Ill-Met By A Score of Chandeliers (Peter Parkman)

[Therese Lenoir (DELETED 5697)]

When his expression changed, it should have prepared her. She felt somehow as if she should have known, as soon as she saw his eyes become the eyes she had known, that this went far deeper than a potential for embarrassment. Perhaps her all-too-sheltered life had made her, by some odd reverse karma, too jaded to truly see pain when it was offered to her. Or too self-concerned to recognize and care. She watched him sit down, settle himself, watched the tension roll through him. An instant later, she wished for another seat as a surge of emotion rushed through her trembling form.

She was killed. She... she died.

Therese felt rocked to her core. They had been friends - she had liked- no, that was unworthy - she had truly cared for Lily. And somehow, she had not known. Whatever had happened, had happened, leaving a void where a friend had been, and Therese had gone on, leaving those that Lily had loved to shoulder the burden on their own. What could have happened, and why? That Arthur was not immediately forthcoming on the wherefores could have been delicacy. Therese could barely process the few words she had heard, after all. She felt tears coming to her eyes, blinked them away and swallowed against a hot, dry throat that didn't seem to want to be comforted.

The immediate shock, like a blow to the gut, receded a little, leaving a misty disbelief in its wake, tinged with grief. That mist made room for a flood of compassion and she said, "God, Arthur, I'm sorry. I didn't - what can I do?"

That was a dumb question, and she regretted it as soon as she said it, but she wasn't the sort of person who tried to take back what had already been said. Instead, she approached, slowly, and came to perch on the edge of the little table, close enough to hear even if what came next was difficult to say, but far enough away that she was still offering him his space.

"I mean..."

What did she mean? What was there to say? And as she considered that, her worst and wisest self poked her in the ribs and whispered, where is the rest of the story? If it's not about Lily, what had him so frightened a minute ago?

"Do you mind talking about it?"

Therese dug into her purse again, found the cigarettes, removed one, tried to remember if Arthur had smoked and offered him one anyway. The lighter was a little more hidden under the junk at the bottom of the purse, but she found it. She found her nerves needed a boost.

[Peter Parkman]

There was a visible twitch as she said his name out loud again. That name that he hadn’t heard out loud, uttered by another person in reference to him, as calling him by name, for a very long time. It was a verbal kick to the head and Peter was finding it very hard to cope. A rope squeezed around his unbeating heart and he had to shake his head. To all of her questions, he shook his head. What can she do? Nothing. Does he mind talking about it? No. Yes. Maybe he does, but he’d suggested they talk privately so that he could. So that she could understand his behaviour. So that he could tell her how much he needed her to not breathe a word to anyone.

”Please stop calling my Arthur. I’m not Arthur Pembroke anymore. I’m Peter Parkman,” he said. He stood. He could see that Therese was visibly shaken, so he gestured to the chair that he had occupied. The breeze that whipped up through the city was cold, too. He peeled the jacket from his shoulders and held it out for Therese. If she was cold, she could use it.

He remembered doing the same thing with Jersey, once. He remembered how he had realised too late that the jacket would feel, to her, like it had just been pulled from the closet. It would not be warmed by his body heat. Now, as he handed the jacket to Therese, he knew what he was doing. He knew that the material would be cold. But it would soon warm up against her skin. And in the end, it didn’t prove much at all. There were more pressing things to worry about. More tumultuous emotions and grievances to air. A cold jacket could easily be forgotten, or not noticed.

”I don’t know if you ever knew anything about Lily’s family. Mariagno was her maiden name, do you remember? Her family were… they are a mob. A crime family. They aren’t honourable, they aren’t ordinary citizens. Lily she… she didn’t want to be a part of that anymore. She used to forge paintings for them, sell the real deal on the black market, that kind of thing. She wanted out. She tried, but she got caught up with a rival…” Peter pressed his lips together and shook his head. There was more to the story, of course, but he didn’t want to go into the explicit details. The basics were enough.

”She was killed. I was witness to it. There was a funeral but straight afterwards, I was relocated to here – to Harper Rock. I was given a new name, a new identity. I’m in witness protection, Therese, and you can’t tell anyone I’m here. No one, do you understand?” he said. He’d been pacing as he’d told the story, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. Now he stopped and in front of Therese. He stared, his eyes wide and inquisitive, anxious and more than a little sad.