by Katy Regnery
If he finds out that I lost a second baby today, there will be more pain tonight.
But I will close my eyes and think of Ashley and of the baby I lost today. The baby I SAVED today.
And I will take it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ashley
“Did you know that Tig got pregnant again?” I ask Gus as he helps me set the picnic table outside. “After me, I mean?”
Jock, Julian, and Noelle are playing something with beanbags called cornhole on the front lawn while Gus and I lay plates and silverware on a crisp, white, just-ironed tablecloth.
He doesn’t look up at me. “Yes.”
“How many times did she miscarry?” I ask.
“Too many to count.”
I wince at this information. While at school, part of our service requirement was to participate in the annual March for Life rally in Washington with other Catholic girls’ schools. It was our biggest annual field trip and mandatory for every girl in upper school.
I have been taught that willful miscarriage is a terrible sin, but all I can think is that for Tig to resort to such measures, her life must have been utterly unbearable, and I feel more sympathy than judgment.
“How did you know?”
“She wrote to me,” says Gus, sitting down to roll and fold pink napkins into rosebuds.
“E-mail?”
“No, sugar. Pen to paper.”
“She did?”
“Started the third year she was married. Out of the blue. Then, once a month, like clockwork.”
“How?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Said she had someone on the inside who’d mail the letters for her.”
“You don’t know who?”
“Never asked.”
“Did you write back?”
Gus shakes his head. “Couldn’t.”
I have many unresolved feelings about my mother, but to think of Tig sharing her terrible life with an old friend who wasn’t permitted to write back—who wasn’t allowed to comfort her through all those secret losses—makes me so sad, I stop what I’m doing for a moment, hugging a plate to my chest. I close my eyes and breathe deeply to stanch the tears that want to fall.
“I would’ve liked to write back,” says Gus, “but it would have made things harder for her.”
This is indisputable, and we both know it.
“I found her diary,” I say. “I took it. I have it. Now. Here.”
Now Gus looks up at me, his forehead creasing as he searches my face. “Tig had a diary?”
I nod. “She found it in her bedside table two years after she left rehab and started writing in it.”
“Where the hell did you find it?”
“She hid it under a mattress at her house. I . . . I found it in her room. At Mosier’s.”
“What does it say? Oh, my God, Ash, what does she say?”
“I can’t read too fast, Gus. It’s . . .” I wince. “. . . hard.”
He’s holding my eyes, but now he rounds the table and pulls me into his arms. “Aw, li’l Ash.”
“She was so unh-happy,” I say, tears burning my eyes.
“Yes, she was.”
“I thought she hated me.”
“No, honey. She only stayed alive for you,” says Gus.
“B-but, all those b-babies.”
“She couldn’t keep them, honey. Couldn’t bring them into that life.”
I rest my forehead on Gus’s wiry shoulder and close my eyes.
“I saw her over h-holidays,” I say. “It wasn’t m-much time, but I c-could’ve c-comforted her.”
“Wasn’t your job, Ash. She screwed up a lot, our Tig, but she knew it wasn’t your job to comfort her.”
“She was so alone. I c-could have . . . I c-could—”
“No, honey. You couldn’t have done a thing. She made her choices,” says Gus. “Some good, some bad. But you don’t owe the universe any debt because of them.”
For a while, he just rubs my back, and I feel my tears recede in the safe haven of his arms.
“Ash, baby,” he says, his voice gentle, but firm, “I know you feel far away from all that right now, but you’re still in danger.”
I clench my eyes shut because I don’t want to think about it.
“Jock reached out to an old friend,” he says, his voice low, his lips close to my ear. “Someone he knew at the Department of Defense. He put Jock in touch with someone at the FBI. We’re working with a special agent named Jack Simmons.”
“Working with?” I lean back, looking up into my godfather’s eyes.
Gus nods at me, but his expression is bleak. “Ash, that guard you told me and Jock about? Dragon? Could his name have been Dragomir? Dragomir Lungu?”
And even though I told Julian earlier today that an eidetic memory can be a burden, in instances such as this one, it can also be a blessing.
“Yes. That was his name. Definitely.”
“Okay, so Dragomir Lungu emigrated from Moldova seven years ago, sponsored for a work visa by Mosier Răumann. But his trail ends three years ago. No more passport entries or exits, no tax returns, no credit cards, not even a speeding ticket. Nothing. It’s like he disappeared. Or . . . was murdered. Just like you said. Do you know of any other guards who went missing?”
Murdered. Even though I knew that was probably what happened, it’s chilling to have it confirmed.
“Ash? Honey?”
“I was barely ever at Mosier’s house, and even when I was, I wasn’t allowed near his guards. It was a coincidence that I happened to wake up and see anything that night. I thought I dreamed it.”
“Well, keep thinking,” says Gus. “Your priest is supposed to talk to Mosier later this week, when he returns from Vegas, but Jock’s going to keep digging, just in case Father Joseph can’t change Mosier’s mind about his plans for you. Agent Simmons said that Răumann and his sons are bad men. The FBI’s been trying to build a racketeering case against the family for years.”
While this news doesn’t surprise me, it’s still news, in that I’ve never had it confirmed before now.
“If you were up for it, baby doll, you could even be a star witness in putting him away,” Gus adds softly, gauging my reaction. “For murdering Dragomir Lungu.”
Sudden and unexpected chills turn my arms into gooseflesh. “Gus! He’d hunt me down! He’d—”
Gus drops his hands to my shoulders. “Never. Never, sugar. No one will touch a hair on your head. That’s rule one.”
“How?”
“Witness Security Program.”
“You mean . . . changing my name? Moving somewhere far away? Hiding? Forever? What about my face, Gus? People recognize my face wherever I go!”
“Easy, Ash. Easy.” Gus pulls me close and rubs my back. “Listen, honey, let’s shelve this for now. I’m going to ask you to trust me again. Can you do that? For Gus-Gus? Jock has it all under control, I promise. I don’t want you to worry. You just . . . rest a while here. Maybe your Father Joseph can get things ironed out, but if he can’t, Jock’s on the case, okay? That’s all I wanted you to know.”
Gus kisses my forehead, then sits down to make three more napkin roses while I put water and wine glasses at each place.
My nerves are still jumping. I want to change the subject. I want to think about anything else but Mosier.
“Did Julian make these?” I ask, holding up a wineglass with a bright blue stem.
“He did.” Gus looks up at the glass I’m holding and sighs dramatically. “Oh, but the talent, honey. The tal-ent.”
I feel a grin quirk the corners of my mouth, but I don’t turn away in time. Gus sees.
“Oh, look here, now. Wait wait wait wait, baby doll. Is that a blush I see? Oh, my gracious Lord above, does my li’l Ash have a crush?”
“Stop,” I hiss, looking across the yard at Julian, who throws a beanbag into a hole, then taunts his sister with his victory.
“He is a manly piece of man,” Gus swoons, covering
his chest with a manicured hand, his lacquered nails shiny in the dying sun. “You could choose worse.”
“Stop staring,” I plead. Julian’s going to know we’re talking about him.
“You’re no fun.”
“We went for a walk today,” I say, studying the place settings like my life depends on it.
“Oh, reeeeeally? Tell me more.”
“We talked a little. Walked a little.”
“Did you let him touch your—”
“Gus!”
“—hand a little?”
“You weren’t going to say hand,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him. “Cut it out. I’m a good girl.”
“Maybe too good,” Gus mutters under his breath, standing up to place napkins on plates.
“What does that mean?”
Gus puts his hands on his hips, giving me major attitude. “Your mama was the fiercest bitch I ever met. And Lord knows she was trouble, but she had some spirit!” He tilts his head to the side. “I get you, honey. I get that you don’t want to turn into your mama. But damn, girl, you ain’t the Virgin Mary either. Live a little. Have some fun. That boy gives you tingles in the tinderbox? Well, hell. Let him strike a match already.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?” He widens his dark eyes with exasperation. “Is you eighteen? Is you hot? Is you ready?”
“Gus . . .”
“Don’t you Gus me. When’s the last time you kissed a man?”
I stare at him.
“Tell me you have kissed a man, Ashley Carys Ellis.”
I sigh softly, blinking at him. “When I was thirteen.”
His index finger flicks back and forth. “Thirteen is not a man, peaches. Thirteen is a boy.”
“Well, there it is.”
“Now, honey, you can’t be serious.”
“Who exactly was I going to kiss?” I ask, putting my hands on my own hips to mirror him. “Father Joseph? Mosier? My stepbrothers? Where, exactly, O wise one, was I supposed to find a man to kiss?”
“Lord, child,” he says, shaking his head at me like my entire existence is impossible now that he’s discovered I’ve been kiss free since thirteen. “You must be backed-up to China. You are way overdue to let loose.”
Jock bellows a triumphant whoop from the grass, and Gus’s eyes slide to his partner, who’s jumping up and down like he just won the lottery. Jock high-fives Noelle, then shakes hands with Julian, who offers Jock a rare grin, and a feeling sweeps over me. A feeling so sharp, it hurts. The kind of hurt that knocks the wind from your lungs and leaves you gasping.
Gus and Jock. Julian and Noelle. Me. A sunny evening. Lawn games now and dinner coming. Five misfits who don’t have a lot of somebodies, who suddenly have each other.
I don’t have much experience with family, but I long for it so terribly right this minute—with the four unlikely people around me—that it makes me dizzy, and my eyes sting while I try to catch my breath.
“You okay, baby doll?” asks Gus.
I nod, setting the last glass in place, then I turn and run back up to the house.
***
Julian
There is no comparison between last night’s dinner and tonight’s.
Last night, we sat at a bare picnic table with paper plates, a roll of paper towels, and a citronella candle, eating pizza slices directly out of the box. Tonight? As part of a security detail, I’ve attended dinners with the most powerful movers and shakers on the planet, and I can say without reservation that tonight is elegant. Tonight is decadent. Tonight is not just a meal, it’s an experience.
On one side of the table, Jock and I share a bench. On the other side, Gus is flanked by Noelle and Ashley. The table has been carefully set with white and pink linens, plates, and my own glasses—clear bowls with royal blue stems that I made for the house. At some point, Ashley must have picked flowers and has arranged them in bud vases. She found floating candles hidden somewhere and put them in two hurricane vases filled with water so that the candlelight pings off the glass and the water.
Couldn’t she find any candlesticks? I wonder, making a mental note to craft some for her—er, the house.
To start, she spoils us with a cold soup; vichyssoise, I think, as Jock pours each of us a glass of wine that pairs with it.
Across the table, I watch Ashley bring the glass of wine to her lips, and I stare until she catches me, then I smile at her over the rim of my own glass.
“Do you like it?” I ask, thinking that the cold, dry Chardonnay is a perfect match for the creamy soup.
“Yes, I do.”
“I thought you didn’t drink?”
“I only drink a little,” she says, replacing her wineglass, “when a meal commands it.”
“Does this meal command it?” I ask.
She nods, her head moving just a little, like a queen acknowledging a loyal subject. “I hope so.”
“Li’l Ash has always been a good cook,” offers Gus, grinning at his goddaughter beside him. “Used to spoil me rotten when I looked after her, putting bacon in the mac and cheese and potato chips on the PB&J.”
“Was that often?” I ask. “That you looked after Ashley?”
“Often enough,” answers Gus, shooting a look at Jock.
“Julian,” says Jock, as he clears his throat, “we’ve already gotten inquiries for Christmas ornaments. How many are you planning this year?”
I see what they’re doing. In their own gentle way, they’re protecting Ashley, and while I respect that, something in me longs to be on Team Ashley too. I want them to trust me. Even more importantly, I want her to trust me. It’s not a good idea. It could get me in trouble. But I can’t help the feeling that zings through me—of wanting to be useful, of wanting to keep her safe too.
“We had one lady come in and buy half a dozen,” says Gus. “She had a bunch of ornament swap parties coming up and said your pretties would make a splash.”
Last year, I made almost fifty blown-glass ornaments, some round, some teardrop shaped, some onion shaped like the domes on a Russian cathedral, but each original and unique. They sold like hotcakes, especially, I think, because of the skiers at Sugarbush who often swing over to quaint Shelburne for the restaurants and shopping.
“How many do you want?” I ask.
“At least a hundred,” says Gus. “Right, P.C.?”
“At least.”
“What will you sell them for?” I ask.
“Fifty each?” asks Jock. “Twenty-eighty split?”
Not bad. I’ll make $4,000 for the batch, and who knows how long I’ll be living rent free with Ashley? I’ll be able to bank most of my commission.
I nod at Jock. “Done. And if you need more, let me know. I can make four or five a day.”
Noelle looks up at me from where she’s sitting, her smile grudging as she speaks to me voluntarily for the first time since last night. “Dad would be proud, Jules.”
I shrug, but her words mean something to me, and my voice is warm when I thank her. “Merci, tamia.”
“French,” says Ashley. “You speak it. I knew it!”
My eyes shift from my sister, across Gus, to rest on the sparkling blue eyes of my housemate. Damn, but she’s pretty. “You did?”
Her cheeks color pink. “Well, you . . . sometimes you watch movies in French, and I wondered if—”
“How do you know what I watch?”
“I can hear it,” she says, her cheeks coloring dramatically as she confesses, “through the floor.”
I take another sip of my wine. Fuck. What else has she heard? I’ve beaten-off thinking about her about a dozen times since she arrived. My cheeks are as hot when I set down my glass.
“The plot thickens,” hums Gus. He looks at me and winks. “How ’bout you help Ash take these bowls into the kitchen, tiger? I want to catch up with your adorable little sister.”
Gus proceeds to ask Noelle questions about her classes, while Ashley and I collect the bowls from e
ach side of the table. My sister, Gus, and Jock are laughing companionably as I follow Ashley to the house, up the porch steps, and into the kitchen.
She places her three bowls in the sink, then turns and takes mine, her fingers sliding against mine as the bowls change hands. I’m not going to lie—I feel it everywhere, and it makes me lean a little closer to her.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask, my eyes focused on the intricate braids in her hair that start at her crown and trail to her back. Her hair is white in some places, silver in others, and gold in still others. It’s like something out of a fairytale—I’d almost believe that Rumpelstiltskin spun Ashley’s hair on his wheel if she told me it was so.
There is a lavender sunset outside the window, where people we love sit at a candlelit picnic table, and for the first time in a long time, a rare peace descends over me. People. Food. A beautiful girl. An amethyst sunset. It feels good. It feels so good, I want to sink into it and find a way to hold on to it forever.
“Um, at school,” she says, her voice just a little nervous. “Service and teamwork are important parts of the, um, curriculum.”
“Service and teamwork?”
She turns on the water to rinse the bowls, and I pivot slightly so that my back is against the counter and I’m looking at her askance instead of facing her.
“Mm-hm. Preparing meals for the homeless and elderly and taking turns in the kitchen, assisting the numeraries—”
“What-a-raries?”
“They’re helpers. Like nuns.”
“Your school’s pretty conservative, huh?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess so, but I have nothing to compare it to.”
“It’s Catholic.”
“Yes.”
“Is it Opus Dei?”
“Yes, it is.”
Huh. Well, that explains a little more.
For the short amount of time I worked in DC, I rented an apartment in a suburb called Vienna where Hartridge, an Opus Dei all-girls prep school, was being built.
Out of curiosity, I googled “Opus Dei” and discovered that it’s a branch of Catholicism that practices strict adherence to rules and whose schools offer a traditional and conservative education. Its detractors might throw around words like misogynistic and oppressive, while its supporters would tout its commitment to values and faith.
