much about “boy meets girl”. She’d been spoon-fed “boy hurts girl” since she was three years old. She instinctively knew that Christian was incapable of that kind of hurt.
Heartbreak was different. Megan was achingly aware that Christian had the potential to cause her that kind of pain.
* * * * *
Christian checked his cell phone and irritably tossed it onto his made bed. He pulled a clean T-shirt out of his bureau and shrugged it on.
Seth and he had just finished up with an intensely productive writing session. He was excited that he’d finally persuaded Seth about the new direction he wanted to take their music. The other guys in Lasher Down weren’t likely going to agree, but Christian was resolved to that and all the other flack that was going to hit when he broke up a five-time Grammy-Award winning band just when most critics said that they were at the pinnacle of their talent and creativity.
Seth was the one Christian cared the most about, the only one that would have had the power to make him stay put in his career. Megan had been right. Figuring out a compromise had been worth it. Not only was Seth the most talented musician he knew, he loved him like a brother. Leaving Lasher Down without him would have seemed like a betrayal, not to mention downright selfish on Christian’s part.
He knew that Seth’s style would be perfect for the amalgamation of blues and rock that he had in mind for his new band. In fact, Seth’s unique talent was largely the inspiration for the music that was suddenly cascading through his mind, flowing through his fingers and surging in his throat.
It felt good to be alive again, creatively speaking.
His eyes went back to the phone on his bed. He’d tried to call Megan three times since Seth had left two hours ago. He was feeling as energetic and wired up as a teenaged boy.
A minute later, he tapped his hands impatiently on the granite surround of the doorman’s station. “Hey, Jeff, does Megan teach today?”
Jeff nodded. “Over at St. Cat’s.” The balding doorman checked his watch. “Kids get out in five minutes. You pumped about the block party next week?”
“Yeah, the tradition continues. Do you want tickets?” Christian asked, turning around in his charge out the front doors.
“I’m all set, but thanks. Later, Chris.”