The Dragon's Mistress

Rush Gladwell was a man of patience, a trait that he had had to develop a long time ago. He had gone through a difficult childhood as the son and eldest child of a Glaswegian shipyard worker, having to work two jobs to put himself and his two sisters through school, while his father drank most of his earnings away. It ended for naught when he ended up the sole survivor of a road accident that took his family and left him with a permanent limp in his right leg. He had earned enough money to move to America, get into Yale Law on scholarship and establish a life and career. He had gone through a divorce made messy by a woman who had loved his money and had even raised his son on his own, keeping custody at a hefty price, all while maintaining his earned repute as the most sought after district attorney in the state. Lydia had never loved him; she had not hesitated to throw that information in his face, even while using their son as leverage to get as much money out of the divorce from him as she could. 

Rush had sustained all of these with an inscrutable face and a small smile, exercising his patience to its greatest extent while keeping his temper in check. His son had taken a long time to warm up to his father, unable to understand why his mother was thrusting him into the arms of a stranger who felt so different. Rush had kept his anger at Lydia or anyone else tightly chained; his beautiful boy needed no reason to fear him.

And he was indeed, a lovely boy. He had taken more to Lydia in his features, his only physical quality echoing his father’s being his dark eyes. However, as he grew, Rush had found a number of his lesser known traits in the boy, filling him with glowing pride: his wry wit, his tolerance for changes, his love for learning. He had even picked up a light accent in his speech, not as strong as his father’s, but still enough to be perceptible. Rush also saw the differences between them just as starkly as he saw the similarities, for which he was quietly grateful. His Balfour needed none of the darkness that his father had; he did not need to follow in his father’s reputation for being hard, ruthless and unforgiving, all cold smiles and lightly-spoken threats.

That reputation will protect him. Any repute that Rush Gladwell gathered for himself was for Balfour. If he was powerful enough, nothing could take his boy from him like Lydia had tried to.

That reputation, however, would have been questioned by anyone who could see him at that moment. Rush was a picture of immaculate neatness: wearing his black Armani like it was armor, greying hair falling precisely to his shoulders, shoes pristine, silver ring gleaming on the fingers holding his cane. Said fingers were currently tapping an unconscious rhythm as he glanced out the window for the fifth time, a muscle jumping anxiously in his jaw.

Balfour was out playing soccer with his friends Henry Swann, Gerold Wood, Alexa Cinder and Paige Jefferson. They were good children and frequented the house to meet up for study work; any other pursuits were often taken elsewhere. Rush was also familiar enough with their families to trust them with his son and he had unspoken leverage over them should anything happen to him. So he stood alone in his living room, limping between his couch and the window like a caged beast, frequently peeking out and checking the Rolex on his wrist.

Five years. It’s been five years. Is that enough time for a person to be forgiven?

A knock shook him out of his thoughts and he stilled, his finger frozen mid-tap. The knock was a smart and confident tattoo on his door, unlike the demure taps he remembered from so long ago. He limped to the door and opened it with trepidation. The vision before him made him catch his breath.

She hadn’t changed as much as he had feared she had. Russet hair spilled over her shoulders, framing the lovely face that he recalled with fondness and regret. She even still wore blue, albeit in a light cardigan and a tea dress instead of the t shirts, skirts and old jeans he recalled her in. But she was also so different. Her hair was longer, falling in loose curls over her shoulders rather than tossed up in a rough ponytail. Her frame was slimmer like she had lost weight, though not in an unhealthy way. But what struck him most was how she held herself much taller than she had when he had first known her.

Then a girl, now a woman.

She smiled, the expression stretching across her face, lighting it up like sunshine. “Hello, Mr. Gladwell,” she said, her Australian twang so contrasting to his thick Scottish brogue.

He blinked, realizing that he was standing in his doorway, openly staring at her. “Good day, Miss Forrest,” he said, keeping his tone pleasant and formal as he stepped aside to let her in. He noticed her glancing around as she followed him into the living room.

“It’s not so different,” he remarked, his mouth curving in a half-smile.

The old her would have blushed and stammered a reply, but she was changed, older. “No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “I thought it may have changed.”

“A bit here and there,” he replied casually. “New pictures in the frames, a soccer trophy or two, different curtains, but otherwise the same old place, lair of the dragon and his boy.”

She grinned, her eyes twinkling in the same mischievous manner in which they used to whenever he ordered a cup of Earl Grey and she added a spoon of honey just the way he liked it without him asking.

“They still call you the dragon here?”

“Old reputations die hard.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly to which Rush merely smiled. But you were never afraid, shy maybe, but never afraid.

“It is good to see you again, Mr. Gladwell,” she said, sitting down on the loveseat.

“And you, Miss Forrest,” he replied sincerely, settling on the sofa opposite to her and propping his cane on the armrest. He gestured to the arrangement on the coffee table. “Tea?” he offered.

Her smile was knowing. “You’re testing me,” she remarked.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She laughed and pulled the tea arrangement towards herself. “Allow me.”

“By all means,” he replied, gesturing in a grand flourish. Rush watched silently, trying to mask the fondness creeping across his features. She poured the steaming tea into two china cups, expertly stirring in the correct amounts of milk and sugar into the concoction. A grin twisted across his lips when she squeezed exactly two drops of lemon into one cup and added half a spoon of honey into the other. She handed him his cup with a proud smile, which widened when he took a long sip and sighed in satisfaction.

“A masterpiece, just as always,” he complimented.

“Old reputations die hard,” she echoed him teasingly. “How is Balfour?” she asked.

“He’s doing well,” replied Rush, taking another sip. “He’s fourteen years old now, still a smart-mouthed troublemaker.”

“Still half a genius, then?” she asked cheekily. “The only boy in his class who knew the name of every star in the sky?”

“The astronomy phase passed. Now, it’s mechanics. He’s taken to taking things apart to figure out how they work.”

“That’s a wonderful hobby.”

“A wonderful hobby until he forgets how to put it back together.”

“How is he doing in his classes?” she asked.

“Wonderfully, top in his grade in everything except his English lessons. He can solve equations, write basic programs and take the telly apart, but try and get him to read Hamlet, he’s obstinate enough to be near failing his classes.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“He says that learning Shakespeare and reading about dead poets and essayists is not going to tell him how to build his short-wave radio.”

Her brows flew up into her fringe. “He’s building a short-wave radio?”

“New project. I encourage him, but I’d prefer if he would scrape through his tests as he does so.”

“And that’s what I’m here for,” she said confidently, placing her empty cup on the table between them. “He just needs to learn to love the language. I think we can get through to him.”

Rush felt strangely old looking at her poised stance. She had frequented his house many times all those years ago back when she was still working as a part-time housekeeper, often enough for people to start whispering rumors and fabricate stories about the dragon luring in helpless maidens. She had doted upon Balfour and the boy had adored her, even to the extent of making her cards on Valentine’s Day. The boy would hand them to her with a shy smile and a red lollipop and she would accept them with a laugh and a kiss on his cheek. The sight had endeared Rush just as much as it had made him internally flame with jealousy, and he had been so disgusted with himself. A grown man jealous of a little boy, and that too, over a girl just a few years out of high school. While he had felt young and free of the burdens of his life and reputation whenever he spoke to her or made her laugh, there were also sudden moments when she had made him feel so old. She never intended to, but her innocence and the difference in their ages had always struck him them.  

Which was why I pushed her away in the first place.

“Well, I can assure you that you have far more chance of getting through to him than I do,” Rush assured with a dry smile. “I even stooped to the low of bribery, but he’s not falling for it. He saw right through it.”

Her mouth twisted in a smile. “He’s like his father, sees through any ploy put before him.”

“A bit too much like his old man sometimes,” Rush sighed, though he was smiling as well. “Tempting him with an Xbox would have worked last year.”

“Not so much anymore, and you’re not that old, Mr. Gladwell.”

“I’ve got more gray hairs than you, Miss Forrest,” he replied, “and like I said, there’s a much greater chance of him listening to you than to me.”

“Balfour remembers me?”

“He still has the pictures.”

She smiled fondly. “I still have the cards.”

“He’ll be pleased to hear that,” Rush nodded, “though I think he has his eye on Jefferson’s girl now.”

She sighed heavily in mock-sadness. “Balfour Gladwell, I always knew that he would break my heart.” She chuckled as Rush laughed aloud. “But that’s good. It’s good that he’s got friends his age. He used to be such a loner.”

“Yes, but that changed a few years ago.” After you left. After I sent you away to live your life instead of keeping you like I wanted to. “He decided that making friends in school was not such a bad idea, after all.”

“Good for him.”

“And what about you, Miss Forrest?” he asked, keeping his tone airy. “From what I hear, it looks like you’ve moved back for good.” You came back.

“This is my home, Mr. Gladwell,” she replied. “I was always going to come back.”

Rush tried not to read too much into her words. “And you’ve settled in? You’re staying with someone?” He found himself glancing surreptitiously at her hands and noticing the conspicuous lack of rings on her fingers, except that little silver one with the blue stone she had worn even when she was a girl.

“I’m staying with Rissy for now until I get settled into my apartment. It’s just the last pieces of paperwork; then, I can move in.”

“I was surprised that you answered the ad,” he confessed. An absent tap had started up on the head of his cane again as he watched her. She’s staying. She’s not going to leave.

“I wasn’t planning to waitress and housekeep forever,” she said pointedly. “I went to college and I studied literature. You know of how much I’ve always loved books. I decided to take up teaching and got a license. I now teach the fourth graders at the elementary school and have decided to take up tutoring in the evenings. I can start whenever you like.”

She looked so bright and lovely in the sunlight, a vivid mix of blue, gold and russet, a woman as opposed to the shy, but sweet girl she had been. A woman perhaps, but still one with so much life ahead, far too good for an old man with so much baggage.

“You can even start today if you like,” he found himself saying. “I’m sure that you would be a wonderful teacher. You always had such a way with people, especially with Balfour.” And me. You were everything I needed and even now, you’re far too good for me to try and keep you. You shouldn’t have to be the dragon’s mistress.

Her face softened. “I’ve grown up, Rush,” she said quietly.

He swallowed the tight lump growing in his throat. “I can see that, Belle.”

She tilted her head to one side, watching him with a strange expression. “I thought about you often,” she confessed, “while I was away.”

Rush felt a giddy happiness at her words that ought to have not been there at all. “Did you?”

“I did.” Her tone was frank, her face not betraying anything particular, “about why you do the things you do.”

He blinked, trying to keep his calm composure. Belle Forrest had always managed to confuse him with even the simplest of actions, but she had never been so blatantly cryptic. Still, he kept his cool, trying to sate the little flicker of hope in his chest. “And?” he asked.

“Everything has a reason,” she said simply.

Rush drank in the sight of her, her gentle colors lighting up his gray world. She always forgave. She was always the better person.  He dropped his silent pretenses and replied honestly, “I missed you every day.”

Belle turned her eyes to her knees, circling her fingers ever each other, an old habit that he had always found as endearing as he had found it irritating. She glanced up at him then, a smile on her lips.

“You won’t need to anymore. I’ll be here more often from now on, for Balfour.”

She was changed and he was changed: he, still older and carrying his burdens, and she, brighter, stronger and more radiant than he had ever known her. Life only gives lost things back to you for a reason.

“Of course,” he nodded. “For Balfour.”