Myrna would go find him and likely give a low curtsy, begging the pleasure of his company.
I took a chance and tried something.
Lucien, if you can hear me, dinner is ready, I thought in his direction wherever that was.
I listened, heard no movement in the house and sighed at how annoying it was that he couldn’t hear me talking to him when I wanted him to hear me, only when he was eavesdropping. I threw another tea towel over the potatoes, deciding to go in search of him.
I turned and saw Lucien walking in, his eyes on me, his face blank, his posture strange.
It was, somehow, alert.
I went alert too.
He got in my space (again) and looked down at me, his face still blank.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?” I asked back.
“You got in my head,” he told me.
So it worked.
“Well, I didn’t want to shout and you can hear me when I’m talking to you in my mind, so I tried it and –”
He cut me off. “I can’t hear you all the time, only when I’m listening.”
That was news.
“Really?”
He waited a moment before stating, “No one has ever done that.”
I felt my eyes go round as I repeated, “Really?”
His expression turned thoughtful. I suspected so did mine. I wanted to know what in the hell was going on.
Then his expression went watchful again like he was denying something from me, which I thought was weird.
Eventually, he said quietly, “Really.”
He studied my face, his eyes so intent I felt that pulsating feeling again, as if he was trying to source my mood, invade my thoughts.
I wished with all my heart I could do the same thing.
I wanted to ask what he was doing but I figured Myrna would let him do whatever he wanted to do without question, even if he was invading her mind. So I just looked at him.
Finally he declared, “Let’s eat.”
I put the potatoes in a serving bowl and carried all the food to the table while Lucien opened the wine and poured it. All the while this happened I had a freaky feeling about the whole getting into his mind business.
I added that to my very long, mental Ask Mom Tomorrow List.
We’d served up the food and I was buttering my flaky, still warm biscuit (it could be argued my biscuits were better than my fried chicken, or, at least, Mom and Lana could argue about it and they did all the time) when Lucien spoke again.
“We need to talk about last night.”
My mouth was watering for the biscuit. When he spoke those words, it went dry and my appetite took a hike.