Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,212

the door, then in we go—to a rousing chorus of “Surprise!”

Mom, Dad, Kate, Elliot, both Josés, Mia, Ethan, Bob, and Carla all raise their glasses, cheering, as we stand together before our family and friends. Ana turns and gawks at me. I grin, squeezing her hand, delighted that this has all come together, and Carla steps forward, sweeping Ana into her arms.

“Darling, you look beautiful. Happy birthday.”

“Mom!” Ana sobs. It’s a bittersweet sound and I step away to give them some privacy, and to greet the rest of our guests.

I’m actually pleased to see everyone—even José. He and his father are looking well rested, and less battered than yesterday. Elliot and Ethan rave about Charlie Tango, Mia and Kate about The Heathman.

“And I got to fly in your helicopter! Thank you so much!” Mia throws her arms around me. I ask her how her job’s going. “So far so good.” She grins. “Oh, my turn for Ana!” She darts off to pester my wife.

“Thanks for all this, Christian,” Kate says. “I’m sure Ana appreciates it.”

“I hope so.”

When I return to her, Elliot has Ana in a tight embrace. Taking her hand, I ease her to my side. “Enough fondling my wife. Go fondle your fiancée,” I say without rancor. Elliot winks at Kate.

A waiter presents Ana and me with flutes of rosé champagne—our usual, Grande Année, of course. I clear my throat; the general hum in the room dies down as everyone gives me their attention. “This would be a perfect day if Ray were here with us, but he’s not far away. He’s doing well, and I know he’d like you to enjoy yourself, Ana. To all of you—thank you for coming to share my beautiful wife’s birthday, the first of many to come. Happy birthday, my love.” I raise my glass to my girl, amid a chorus of “happy birthdays,” and tears shine in her eyes.

Oh, baby.

I kiss her temple, longing to take her hurt away. “Good surprise?” I ask, suddenly nervous.

“Very good surprise. Thank you, you darling man.” She raises her lips to mine, and I give her a quick, chaste peck, suitable for family viewing.

Ana is not her usual self during dinner—she’s subdued, but I understand; she’s worried about her father. She follows the conversations, laughs in the right places, and I think she’s buoyed by the merriment of our family and friends. But deep down my girl is aching: she’s pale, she’s chewing her lip, and occasionally, she’s distracted—probably lost in her dark thoughts.

I see her pain and I’m powerless to help.

It’s frustrating.

She picks at her food, but I don’t nag her. I’m just grateful she ate a hearty lunch.

Elliot and José are in top form. I had no idea the photographer had such a sharp sense of humor. Kate, too, has noticed Ana’s state; she’s solicitous, and during a hushed conversation I watch them laughing. Ana shows off her new bracelet and Kate makes the right appreciative noises. My feelings toward Kavanagh thaw a little more.

Make my wife laugh. She needs the distraction right now.

Finally, a magnificent chocolate cake with twenty-two candles ablaze is delivered by two waitstaff. Elliot starts a spirited rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and we all join in. Ana’s smile is wistful.

“Make a wish,” I whisper to her, and she screws her eyes shut like a child might, then blows out every candle in one breath. She looks up at me, anxiously, and I know she’s thinking of Ray. “He’ll be fine, Ana. Just give him time.”

Bidding good night to all our guests, we wander up to our hotel room. I think the night has been a success. Ana seems more content, and I’m surprised, given the circumstances, how much I enjoyed everyone’s company. I close the door to our suite and lean against it as Ana turns to face me. “Alone at last,” I mutter.

She must be exhausted.

She steps toward me and runs her fingers over my lapels. “Thank you for a wonderful birthday. You really are the most thoughtful, considerate, generous husband.”

“My pleasure.”

“Yes, your pleasure. Let’s do something about that,” she whispers, and raises her lips to mine.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Ana is curled up on the sofa in our suite, reading a manuscript that she’s had printed out at the hotel. She’s calm and focused, that little v forming between her brows as she scribbles her blue-penciled hieroglyphics in the margins. Occasionally she chews her plump lower lip, and I don’t know if it’s a judgment on what she’s