InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Surprises ( Chapter 40 )

". . . It's a . . . car . . ."

Ashur nodded, handing her the keys.  "For you."

"You . . . bought . . . me a car . . .?"

He shrugged.  "There are times when you need one to take Kells places," he replied.  "You don't want to be cooped up out here all the time, either, do you?"

His reasons were logical, even if they sounded a little rehearsed to Jessa.  For some reason, though, the sight of the cute little candy-apple-red Terra Beinfore SUV, complete with sun roof, top of the line safety features, and fully capable 4-wheel drive that would be perfect for Canadian winters—probably better than Ashur's hopelessly expensive and equally boring Vestron Illusion, which was built for luxury but wasn't exactly known for its ability to plow through a Canadian blizzard, either.

"I don't want you to buy me things," she said, turning on her heel and shoving the key against his chest as she struggled to keep her tone even.

He looked down rather pointedly at her hand and pushed it back. "Don't worry about it, Jessa," he told her.  "You're Kells' nanny, after all."

For some reason, that statement only served to irritate her just a little bit more, and this time, she shoved the keys at him and dropped them.  He caught them, barely.  "Oh, is that so?"

He would have had to be stupid to miss her rising anger.  He glanced around, probably to make sure that there was no one else within earshot.  "It's not a big deal," he told her, lowering his voice just a little.  "If it bothers you that much, just . . . pay me back when your estate is settled, but you don't have to."  He took her hand, dropped the keys into it, then let go just as quickly and turned away, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he headed for the front door.  "Take it out for a test drive.  You'll change your mind about it."

She watched him go, her frown darkening with every step he took, and she had to tamp down the anger that she couldn't quite shake.  With a muffled growl of frustration, she opened the driver side door, tossed the keys into it, and slammed it closed again before striding off in the opposite direction, trying to put as much space between herself and that man as she possibly could.

It was unbelievable, wasn't it?  And it wouldn't have been so bad if it were the first time this had happened.  Granted, the car was a new twist, but . . .

She drew a few deep breaths meant to calm her down.  It didn't work as she kicked a rock as hard as she could and kept striding forward, heading for the path that she'd created when she'd first gotten Stardust but had managed to wear down to a proper trail in the last two weeks since Ben and Charity's arrival.

It was simply intolerable, wasn't it?  All but ignoring the fact that she lived and breathed if there was even the most remote chance that someone might walk in, that someone might see him, standing just a little too close to her, talking to her, even breathing the same air as she was . . . Day after day, it was always the same, and she'd go to her room, feeling sad and lonely.  Most nights, she'd end up, falling into a fitful sleep, if she slept at all.  Every few days, though, he would come, always waiting until everyone was asleep, always taking her somewhere else—usually, to the pond—where he'd keep her awake until the sun rose, making love to her, holding her close, reassuring her that it was just for a while, just until Ben and Charity went home, and every time they went back, as she sneaked into her own room as the sun broke over the distant horizon, she wondered why.  Why didn't he want them to know?  Why did it seem like he wasn't at all interested in telling his own brother?  There was never any kind of reasoning with it, no, 'I just wanted to tell him about us first,' or anything even remotely close to that.  No, it was just the idea that he didn't want anyone to know . . .

It somehow turned something that Jessa had thought was beautiful into something that felt cheap and ugly and shameful, and then . . .

The first morning after he'd come to her, just after he'd sent her from his room, they'd walked back in the morning dew, hand in hand, and she'd thought that maybe everything would be all right, that her feelings before had to just have been overreaction on her part.  But then, he'd pretty well ignored her through breakfast, hadn't said a thing to her all day, either.  When she'd gone to bed that night, though, it was to find a box on her pillow—a beautiful pair of diamond stud earrings—each one easily a couple carats . . .

But he hadn't come to her that night or the night after that, either.  And that was how it had been since.  She could pretty well bank on finding something on her pillow the night after he coaxed her into going with him—always somewhere far enough away from the house that there was no danger of anyone discovering their dirty little secret, she supposed.  The last time, it was a five-hundred-dollar gift card for a store she'd mentioned liking once upon a time, and if that wasn't a blatant expression of exactly what their stolen moments meant to him, then she really didn't know what was . . .

She'd sworn to herself last night that she wouldn't go with him if he came to her.  That resolution had lasted about thirty seconds, even as she hated herself for her weakness—even if she wondered, just how long it would take before she started to hate him, as well . . .

And now, the car.

'Maybe he just likes to buy things for you, Jessa.  Ever stop to think about that?'

'There's a name for what he's doing—for what I'm doing . . . and it isn't very nice.  In fact, women who do things like . . . like me?  They're usually dragged through the figurative mud or . . . or made to wear giant, red, 'A's on their clothes . . .'

'You can't really believe that.  I don't think—'

'If you're going to stand up for him, then just keep it to yourself.  I don't need you to make excuses for him . . . I . . . I'm done with him!  I . . .'

'And you've been saying you're done with him for a week now, yet every time he turns up, you're following him wherever he wants you to go and doing whatever it is that he wants you to do—not that I'm complaining.  That man has very formidable talents . . .'

Letting out a deep breath, Jessa plopped down on a broken log, leaning her elbows on her knees, dropping her face into her cupped hands with a low groan.  'I just . . . I don't know how much more of this I can take . . .'

And that was the crux of her problem, really.  If she had any idea just where she stood, maybe she’d be able to find the courage to confront him, to tell him how bad she felt—how bad he made her feel . . . As it was, she was merely settling for whatever he could give her because it was better than nothing, wasn't it?

The sound of laughing children drifted to her, and Jessa drew a deep breath, managed to steel herself before Charity and the girls rounded the curve in the path.  "Oh, Jessa!  I didn't know you were out here!" she greeted as the girls darted over, gathering wildflowers that grew thick in the grass along the trail.

Charity sat down beside her, burying her nose in the very large bouquet in her hands.  "This property is absolutely fantastic," she said, gazing around in a very happy way.  "The diversity of native flora here is just incredible!  I told Ben we should rent a cabin up this way.  I'd love to spend some time, just documenting all of it . . ."

"The . . . plants . . .?" Jessa asked, shaking her head in confusion.

Charity laughed.  "I'm a botanist," she said.  "I guess I forgot to mention that, and yes, I do tend to get a little goofy when it comes to things like this . . ."

Jessa frowned.  "How . . .? How much longer are you staying?  I mean, I don't think Ashur really said . . ."

"Oh, thank you," Charity replied, accepting a couple more fistfuls of flowers before the girls took off again in a chorus of giggles and tiny shrieks of laughter.  "Not too much longer," she said.  "Just until Ashur's birthday."

"Ashur's . . . birthday?"

"Hmm, yeah.  It's the twenty-seventh . . . Oh, he probably didn't tell you, did he?"  She suddenly waved a hand.  "Don't worry, he doesn't usually say anything about it to anyone.  The only reason I know is because I saw his birth certificate when that was issued.  Ben said that his parents never made a big deal out of birthdays when he was growing up, so that's probably why Ashur doesn't, either.  But birthdays were always a big thing in my family, so I've kind of always taken it upon myself to make sure that they do now, too . . . I mean, they both make a big deal out of the children's birthdays, but theirs?  They'd just let them pass like any other day, if I didn't make a fuss over it."

Jessa thought that over.  It made sense, though.  Given the little bit she knew about Ashur's childhood, she supposed she could understand why he wouldn't make a fuss over his own birthday.  Even so, she had to admit that it did bother her just a little, especially when he'd gone to such lengths to celebrate hers . . .

She sighed.  Maybe she was just being a little too sensitive about everything—or at least, about his birthday.  He really had tried to make hers special, and he really didn't have to.  She supposed she ought to try to do something for him, too, shouldn't she . . .?

"This would have been so much easier if you'd have just come with me," Jessa muttered as she wandered through Lohman Stanton, a high-end, if not rather boring, men's clothing store in the heart of Old Quebec.

Devlin chuckled.  "I told you, Mum needed my help for a bit.  She decided that she needed to build a table out of reclaimed wood because she said it looked simple enough.  It wasn't.  It's a wreck.  It's terrible.  She thinks it's grand.  I really should forbid her from watching HGTV . . ."

Laughing despite herself, Jessa slowly shook her head as she looked around.  "You know, nothing in here looks like anything he'd wear . . ."

"Lohman Stanton?"  He snorted.  "That's because it's all hopelessly boring, old man clothes, and, while your Ashur might well be old in human terms, he's really not that old in youkai terms . . . So, is there a slightly trendier place near?  Ugh . . . I can't believe I actually said the word, 'trendy' . . ."

She sighed.  "This is hopeless . . . I have no idea what he likes, no idea what his hobbies are—if he even has any, and I've been living with him for months, you know . . . I have never met anyone before in my life who has no hobbies, does nothing for fun, basically lives and breathes for his work—well, and for Kells . . ."

Devlin considered that for a moment.  "Work, huh?  Well, what about a stationery or office store?  Surely you could find something for him in one of those?  You could buy him something for his office . . . What about a planner or a datebook or something?  I know, they're terribly old fashioned, but . . . He's a little old-fashioned, too, don't you think?"

She made a face as she pushed out of the store and headed for her car—the Terra Beinfore.  She'd volunteered to take Kells to preschool since her original plan had been to take the boy with her as she shopped for Ashur's birthday present, but Charity had told her last night that Kells had already bought a present for his father while they were on vacation.

It just figured.  She'd even asked Kells on the way to preschool if he knew of anything that Ashur might like.  Kells' answer, of course, was that his father would love to have the Mega Power Puppies Playhouse, so that was completely useless . . .

Keying the search into the SUV's onboard computer, she clicked on the one that was listed as 'closest'.  "There's a place called Masterson's Fine Things, specializing in personalized stationery and other special gifts that are perfect for the home or the office—at least, that's what the blurb says."

"Hmm, I've not heard of them," he said.  "You could check it out."

"I suppose," she allowed.  "I haven't anything better in mind."

"Okay, well, give me a call back if you need further assistance," he said.  "As for me, I think I need to talk to Mum.  She just came through with a power sander, so that cannot possibly be good . . ."

She laughed and started the car.  "Good luck with that," she said.

"I'm probably going to need it," he muttered.  "Bye."

The phone call ended, and Jessa sighed again.  At least this place was close, and it only took about five minutes to get there.  The store was situated on the second floor of one of the older buildings in the area: stately and understated, but very reminiscent of Europe, of the cobbled streets and the quaint little shops that could be found in the little nooks and crannies, in the backstreets where the more modern gloss hadn't yet been applied . . .

Slipping inside to the nostalgic toll of the bells over the door, she smiled slightly as a spicy yet warm scent filled her nose, reminding her of one of the little tea shops near the boarding school campus where she'd spent her teenage years . . .

"Welcome!  I'm Georgina Moss.  Can I help you?"

Glancing up at the very friendly looking middle-aged woman who straightened up from her task of arranging a shelf display, Jessa smiled.  "I'm looking for a birthday present," she said.  "I'd just like to look around."

The woman's smile widened.  "Sure, of course!  We carry a very large selection of excellent quality gift ideas!  Let me know if I can be of assistance!"

Jessa nodded as the woman returned to her task.

It really was an interesting shop.  Stationery, sure, and lots of it made out of homemade paper with beautiful texture and the kind of feel that only came from the workmanship that went into crafting it . . .

Desk plaques of every style and design, which were all very pretty, but somehow felt entirely impersonal . . . Gorgeous crystal inkwells, some with gold accents, some with marble . . . Beautifully bottled inks and fountain pens . . .

Over toward the side of the store near the front desk, there were bottles of fine liquors, packages of stunning crystal decanters, snifters, goblets, tumblers . . . Given that he had quite an affinity for the drink and usually had at least one glass every evening, she figured that would be something that he'd appreciate.

"We only specialize in the top of the line liquors here—nothing you could find at any old liquor store, but then, a lot of our customers come in just for the cognacs and armagnacs we carry.

"He . . . He likes it," Jessa admitted.  "Tell me, what do you recommend?"

"Is there a particular brand the gentleman prefers?" Georgina asked.

Jessa winced since she couldn’t rightfully say.   "He usually decants it," she said.  "I haven't seen any actual bottles."

Georgina nodded, as though something she'd said made perfect sense.  "Well, if he's a connoisseur, then I'd imagine he'd like something a little higher-end . . . We currently have a really lovely Francis Darroze Bas-Armagnac Chateau de Lasserrade, vintage 2001, and it's pricey, but definitely worth the money.  Would you care to try a sample?  That is, assuming you're eighteen . . ."

"Sure," Jessa replied, digging her driver's license out of her purse and handing it over for Georgina's inspection.

Georgina handed it back and stepped behind the short counter and poured just a little into a fine crystal snifter.  "It really is a beautiful vintage."

It smelled a little different from the one cognac that Ashur normally drank—a little fruitier, a little more floral and less earthy.  The liquor was still strong, but not quite as harsh on her tongue and throat.  Beautiful, really.  She only hoped that Ashur would agree . . .

"What do you think?" Georgina asked.

Jessa nodded.  "I like that," she said.  "It's a bit different from what he normally drinks, but I think he'll appreciate it . . ."

"Does he normally drink cognac?"

"Yes," she replied.  "How much is this?"

"Well, this one is a little shy of fifteen hundred dollars."

Jessa smiled.  "Okay.  I'll take one bottle.  He has snifters, but maybe I should get him a special one?"

Georgina nodded, setting an unopened box on the counter before hurrying around to help her with the selection of crystal.  "Does he have the tulip or balloon?"

"The ones he uses everyday are the tulip snifters."

"Not surprising.  Most aficionados prefer them to the balloon type . . . However, I do have some wobble glasses, and they're very nice.  Many think that the design of the glass actually helps to concentrate the bouquet of the cognac.  Here . . ." she said, handing Jessa a glass that looked like the balloon snifter but without the wide base and stem.  It rested on the side with a small bump on the bottom to balance it.  "Everyone has their own preferences, but I have a few regulars who swear by these."

"I like this," she said, enjoying the weight of the crystal orb glass.

"These come in boxes of two.  Is that all right?"

"That's fine," she agreed.  "Would it be all right if I looked around a bit more?"

Georgina smiled.  "Go on, dear . . . I'll take these over to the register!  If I can help you with anything else, let me know!"

Jessa nodded and wandered over to the stationery once more.  In a glass display case, there were a number of hand-tooled leather binders: some plain, some edged with beautiful details.  There was one, a plain leather—slate gray with such beautiful graining in the leather that it really didn't need embellishment anyway.  It came with your choice of insert pages: address pages, calendar pages, even blank or lined pages, all of the home-made stock that she'd admired before.  Along with the binders, though, were an array of pens, and, curiously, it was a slate gray fountain pen with a white gold nib that her eye kept returning to.  Streamlined and sleek, it was the old-fashioned kind that did not use a cartridge.

"I'd like to see one of the binders and a pen, if that's all right," Jessa said as Georgina hurried over, rattling keys on the coiled keychain that hung from her wrist.  "The gray one, please, and that fountain pen, just there . . ."

Georgina unlocked the display and pulled up the binder.  "This one's lovely," she said.  "The man who makes these said that he only had this one, too.  Calfskin . . . Said that he was so impressed with the leather that he hated to tool it . . ."

"It's gorgeous," she said, lightly running her fingers over it as the bell over the door announced another arrival to the small shop.

"This pen's not the most expensive one we carry, but the Pilots tend to have a more brush-like feel in the hand than many of the more expensive ones.  There's a bit more elegance to them."

"I'll take these, as well," she said.

"What kind of inserts would you like with the binder?"

"Address, calendar—do you have weekly?"

"We certainly do!"

Jessa nodded.  "And some lined blank pages?"

"That's just fine!  I'll get this ready, and in the mean time, why won't you go pick out a bottle of ink?  I'll throw it in, free of charge."

"Thank you," she replied, turning to head back to find the inks.  The store was such a quaint place, so reminiscent of the European shops that it was entirely too easy to forget that she was halfway around the word, and, just for a moment, the ambience, the feel, was enough to take her back to another place and time . . .

"H . . . Hello . . . You are . . . Kyouhei-sama's friend, uh, yes?"

Drawing up abruptly, Jessa blinked, stared into the face of the woman—the one from the restaurant, just before Charity and Ben's arrival . . . She seemed nervous despite the refinement of her outward appearance, and her English was broken and just a little awkward.  Still, she smiled tentatively and offered Jessa a quick bow.

Hana . . .