Descendant Read online

  “Okay,” he said, putting the car in drive.

  “Have you decided where we are going?” I asked. It was wonderful being with him again, even if we were to sit in his car all afternoon.

  “We’re taking a road trip.” His brows rose teasingly.

  “A road trip? Should I warn my mom that you’re abducting me?” Being around him made me feel playful, not invisible like I was accustomed to.

  He drove out onto the road heading northwest of Allegany County. He pressed the power button, illuminating the dashboard as the sounds of a popular ballad echoed through the speakers. Michael reached over and took my hand in his. A warmth trickled through my spine, into my legs, eventually settling on the tips of my toes. His soft caresses touched my wrist, then my palm until he twined his fingers with mine, slowly lifting my hand to his full lips.

  I rested my head against the seat, watching him and nothing else. I had no idea where we were heading, and I didn’t care. I never felt this way about anything, including the ivories, and they were my only passion growing up, until now. The irresistible sensation was a refreshing change for me. This new emotion made me ache for him. He didn’t need to make conversation with me—I didn’t feel the need to say much to him. The silence was fittingly comfortable. I just knew we were perfect together. And I think he did, too.

  “Would you like to know where I’m taking you?” He leaned closer to me, resting his shoulder on mine.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I murmured honestly, watching him, although the suspense was killing me.

  Michael’s laughter was pure and sincere. Every sound of his voice brought me closer to falling in love with him. I knew nothing about him, yet he took my breath away, capturing my heart, my mind and body.

  “Since we have a ways to drive, tell me something about yourself, Elizabeth Anne Morgan,” his melodic voice sang.

  I felt compelled by his magnitude to tell him my story. My entire story from my childhood, and the time my father left, to the night the voices started. However, the fear that he’d find me different or offbeat stopped me from being totally honest with him. I didn’t have a choice but to steer away from my secret. I adjusted my posture on the buttery seats, uncomfortable with the idea of discussing my life. The story of me was never easy to tell. I am different. I’m complex. I’m a freak who hears voices and sees spirits.But is that what I want him to know about me?I thought, as the soulful voice of Evanescence played through the car stereo. I bit into my lip nervously before telling him half my story.

  “Um, there isn’t much to tell, really. I don’t have a fascinating life. Never did. I don’t know what to say except I love my dog and playing the piano—always did.”

  “How about your friends?” he inquired. Flashbacks of Dr. Bates’s psychiatric evaluation flitted through my mind. I guessed Michael was making small talk. Perhaps, he just wanted to get to know me. So I let him in on a small portion of my real world but wouldn’t go any further.

  “Never had many friends. Just the few on my track team and the little guys at the music school I volunteer at. I was never good at making friends growing up.” I confessed looking out the window at the road. His fingers continued to stroke the back of my hand.

  “Perhaps, no one was worth your time. Sometimes, the few friends we make in life turn out to be the true friends. Honestly, it is difficult finding someone who can be trusted. Not everyone is good, Elizabeth.” The irony in this conversation made me squirm.Trust.Here we go again! I thought, as the word floated in my mind for a while.

  “Are you good?” I asked, wary of where the conversation was going.

  “You don’t need to worry with me.” He reassured me.

  “How will I know for sure? I hardly know anything about you.” I teased him.

  “You will know everything there is to know in time. Why rush? Just keep in mind that there are people out there who’ll try to take advantage of you. Keep your eyes open about who you let into your life, Elizabeth.” His brow creased as he pressed my hand.Is this a warning? Is he trying to tell me something, and if so, about who? Himself?

  I watched him, dazed, yet interested to find out more.

  “I’m letting you into my life. Should I worry? And how is it that you can tell this about me, Michael? I’ve never spoken to you about my life.” I provoked him with a ghost of a smile on my lips.

  “Some are easier to read than others.” He chortled.

  “Is that so?” I taunted him.

  “You’re an open book, Elizabeth,” he said tenderly.

  Embarrassed, I looked away wondering if he was right. Was I an open book? Could he see past my façade or, like Sam, did he have his friend Ben Franklin doing investigative work for him in the school records office?Who cares, I still get to spend the day with him, I thought to myself.

  A rupture of exhilaration was frothing in my chest at every joke he told, time he laughed, or melody he hummed. I wanted to scream with joy when his silky hand touched my chin and turned my face toward his. I remained paralyzed in his grip hoping he’d given in and kiss me.

  “Aren’t you a bit curious to know where I’m taking you?” he teased sweeping my hair behind my shoulder.

  “No, I’m not,” I replied biting my lip.

  “Not even a tiny bit.” He baited me.

  “Fine! Yes! I give up! The anticipation is killing me! Tell me where we are going! We’ve been driving for hours!” I finally demanded.

  “Agrigento’s,” he replied, both hands now on the steering wheel.

  “Agri who?” I answered unfamiliar with the word.

  “It’s in Buffalo.”

  “What’s in Buffalo? I asked quizzically.

  “Have you ever been there?” he asked narrowing his eyes. “To Buffalo?”

  “No. I never had any reason to go there.”

  “Do you ever go anywhere that doesn’t require a reason for a visit?” he cocked his head curiously.

  I thought about his question. My answer was obviously no.

  “I promise, you’ll enjoy it. Scout’s honor.” He crossed two fingers over his heart. I smiled, grateful to have this time with him in this small mobile space. The remainder of the trip was pleasant. We made small talk about our teachers at Houghton and concertos we had played at in the past.

  “How long have you played the piano?” Michael asked.

  Since I was five years old.”

  “Wow! That’s why you played so beautifully at mass.” His voice resonated like a melodic symphony.

  “Music’s my passion. I never liked sports or dance much. My only interest has been the piano. My dad was an exceptional pianist. I got my talent for the ivories from him.” I pressed my brows with the painful reminder. Michael stroked my cheek. “I run, too, when I need to clear my head.” I confessed. “And you? What’s your story?”

  “The long version or the short?” he pondered.

  Of course the long version, I thought to myself.

  “Whichever. I don’t want to pry into your private life.” I lied, of course, wanting to know every detail.

  He signaled to turn off where the sign read Buffalo—Exit 50. He flashed me an affectionate smile followed by a wink.

  “Are you hungry yet?” he asked, dodging my question. “The restaurant we are going to makes the best Carpaccio appetizer I’ve ever eaten.” I hesitated, having no inkling of this foreign food he spoke of.

  “Sure! It sounds delicious,” I fibbed.

  “You’ll like it. It’s thinly sliced pieces of beef tenderloin, marinated in extra-virgin olive oil and topped with fresh arugula in shaving of parmesan cheese, drizzled with lemon.”

  The words easily rolled off his tongue as he explained it, well aware of my pretenses. I was clueless. At times, the way he spoke had me baffled. He knew so much about everything, that for a young man, his wisdom seemed to span many lifetimes.

  Sitting beside me, he resembled an illusion—striking and masculine—occasionally glancing at me with his dark myste
rious eyes.

  Michael parked the car in front of a small bistro with the nameAgrigento’s gleaming in red lettering across its storefront. The charming bistro was as he described it during our two-hour ride to Buffalo. Inside, the atmosphere was rustic and the aroma blissful.

  A tall waiter with white hair and large blue eyes sat us at a table for two. He poured us each a glass of Pellegrino water and waited for our order. His heavy accent, I imagined, was probably from the same region the bistro was named after.

  “Buon Giorno, Michele, mi dica?” He directed his question to Michael with familiarity.

  “Buon Giorno, Alfredo. Un Carpaccioper la mia ragazza ed un’ insalata mista per me, per piacere,” he recited in the most romantic of tongues.

  My jaw popped open and remained there for what seemed like several embarrassing minutes. He carefully laid the cloth napkin across his lap, then reached over to place one on mine. There it was again. His mannerisms, like his speech, were mature and delicate for a guy of eighteen, unlike the slobbering idiots I’d gone to school with all my life.

  “Are you fine with the order or did you want something else?” he grinned, watching my baffled expression.

  “Italian?”

  “Yes, I thought I told you we were having Italian?” he cocked his head to one side.

  “No, I mean, you speak fluent Italian?”

  “And French, Portuguese, German, and Latin,” he boasted, pulling up one side of his lip in that sexy kind of way.

  “Impressive! Where did you learn to speak five languages?” I asked.

  “Six, don’t forget English!” he winked.

  “Show-off!” I tossed my napkin at him but he caught it midair and placed it back onto my lap. His etiquette was almost regal.

  “So tell me about you and Freddie?” Michael asked out of left field. His question caught me by surprise. Why would he want to know about Freddie?

  “What about me and Freddie?” I stuttered, looking down at my red napkin.

  “How did you two meet?” He asked, taking a sip of his water.

  “We met in the fourth grade. We’ve been friends ever since. Why?” I questioned furrowing my brows at him.

  “He’s infatuated with you.” Michael whispered staring at me.

  I blinked. “No he’s not. That’s just Freddie’s personality.” I responded, feeling flushed. Michael smiled, never taking his eyes off me. I heard first dates were hard. Never imagining that they were nail biting hard. Stirring nervously in my seat, I twisted the corners of the red and white checkered tablecloth. It was all I could do to stop me from biting my nails or my lip. I wasn’t used to being the topic of conversations. I’ve always felt invisible. Not pretty, like Mr. Harley’s claim of the sultry Hollywood actress. Yet, I wondered how I sat here, with my beautiful stranger having lunch in a city far from home.

  Alfredo came out in time to interrupt my thoughts. He set our plates down and waited momentarily for our approval. Michael nodded, and the pleasant waiter scampered toward the kitchen. At first glance, I wasn’t sure of what to make of my meal. Michael watched as I sampled small pieces of the thin tenderloin. Surprisingly, it was tasty. Lemony. Michael smiled taking a fork full of mixed greens.

  “You’re right. This is delicious,” I said, shoving pieces of arugula in my mouth like Freddie would. “Sorry,” I giggled nervously, chewing the tasty meal.

  “Glad you like it.”

  After devouring our lunch, Michael ordered some gelato and fresh berries. An exotic

  brunette sauntered over to our table with our desserts. Her almond eyes raked over Michael.

  “Eh, simpatico, dove sei stato? Non ti fai vedere piu?” She openly flirted with him.

  “I’ve been busy with classes. You’re looking all grown-up,” he smiled back.

  “Chi e’ la tua amica?”she nodded her head toward me.

  “Elizabeth, this is Vivienne.”

  “Ah! You are Elizabeth, eh? Pleasure to meet you,” she said with lush Mediterranean accent. For a moment, I wondered what Michael said about me that pushed her for our introduction. Perhaps, the Mediterranean beauty was an ex-girlfriend or someone from his past, in the life he lived before I knew him. In the life I was curious to know more about. Questions about his past hummed tunelessly in my mind as voices arose and chanted,Does he bring all his dates here? Is he dating other girls besides you, Elizabeth? Does he think of this sensual brunette while he’s with you? Does he tell the others that they are beautiful like he tells you? Does he stroke their hands like he does yours?–The voices abruptly stopped as Vivienne flirtatiously winked at Michael and slowly walked away swaying her hips while Michael’s eyes remained on me.

  I cleared my throat feeling a bit uncomfortable with the accusations the voices tossed around in my head.

  Michael caught me glaring at her. “What wrong?” He asked.

  “It appears thatVivienne may have a thing for you.”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about. She’s Alfredo’s daughter and like a little sister to me.” I couldn’t help but laugh, as jealousy toward the stunning European boiled in me.

  After lunch, the sun shone brightly in Buffalo, making the day pleasantly warm for this time of year. We walked to nearby Nottingham Court, where the beautiful portico overlooked the North Bay of Delaware Park Lake. The sight was sensational, and the cool air was refreshing against my face. We stood shoulder to shoulder, quietly admiring the sun’s glistening reflection on the silky lake. He turned to rest his body against the concrete pillars, head tilted back, as he closed his eyes from the sun’s strong rays.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked staring up at him.

  “Lots of things, but mostly how nice it is to be here . . . with you.” He lowered his head until his eyes met mine. My forehead creased with speculation.

  “Me?” I said dubiously.

  “Yes, you,” he simply stated. I was happy. Too many years had gone by since I last felt happiness. I missed smiling. Although, Freddie made me smile, it wasn’t from my heart. I hadn’t smiled, really smiled since my ninth birthday. I feared I had forgotten what it was like to smile, genuinely. But with Michael, it all came back.

  “You said I can ask you anything, right?”

  “Um, that all depends,” he replied playfully.

  I stared at him waiting for a more serious response.

  “Yes, I did,” he continued more earnestly.

  “Why me?” I had to know.

  “Why you?” he asked puzzled.

  “Why are you here with me? Why wouldn’t you be with someone like Vivienne, who is beautiful and sexy and obviously into you? Why me and not the beauty queens at school like Sophie or Annie?” I questioned him, anxious to hear his reply. Michael could pass as the type to flaunt a stunning beauty on his arm, like Samantha, a debutante like Annie, or a more popular and feminine type, like Sophie. I never imagined him to be with someone as ordinary as me. Someone who’s never turned heads, or gotten an occasional whistle out of a guy, let alone ever asked on a date. Invisible me. Ordinary me. Crazy me.

  He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Give yourself some credit, Elizabeth. You are much more than they’ll ever be. My grandmother always taught me one very important lesson. Never to settle for ordinary. Always aim for the extraordinary.” He bent forward and kissed my cheek. I quivered, unable to take my eyes off him. Yes! I was happy.

  “Where did you come from?” I smiled a sincere, I desiring to know everything there is to know about you, smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where are you from? Your accent. Obviously, you’re not born here, so where did you grow up? Inquiring mind wants to know.” I winked.

  “That’s fair––you did tell me a bit about yourself. Where shall I begin?” he rubbed his chin. “I come from a small fishing village called Clovelly in Devon, England. It was once the home of the famous author Charles Kingsley.”

  “What’s it like there?” I asked, admiring the lilt in his
voice.

  “The best way for me to describe Clovelly, is in Sir Kingsley’s own words, ‘Suddenly a hot gleam of sunlight fell upon the white cottages, with their grey streaming roofs and little scraps of garden courtyard and lighting up the wings of the gorgeous butterflies which fluttered from the woodland down to the garden.’"

  “That’s beautiful.” I whispered. “Tell me more.”

  “I am one of four boys. Both my eldest brothers still live in Devon with my ailing father. Mum passed away when I was ten years old,” he whispered, bowing his head at the mention of his mother, as if he was paying homage to someone sacred. “Shortly after, my father sent both, me and my younger brother to Chavagnes, a boarding school in the west of France.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mom. I don’t know what I’d do without mine.” “It was years ago, and it was difficult, especially for my father and youngest brother.”

  “You mentioned that your older brothers are with your dad in Devon. Did your younger brother remain in France then?”

  “No. He died while away at boarding school.” He turned away.

  I reached out and caressed his arm. The tragedies each one of us endured—Sam, Michael, and I—at such young ages were spine-chilling in regard to our parents. He smiled and turned his body again to face the setting Buffalo sun.

  The sunset was brilliant, as the winter air began to cool. Passersby hurried to catch their buses for their evening commute home. One gentleman in particular caught my eye, wearing a long dark overcoat, he walked slowly past us. His pale face and colorless eyes held mine as he levitated somewhat off the ground. Chills slithered up my legs and under my skin, forcing an uncontrollable shiver to swamp my body as I stared at the strange man. Michael, impervious to what was happening, continued to stare out at the lake, absorbed in his own tribulations. I unwillingly, darted my attention back to this horrific man, who before boarding the bus, took one last look at me and grinned, baring razor sharp teeth and black gums. Immediately I turned away, as fear wrapped its icy hands around my flesh. I stepped closer to Michael, looking for some protection, hoping to keep my cool, until I involuntarily began choking. Nervously, I gasped for air, touching my neck, feeling the diabolical presence shackling its fingers around it, purposely to obstruct my airways. I fought to breathe. Wide-eyed with horror, I watched the wicked man wave morbidly from the bus window, as it pulled away. And as it happened once before, at Sam’s house, the force released me as I deeply inhaled the cold air, causing me to cough persistently. Michael, unsuspectingly, turned to me and without hesitation, pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms around my trembling shoulders.