Bound in Blue (30 page)

* * * * *

Jason came to her and hugged her, and touched
her face, and said he was so, so proud of her before he headed back
inside with Theo. She was glad, because otherwise she might have
fallen apart. Mr. Lemaitre looked unhappy. No, he looked
miserable.

“You didn’t like the act?” she asked. She
wanted her voice to sound strong and professional, but it shook
with nerves. “If you want me to change things, I can. The tricks
are what’s important. With Theo’s help, I can adapt them to any
theme.”

No answer. She wanted to cry. She wanted to
scream at him,
why are you like this?
Instead, she started
yanking at her blue feathers, trying to peel them from her
lids.

“Stop.” Lemaitre flew across the patio and
stilled her hands. “You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll hurt your eyes if
you pull like that.”

Sara looked up at him, this man with her
exact same eyes, even the same dark ring around the middle. Was he
concerned as her boss, or as her father? Did it matter? She found
the edge of the feather adhesive and carefully peeled it away, then
the other, more slowly than she would have if he wasn’t staring at
her with that grimace on his face. She closed the feathers in her
hand, feeling the tickle against her palm.

“I’ll change whatever you like,” she said.
“If you didn’t like it—”

“I liked it.”

“If you want to give me some notes—”

“I don’t want to give you notes!”

Sara snapped her mouth shut at his sharp
voice. This was so hard, trying to be performer and boss when both
of them knew they were something more.

“I can tell you’re unhappy,” she cried. “Tell
me how to change it. I can make it whatever you want.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he said through tense
lips. “I don’t want you to change it. It’s perfect as it is. I
don’t have any notes for you, no criticism or comments. Only one
note, really.” He lifted his arms at his sides. “I’m sorry. I’m
sorry for everything you went through, all your struggles. I’m
terribly sorry for not being in your life.”

She bristled at his angry, angsty tone. “This
act wasn’t about you. It wasn’t
for you
. It has nothing to
do with you, because you weren’t there. They were
my
struggles.”

“Your struggles because of me. I got the
subtext, my dear.”

The way he said
my dear
snapped her
last nerve. “Don’t ‘my dear’ me,” she said, glaring up at him. “You
have no right to be upset. It was your choice to leave me
there.”

“I had to leave you there.”

“And it was your choice to bring me here now.
Your
choice.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything, for all
the ways I’ve hurt you.” He blinked at her, a muscle ticking in his
jaw. “Why are we yelling at each other?”

“Because I’m angry at you.” She spit the
words out, then everything came pouring out, all the feelings she’d
kept bottled inside. “I’m angry. I’m furious with you and your
fucking coldness. I hate you for not wanting me. I hate you for
lying to me and being cowardly. And you know what? I’m angry that
you don’t want me. It’s mean, and it’s not fair. There’s nothing
wrong with me.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
” She shouted
it the second time, like she could convince him. Like she could
convince herself. “I want you to want me and you won’t. You
don’t
. And I don’t understand why.”

She made fists and pounded them on his chest.
Why? Why? Why?
The word echoed in her brain, or maybe she
yelled it out loud. She felt his arms come around her and she
waited to be pushed away, but he pulled her close instead.

“Shhh. I want you, Sarantsatsral.” He brushed
a hand across her cheek and she felt tears, when she hadn’t even
realized she was sobbing. “Please,” he said softly. “You’re crying
these tears for me?”

She pressed her face against his chest. “Yes.
Because of you. I want you to be my father. I’ve tried not to want
it but I do.” She burst into another bout of sobs, then she felt
his fingers against her hair, brushing through her messy buns.

“Beautiful daughter,” he murmured. “I don’t
understand. How can you want me after all I’ve done to you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, drawing back to
look at him. “I can’t answer that. I just do.” She looked down and
realized her stage makeup had smeared horrible blotches onto his
pristine suit. “Oh no,” she said. “Your jacket is ruined. My
makeup—”

“It’s okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from
his pocket and dabbed it against her face. When she reached to take
it, her feather eyelashes fluttered up between them. He snatched at
them and caught them before a breeze could carry them away.

“That was close,” he said, letting out a
breath.

“I have more.”

“But these are special. From the first time
you did your act.”

More superstition. What a strange,
complicated man her father was. “Do you want to keep them?” she
asked.

He nodded and slipped them into his pocket,
and accepted his handkerchief back. She’d ruined it with foundation
and eye shadow but he put it in his pocket too, and then he took
her hand. “You know, it was a lot easier for me when you were a
concept. My faraway daughter. A secret child I never thought to
meet.”

“Yes, well, it was a lot easier for me before
I knew you were my dad.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I thought I
could bring you from Mongolia and put you in a show somewhere. I
thought it would be enough for me, to know you were happy and safe,
and provided for. But now I realize...” He touched her hair again,
with an infinitely tender gaze. “I realize I can’t bear to send you
away.”

The whole last month, she’d ached for this
kindness, this recognition. She wanted to stay with him and be his
daughter…but she wanted to do trapeze too. “What will I do if I
stay?” she asked. “There’s no act for me.”

He released her and leaned against the
balustrade. “That’s the rub. I’m sorry,
ma petite
. I can’t
send you into the rafters of
Tsilaosa
. A woman died, a woman
who looked so very much like you. It’s too much risk. Too much bad
luck.”

“Her bad luck. Not mine.”

“Sara, I can’t.”

“It’s silly, this superstition. I’m great at
trapeze.”

He turned his head sideways and scowled. “You
almost fell at the Exhibition, remember? I still have nightmares
about it, and probably always will.”

“That was different. It had nothing to do
with any weird circus curse.”

He said something fierce and blustery in
French and stared out at the city for a long while. Then he
straightened with a sigh. “Perhaps there is a way. Your fiancé
suggested an entirely new show.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes. To replace
Tsilaosa
. It’s not a
bad idea.”

“And I could do trapeze in that show?” she
asked, clasping her hands together.

Her father took a deep breath. “I might be
able to bear it. You’re very good at what you do. Very
skilled.”

His praise thrilled her, but something else
thrilled her more. “You called Jason my fiancé.”

“He is your fiancé, is he not? He told me he
was.”

“It’s the first time I’ve heard it out loud,”
she said with a kind of wonder. “He’s full of good ideas, isn’t
he?”

“Proposing to you was one of them. Even if I
think you’re too young.”

She looked at him from under her lashes.
“That sounds like something a father would say.”

A glint of humor curved the edges of his
lips. “It does, doesn’t it?”

They stared at each other, and Sara could see
the change in his eyes. Some barricade had lifted.
He’s going to
be my father. He is.
She felt so relieved, so happy. And a
little embarrassed about the things she’d said in the heat of the
moment. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and said I hated you. I didn’t
mean it. And I’m sorry about your clothes.”

He brushed at the stains on the front of his
suit with a smile. “I hear that babies ruin their parents’ clothes
with regularity. And that teenage children are full of angry
tirades. You’re only making up for lost time.” He sobered and
reached for her hand. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for,
but I’ll do what I can. Sara…I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll get
everything right.”

She moved into his arms when he opened them.
“I won’t get everything right either. That’s how families are, I
guess.”

And this was how families hugged. This time
their embrace wasn’t stormy, with pent up emotions. It felt
natural. Relaxed.

“So, if I mount a new show in Paris, you’ll
help me?” he asked against her ear. “You inspire me, you know.”

His words settled in her heart, a
forever-memory. “Of course I’ll help.”

He clasped her closer and rested his cheek
against her hair. “I’m proud of you, Sara. I love you. I’m glad
you’re my daughter. I’ve wanted to say all of those things for some
time now.”

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She
just breathed in, and breathed out, and thought how wonderful it
was to be held again in a father’s arms.

Jason paced the living room and watched out
the window, waiting for Sara to get home. As soon as they’d
returned from Marseille, he’d asked her to move in with him, so his
home was her home now. Both of them were staying in Paris for the
foreseeable future, thanks to the new show, and she was wearing his
ring. At some point he’d make his eternal girl into his eternal
bride, when they had time to sit down and plan a wedding.

That time wasn’t now.

A lot had happened in the last few weeks. For
one, they’d entered the planning stages for
Cirque
Élémental
, a new production based on the elements: fire, air,
water, earth. Sara’s act fit perfectly in the air category, and
several other acts were being developed with complementary themes.
She’d worked hard to regain her cast mates’ trust after the Baat
debacle, and eventually, the whispers and judgments faded away,
replaced by different whispers:
She’s his daughter. Lemaitre’s
her dad!

Lemaitre let the gossip engine spread the
news that he was Sara’s father. To spare her embarrassment, he led
everyone to believe she’d known all along, and chose to keep it a
secret since he was the big boss. And after all his doubts and
reservations, Lemaitre impressed Jason with his paternal instincts.
Lemaitre gave his daughter attention, but didn’t smother her. He
tried to make up for lost time, but didn’t stress over all the
history they’d missed.

All of this suited Sara perfectly. She adored
her father and called him “daddy,” which was sweet if slightly
squicky. Both of them were happy, and that made Jason happy too.
Lemaitre took Sara out to dinner every Saturday night, and no one,
not even Jason, could interfere in this father-daughter time. He
tried not to be jealous, and anyway, Sara told him all about their
evenings as soon as she got home.

At last he saw her getting out of Lemaitre’s
car and waving goodbye. After the rat-a-tat of her shoes on the
staircase, he met her on the landing and embraced her. He never got
tired of touching her. He’d never take her closeness for granted
after that long month she was away from him. When he kissed her,
she tipped her head back for more.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered against her lips. He
rubbed her neck and gripped it just to hear her moan. With his
other hand he undid the button on her skirt, easing it down along
with her black silk panties.

“Where did you go this time?” he asked,
starting on the tie at the back of her blouse.

“Vietnamese,” she said. “It was
delicious.”

“You’re delicious.” She giggled as he nibbled
her shoulder. Her blouse came off, and then her lacy bra. Pretty
but unnecessary, especially at home where he kept her naked. This
undressing was a custom of theirs now, a ritual of his ownership
and her slavery. He gave one of her nipples a pinch.

“Any news? How’s your dad?”

“He’s well. Hard at work on
Élémental
,
just as you are.”

He smiled. “And you too. All of us are in
this.”

“He said only one act is driving him crazy.
An acrobat. He said you’d know who it was.”

Jason did know how it was, but he didn’t want
to think about that now. Sara whined as he pinched a little harder,
then he bent to lick the ouchy away. He had no reason to punish
her. Well, except that she liked it. She drew in a breath as he
teased the other nipple. “He also said he heard from Baat. He’s
finished with rehab and doing really well. He’s even gone back to
work.”

“With Circus Mongolia?”

“No, in a touring circus this time. In a
larger troupe.”

Jason was happy for Baat, but Sara had always
been his primary concern. He slid his hands lower and grabbed her
ass, squeezing the cane tracks he’d put there last night. Her hips
bucked against his front, and she reached—without permission—for
the front of his jeans.

“No,” he said, pushing her hand down. “Not
yet. Talk to me first. So Baat’s better and he’s working again. Is
there any chance he’ll come back to the Cirque?”

“I know he won’t.” She went up on her tiptoes
as he fingered her slit. “Daddy—Daddy says he has a new partner
with lots of experience. That she’s very good.”

“God, Sara. It’s so weird when you call him
daddy.”

“Why? He’s my dad.”

Jason smiled and smoothed the lines from her
forehead. “I know he’s your dad.” He stopped molesting her a moment
to gauge her mood, her reaction to this news about her ex-partner.
“How do you feel about Baat working with someone else? Does it make
you sad?”

“No. I’m glad he’s better, and I hope she
makes him happier than I did. He deserves someone more like him.
Someone who’s content to stay in Mongolia, someone not always
focused on crazy dreams.”