The Night Shall be filled with Music (Chimerical, Dulcet.)
Chimerical
The Night Shall be filled with Music
Dulcet: pleasant to the ear; melodious.
Rating: PG-13
A/N: during The Bad Luck Filly, with a certain AU spin (also, I give Brad a new outfit, because I refuse to accept whatever the authors did to his wardrobe in the new gen).
This is one of those parties she hates on principle. The women are decked out in formals that seem tacky no matter their expense, and the men have wandering eyes. Necks glitter with diamonds, and watches have more precious jewels than she’s owned in her lifetime. The house crawls with caterers and the smartly dressed help, and her daughter and niece are swimming fully clothed in the pool.
Something is so very off about this night, and it’s not even the arrival of Christina and her friends that throws her. Perhaps it’s that she’s there in the first place, that she was the one who wanted to come, that she’s having fun. She doesn’t even mind when Monty manages to get Mike to offer his opinions on a few yearlings headed to the next Keeneland sale, effectively leaving her alone. It gives her a moment to breathe, and she doesn’t mind that at all.
The big band tunes blast across the sprawling brick patio, but without a partner Ashleigh decides to take a break. She climbs up to the upper deck, picking up the silk of her dress and padding up the steps in her bare feet. The deck is out of the way and therefore far less crowded. In a party where the sole purpose is rubbing elbows, congregating here would be pointless. Ashleigh likes it for the moment, leans against the railing and sips on her second glass of champagne.
From here she can see glimpses of the kids splashing in the pool, Christina and Parker floating close to each other in the deep end. She doesn’t want to think of where their hands are, but she trusts her daughter and she inexplicably knows that Parker treats her like glass. She knows this not because Christina tells her, but because she just does. She supposes she has her own sources, to a point.
But Christina is still her daughter, and Ashleigh still worries. She stops just short of allowing herself to invest faith in Parker Townsend-she knows his father, after all-but watching sparks something within her that she’d rather not dwell on. She’d like to forget it entirely, but with Christina and Parker making it look so easy it’s difficult to sort them from her own long lost decisions. Her own road abandoned.
She pulls her gaze away, slightly ashamed. Making a comparison, she thinks, is only human. But she’s not just human. She’s a mother, and that comes first.
The band falls silent, off for a break. The crowd mills, and after a few minutes she can hear footsteps thumping quietly up to the deck. Ashleigh waits for her moment of solitude to shatter, but when she turns to see the figure standing at the top of the stairs she’s met with a different fate. She thinks it could be far worse, and so much better.
He stands there holding a glass of something amber and dark in one hand. He wears a dark suit like he was born to it, and his impossible cool makes her feel all the more aware of the sweat clinging to her skin. It slides uncomfortably to the small of her back, damp on the elastic of her underwear, and she knows that somewhere it is staining dark the pale silk of her dress.
She feels slovenly next to him, as always. The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile. It’s not meant to be threatening, or sarcastic. It’s just a smile, and it unnerves her.
“What are you doing up here by yourself?” he asks her, and she straightens her shoulders.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Boredom,” he answers simply, lifting the drink to his mouth.
She watches him carefully, tells herself not to stare, but stares anyway. He silently commands it, and she really wishes she could tell herself to look away. It’s just that in all the decades she’s known him, she’s never been able to follow such simple self-direction.
“I just needed a few minutes,” she says, watching him put the crystal tumbler on the railing and settle in next to her. She hates to admit it, but she’s proud that she can stand next to him and not shrink back. Always has been.
“No harm in that.” He looks down at the crowd, his eyes settling on the kids in the pool. “I was thinking, you know, Belmont for Star. He needs to get out of Kentucky, start putting his genes to work.”
She swallows a mouthful of champagne, and puts the glass next to his. “I agree. It’s just been more convenient to keep him in the state, what with Chris being his jockey.”
He looks at her, and now his smile is a smirk. “You don’t need to justify your reasons behind his schedule, Ash. We just need to focus more on maximizing his potential, and less on placating your daughter.”
The laugh that slips out of her is mostly expected. These are their differences, plain as day, and she accepted them long ago. She’ll never expect him to understand where she’s coming from, to have faith in her long term goal, however similar it may be to his own. Their paths split long ago. It will be hilarious, she thinks, if they wind up in the same place at the end.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “I’ll take Star to Belmont. Christina can find some time in her schedule, I’m sure of it.”
“Good. I’ve got a few horses going up in a couple of weeks; he can go with them.” He nods and turns his attention back to the pool.
The band is setting back up with new instruments, less brass. She watches them curiously before training her gaze back on the pool. Christina is laughing, trying to kick away from Parker’s hands that are locked around one slim ankle. Ashleigh stares at them silently, unaware that she’s gone tense, her breathing quick. Brad is smiling.
“Are you going to say it, or am I?”
“Say what?” she asks, although she knows. She’d have to know.
He gives her a look. “How very weird it is that your daughter and my son have their hands all over each other.”
“They do not,” Ashleigh said, giving him a disgusted look that he snorts at, laughter bubbling up.
“Come on, Ash.”
“Dating,” she tells him. “They are dating. As far as I’m concerned they’re keeping their hands to themselves.”
It is very hard to say this when at that moment their children are practically pressed together in the pool. Christina’s arms are around Parker’s neck, and his are…somewhere. She wants to yell down at them to knock it off, and she definitely would if that didn’t mean causing a scene. But, oh, Christina is going to get the talking to of the century when they get home.
Brad chuckles into his drink, downing the rest of it in a healthy swallow. “I forgot how much of a prude you could be.”
“That is not funny,” she tells him quickly, giving him a warning glare.
“No, because it’s very true,” he says, and grins as he puts his empty glass down.
“I am not,” she says, and acknowledges to herself that, yes, she does sound like a twelve-year-old.
“Maybe in the world according to you.” He’s enjoying this, she realizes. His eyes are bright, and not from the alcohol or the music, which is starting up again in a much more relaxed tone. Couples are slow dancing on the makeshift dance floor. In the pool, Christina and Parker are still all over each other, twirling in the water to match the music.
Ashleigh shifts uncomfortably, the silk sliding on her skin. All of a sudden she decides that she hates silk, because right now it feels all too inappropriate to wear around this man. Too sensuous, too perfect, too inviting. It is all the things he was, is, and could ever be for so many people.
She knows what he’s doing, and in an ideal world she’d be able to sidestep it gracefully. It’s too bad that she is so very, very flawed.
“You can shut up at any time,” she tells him archly. “In a world according to both of us, it’s not true.”
He looks a little surprised, and she feels a little thrill. Ashleigh Griffen said the last thing Brad Townsend expected. It is a minor victory, but one she takes note of nevertheless.
Of course, it wouldn’t be right if he didn’t try to raise the stakes.
She feels his hand close around her wrist and she jumps, almost inadvertently ripping herself out of his grasp. He lets go immediately, raises his hands unconsciously.
“Hey,” he says quietly, like he’s dealing with a flighty horse. He might as well be, because all of a sudden all she can think is that he’s between her and the exit, which is ridiculous because he’s him, and she’s her. Honestly.
“Come here, Ash,” he tells her, fingers grazing her wrist. “Let’s do this one thing.”
“Why?” she asks as his fingers make the jump from her wrist to her waist. His hand slides over the silk on its way to her lower back, drawing her up to him. She doesn’t think to resist so much as question. This reaction should really be a warning. “What’s the point?”
“Old time’s sake?”
It’s her turn at a disbelieving laugh, but it dies before it can leave her throat. The music is soft and he’s being as close to a gentleman as he can get, so she lets him. She keeps a sliver of distance between them, and lets him.
Together they drift, her hand on his shoulder as she stares at the base of his throat, his jaw, his tie. Her eyes dart everywhere, only taking brief trips to his face, to his eyes, when she can build up the courage to do so.
“You know,” he says quietly, his voice a low tone against her ear. “It wasn’t a mistake.”
“It was,” she counters, because this is what she’s been telling herself for years. “It would have been impossible.”
“It wasn’t,” he says. “It could have been so easy.”
She knows what he’s talking about. She sees it every day she looks at Chris, every time she tries to talk to her about Parker and sees that dazed look in her daughter’s eyes. It could have been simple if she’d wanted it that way, and this is probably why she’s buried it down deep.
“You’re you,” is what she says. “And I’m me.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes all sorts of sense,” she says. “We shouldn’t talk about this, Brad.”
They slip into shadows, and she knows they can’t be seen. This is where they could do anything, and at the very thought her fingers clench around the material of his suit. She shifts for more space, and he just follows her. It is maddening and her heart is thudding so violently that she catches a sigh when he seems to come back to himself, says so softly, “No, we shouldn’t, and it’s our loss.”
He lets her go, and it’s no wonder. The music has stopped. He takes a step back, and another, and there is so much space that she has to curl her bare toes against the tile to keep herself stationary. Her muscles are quivering with the effort to only stay still.
She tells herself that everyone is better off like this; that the harder road is often times the one worth leaving behind. It would be so much better if he would just agree with her, if they didn’t do this occasionally, have this stilted conversation that says nothing and everything as if it were all a test.
The thing is that the pull to walk across to him now is so strong it’s terrifying. It’s never really gone away, not with time and the fact that they belong to other people. These things can’t hold down their history, can’t wipe it away so they can begin fresh. Memory stretches too far back, and they both remember because neither wants to forget. But these things, they hold them at bay, imprison them with guilt, and maybe this wasn’t the easy road after all.
She is so very, very flawed.
Then he makes it easy. “Our kids,” he says with a winning smile, “are going to have fucking beautiful babies.”
At that she laughs, and she hopes he can’t hear the sob in it. It’s wishful thinking.
“They’re teenagers,” she reminds him. “Don’t go planning the wedding just yet.”
He nods, pushes his hands into his pockets and just looks at her in a way that makes her lips part. It’s all too much, and the flush that rises on her skin is almost unbearable in the late summer heat. She wants to leave, but she won’t move. And this, she thinks, is her problem. Right here.
“Well,” he says, and she remembers that yes, there was a conversation. What were they talking about? “They are our kids. I won’t be shocked if they disappear to Vegas as soon as she’s legal and come back married.”
“I like to think they have more common sense than that.”
He just smiles, shakes his head.
“I’ll see you at Belmont, Ash.”
He picks his glass off the railing and descends the stairs, leaving her feeling like he’s taking another small piece of her with him. Ashleigh wonders how long it will be before there is nothing left, before she breaks.
“Yes,” she murmurs, and watches him go.