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Aug. 10th, 2009 01:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tinpraEven So
Navigating the narrow winding roads back into the city, Contessa admitted to herself that Richard really wasn't a bad driver. He wasn't bad at all. But he was fast, and you did feel as if you were taking your life in your hands when you rode with him. Which she reminded herself with a smile, is exactly the appeal for the young ladies. And with that in mind, she couldn't imagine Bruce letting Richard own a car, let alone a motorcycle, if he was in constant danger of killing one of his lady friends.
Contessa remembered thosee first few, strange, days before Richard actually came to live with Bruce in that big sprawling house. They proved that Bruce could in fact suffer from an attack of nerves. They'd added a third dimension to a man that she was the first to admit she knew about as well as an eagle knew the depths of the ocean: not just dopey and eligible billionaire bachelor, not just serious and competent businessman, but concerned...man.
Concerned man. Contessa turned the phrase over in her mind. He wasn't a father yet. Now, when he seemed to be at his most distant, he was probably more fatherly to Richard than he had been in those first few watchful years. But Richard--angry, hurt, alone and hiding it too, too well Richard--had in brought a vulnerability in Bruce that Contessa had privately marveled out. She'd already counted herself lucky when Bruce had asked her to be there during that first dinner between the two of them ("To show him that there are normal people who at least drop by the house every now and again."), but she'd never expected to be allowed even this much access into their private life, limited though it was. She was Richard's friend, if she could claim that of either of them. She and Bruce were just...friendly. But her mind persisted on going back to that first dinner, as if her presence had been about anything more than a way of making Richard feel better.
Navigating the narrow winding roads back into the city, Contessa admitted to herself that Richard really wasn't a bad driver. He wasn't bad at all. But he was fast, and you did feel as if you were taking your life in your hands when you rode with him. Which she reminded herself with a smile, is exactly the appeal for the young ladies. And with that in mind, she couldn't imagine Bruce letting Richard own a car, let alone a motorcycle, if he was in constant danger of killing one of his lady friends.
Contessa remembered thosee first few, strange, days before Richard actually came to live with Bruce in that big sprawling house. They proved that Bruce could in fact suffer from an attack of nerves. They'd added a third dimension to a man that she was the first to admit she knew about as well as an eagle knew the depths of the ocean: not just dopey and eligible billionaire bachelor, not just serious and competent businessman, but concerned...man.
Concerned man. Contessa turned the phrase over in her mind. He wasn't a father yet. Now, when he seemed to be at his most distant, he was probably more fatherly to Richard than he had been in those first few watchful years. But Richard--angry, hurt, alone and hiding it too, too well Richard--had in brought a vulnerability in Bruce that Contessa had privately marveled out. She'd already counted herself lucky when Bruce had asked her to be there during that first dinner between the two of them ("To show him that there are normal people who at least drop by the house every now and again."), but she'd never expected to be allowed even this much access into their private life, limited though it was. She was Richard's friend, if she could claim that of either of them. She and Bruce were just...friendly. But her mind persisted on going back to that first dinner, as if her presence had been about anything more than a way of making Richard feel better.