But she knew she didn’t rate forgiveness.
“Jesus didn’t talk about grace,” she said.
Ross sighed when she said things like that. “He talked about forgiveness, Adelina.”
“He talked about law. He said adultery was forbidden. That even thinking about adultery was forbidden. He said that wanting to murder was the same as murder. ”
“You haven’t committed murder, Adelina.”
But she wanted to.
Ross took her hands. “Adelina, listen to me. We are all sinners. But you, me, all of us, can be forgiven.”
She knew better. But she still prayed.
Her discussions with Father Ross were challenging on a host of levels. Intellectually and spiritually. It was apparent that he genuinely cared about her welfare. It was equally evident that he was hopelessly naive and didn’t have the first clue what she was talking about. He lived in a retreat center amidst the sequoias, where God was apparent right outside his front door. She didn’t get to live in that world. She lived in a world where charming diplomats turned out to be liars. She lived in a world defined by anxiety and fear. She’d lived in that world for thirty-three years.
Thirty-three years she’d protected her daughters from that bastard. Thirty-three years she’d suffered, alone.
For Adelina Thompson, it was time to leave that world. No matter what it took.
1. Adelina. February 23, 1981
Adelina Ramos felt her cheeks heat up. The American diplomat, Richard Thompson, had stopped in the shop for the third time in a week. He wore a dark double breasted pinstriped suit with a narrow black tie, and his hair, too long for Spanish tastes, was swept back on his forehead. He had a broad face, blue eyes and a strong chin. She guessed he was somewhere in his late twenties, and by the look of the suit, he was quite rich. Whenever he was there, she stammered and acted like a fool.
Adelina wore an ankle-length white linen dress with embroidered flowers, hand sewn by her grandmother.
The previous week, he’d come into her father’s flower shop, three blocks from the El Palacio del Congreso de los Diputados, the lower house of the Spanish parliament. He’d come in to place an order of flowers. Dozens of flowers in multiple arrangements to be delivered to the US Embassy, then on from there to the Cortes.
Her father, Manuel Ramos, a dour and serious man, took the order. Always polite, but never charming, her father made halting conversation with the diplomat. Richard Thompson, from San Francisco, California. Thompson had a ready smile, startling blue eyes and charming manners.
Three days later Thompson was back to take the initial delivery. This time he wore jeans and a plain black t-shirt, which highlighted a lean but muscular frame. Her father, unfortunately, was out at the time, leaving Adelina to mind the store. She helped him load the flowers into the back of a boxy looking yellow SEAT Bocenegra. The back seat was folded down, so there was just room for the flowers.
“What sort of function are the flowers for, Señor?” she had asked. In Spanish. Most of their rare American customers spoke no Spanish, but Thompson spoke functional, if not perfect Spanish.
“We plan to deliver them to your Cortes as a goodwill gesture,” he replied.
A week passed after his second visit before he returned again.
“Señorita Ramos,” Thompson said when he stepped into the shop.
“Señor Thompson,” she replied. “Can I help you with something?”
He smiled, a crooked, wolfish grin. “I came here looking for a flower. It seems I found one.”
Her eyes dived for the floor. “You’re too kind, Señor.”
“Señorita Ramos. In all seriousness, I’m here to see you. I have tickets to the theater for Friday evening. I would be grateful if you would attend with me.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, I’m sixteen.”
His eyes widened. “I hadn’t realized, Señorita.”
Her tone prim, she said, “Even if I wasn’t, I have an audition for the National Orchestra on Friday. I’m sure I’ll be too busy for you.”
“Well, then. Another time.”
With that, he whisked out of the shop, and at that moment, she assumed out of her life.
Forty minutes later, the phone rang. She knew who it was. At fifteen minutes before six, it could only be her father, calling to tell her to lock up at six o’clock. That happened once or twice a week, usually when he got caught up having one too many glasses of fino with his friends and cousins.
It was fine. She’d grown used to it. Every day she went directly from school to the shop, where she would do homework at the counter until closing time, often while eating a snack. Her father worked hard. Born the Marquis of Cerverales, he’d lost everything during the Franco dictatorship because of his support of the leftists. He started over in the early 1970s with nothing but a flower cart, but by the time Franco was gone and King Juan Carlos began to implement democratic reforms, he’d built a new life.
He’d lost his title—and nearly his life—but her father still had his bragging rights. He often drank too much at the cafe down the street from the Cortez, where he talked of old political battles long since won and lost. During the spring, summer and fall, the cafe spilled out onto the sidewalk. Since November, though, it had been buttoned up tight. It pained Adelina to see her father when he was lost in nostalgia. But she also felt pride for him. Her parents were separated—her mother had returned to live in Calella with two-year-old Luis—but her mother still taught her to take pride in her father.
In the year since her parents had separated, Adelina had stayed with her father. Divorce, though technically legal in Spain for the first time as of that year, was still largely unheard of.
Adelina was in her second year playing violin for the National Youth Orchestra, and her father spent a substantial portion of his meager earnings on her continued lessons. Her hours sitting behind the counter—often with little business—were all she could offer in return.
At five minutes after six she locked the door and rolled the steel shutters down over the front door, then tightened her scarf and tugged on tight leather gloves to ward off the icy wind. It was dark already, and she felt a shiver as she slid the padlock in place to secure the shutters.
She stepped back, startled, as a large truck barreled the wrong way up Calle los Madrazo. The truck spit out black smoke, and she saw soldiers sitting in the truck as it sped away.
Adelina turned in the other direction to head home, just in time to see Richard Thompson approaching. She let out a startled gasp, suddenly very aware of the fact that most of the shops were closed and it was dark and very cold.
“Señorita,” he called out. Commanded.
She tucked her head down and began to walk, her shoes clicking on the sidewalk. He followed. “Señorita,” he said, his voice louder.
“Please leave me alone.” Adelina’s voice shook as she said the words. Then she staggered at the sound of a loud explosion.
Thompson stopped in his tracks. Another truck had pulled up to the end of the street, and soldiers poured out of it. They had their weapons at the ready and one of them shouted.
That’s when she heard the cracking, high-pitched sound of a machine gun. One, two, a dozen shots, then more. Adelina screamed and backed against the side of the lane as soldiers ran up the street.
Thompson backed up against the wall next to her.
“Señorita, we must get under cover. I’m afraid it’s Basque terrorists. Or a coup.”
More shots. A lot of them.
Her eyes rolled as she desperately sought an avenue of escape. “Come! Now!” Thompson shouted. He reached out and grabbed her gloved hand. Even though the shots were in the distance, the proximity of the shouting soldiers and the gunshots terrified her. She gripped Thompson’s hand harder and ran behind him.
He came to a stop in front of her father’s shop. “Unlock it,” he ordered. His voice was unnaturally calm, as if he were used to hearing gunfire. “We’ll stay i
n there until the trouble has cleared.”
Her hands shook so hard she dropped her keys. He grabbed them and unlocked the padlock, slid the shutters up only halfway, then pulled her inside.
1. Julia. April 30. 1:15 PM Pacific.
Julia Wilson felt disoriented as the driver took the exit off I-105 onto Crenshaw Boulevard. Hawthorne Municipal Airport was a single-runway public airport south of Los Angeles. Julia had called ahead to ensure their charter was ready to fly, including the extra passengers.
Flying a charter aircraft could be expensive. But as often as they traveled during the touring season, it actually worked out cheaper to charter a plane for three or six months out of the year. Operating expenses worked out to about a thousand dollars for every hour they were in the air, but that was still cheaper than other forms of travel for a dozen or more people at a time. Several years before Julia had run the numbers on buying a private aircraft and just hiring a full time crew, but the charters worked out to be a lot cheaper.
Her confusion was due to what her sister Carrie had just told her on the phone. “I can’t believe that,” she said.
“I know,” Carrie replied. “He’s been lying our entire lives. They’ve been lying our entire lives.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Julia said. “It wasn’t even Senator Rainsley she had the affair with. It was George Lansing.” Her eyes darted to Crank, sitting next to her, and Anthony, who sat in the front passenger seat. Anthony’s eyes were wide.
She mouthed, “That is off the record. Mouth. Shut.”
Anthony mimed turning a key at his mouth.
“I remember you telling me about that… who was George Lansing?”
Julia shrugged. “I didn’t really know him exactly—he worked in consular affairs. I just remember Mom spending a lot of time with him in the fall of ’96. I stayed as far away as I could. I was busy with school and all that stuff too, I don’t really remember that much.”
“But Mom told you for sure about him?” Carrie sounded almost desperate.
“Not exactly. No. Now that I think about it, she never said she had an affair with him. But she didn’t argue when I accused her, either.”
“Whatever,” Carrie said. “I can’t believe she was such a fucking liar.”
Julia sighed. “Listen, let me call you back. We’re just getting to the airport.”
“All right. If she’s home… just… I…”
Carrie trailed off. Somehow her inarticulateness captured how they both felt.
Julia hung up the phone.
“Everything kosher?” Crank asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, just… you’re… wow.”
Crank’s eyes widened. “Jesus, baby, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“Babe…”
Julia let out a loud groan. “All right, fine. But he has to swear this is all off the record.”
Anthony, in the front seat, said, “Of course.”
The car came to a stop. Julia huffed and had the door open before the driver could put it in park. Within seconds she was marching across the tarmac, with Anthony and Crank trying to keep up. The jet, operated by a Boston-based charter company, sat on the runway, engines already warming up.
She led the way up the stairs, both of the men following behind her.
Inside the plane, the pilot said, “Ma’am. We’re just about ready, once your baggage is stowed.”
“Thank you,” Julia responded.
The pilot disappeared back into the cockpit. Julia took a seat in one of the luxurious leather chairs. As Crank and Anthony got themselves situated, the flight attendant offered drinks. Julia promptly ordered a vodka tonic.
As the attendant turned away, Julia said, “Make it a double, please.”
Crank’s mouth dropped open. “All right, Julia. Spill. If he can’t hear it, I’ll kick him off the plane.”
Anthony held his hands up, palms facing her. “With God as my witness. Whatever you tell me is off the record.”
Julia rolled her eyes. Then she said, “Fuck it. I don’t need to protect him. Turns out, Carrie and Andrea have a different father than the rest of us.”
“Wait… what?” Crank said.
Anthony’s eyes widened. “You know I suspected as much when I saw the pictures from the wedding last summer. The two of them stand out, a lot.”
Julia leaned her head forward. “And where did you see the wedding pictures?”
He shrugged. “It’s my job to research things. A friend of your sister—”
“Which sister?”
He shook his head. “Alexandra.”
“You’ve been working on this for a while, haven’t you? This is all some bullshit smokescreen.”
“Yes, and no.”
The pilot interrupted, speaking over the cabin speakers. “Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for takeoff.”
“Explain yourself,” Julia said.
Anthony sighed. “I followed the court-martial last summer with a great deal of interest. War crimes interest me. Plus, I thought it was an interesting coincidence that it took place in the same province as Wakhan.”
“I don’t know what that is. Wakhan?”
“Ancient history. Soviet war crimes. Some awful stuff went down in Afghanistan in the early 80s.”
Julia shook her head. “That makes no sense… what does it have to do with us?”
“Nothing,” Anthony said. “Point is… yeah I’m interested in the foreign policy angle. I’m interested in your history, and your dad’s history. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Well. I can’t give you permission to write about this. You’ll have to talk with Carrie about it first, because it affects her first.”
“All right,” he said.
“Jesus,” Crank said. “Whatever. He agreed to keep it under wraps. What the fuck? Who is their dad?”
“Senator Chuck Rainsley.”
Anthony pursed his lips. “Senator Rainsley?”
Julia nodded. “That’s what Dad reports.”
“Jesus Christ,” Crank said. “I can’t fucking believe it.”
“I believe it,” Julia said. “You know my mom’s fucking crazy.”
Crank shrugged. “Well, yeah, but… that’s a big deal. And there were three daughters in between. Who does that?”
Julia rolled her eyes. “My mother, obviously.”
Anthony said, “Tell me about your mother.”
2. Adelina. February 23, 1981
The battery powered radio crackled with confused and conflicting announcements. The new Prime Minister, Leopoldo Sotelo, was dead, murdered by the revolutionaries. No, he wasn’t dead, he was held prisoner. The members of the lower house of Parliament were all dead. No, they were held prisoner. The rebels were led by Basque terrorists. Or the Guardia Civil. King Juan Carlos had been killed. Or he was allied with the rebels. The leader of the rebels was Lieutenant Colonel Antonio Tejero, who had already served prison time for involvement in an attempted coup in 1978. None of it made any sense to Adelina. She knew politics from listening to her father—that was unavoidable. But the seizure of Parliament by the Army? It was frightening. What would come of her family? Her father? For that matter, when would she be able to go home?
For two hours, she’d peered out the slats of the metal shutters while listening to the radio. The phone wasn’t working. She didn’t know where her father was. And the Guardia Civil patrols outside still blocked the street, the soldiers marching up and down, machine guns slung over their shoulder, their breath billowing out in great clouds of frost in the cold air.
Above all, Richard was starting to scare her.
Inside the shop, it was freezing cold, and they had no light except a candle casting weak light through the room. Along with the phone lines, there was no electricity—cut by the rebels, according to Richard. He paced like a caged animal. Angry muscles, sometimes vibrating with tension. Twelve steps, from one end of the shop. Stop. Turn. Twelve steps back.
At one point he spun toward her and grabbed her wrists. “I’ve got to report in. Stay here.”
Then he spun away, pulled the front door open and ducked under the halfway rolled up shutter.
Immediately she heard shouts. “¡alto! ¡no te muevas!” Stop! Do not move!
Richard froze, only his feet and legs visible to her. She stopped breathing.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” The questions were demanding, harsh.
Richard stumbled over his words, answering in halting Spanish, as if he were a tourist who had learned the language from a phrase book. “I—I was the flower shop. Please no shoot.”
The soldier, or soldiers—she couldn’t really tell how many there were—demanded his papers.
A few moments later, he slipped back in, then closed and locked the door. He closed his eyes. “It appears I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
She shivered. His eyes were glassy as he looked at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”
“I just want to go home,” she said.
“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replied.
She took a deep breath, her eyes dropping to the floor. Where was her father? Why hadn’t he come to her? Soldiers or not, her father would come to her. Wouldn’t he?
The radio was going on. Mindlessly. They knew nothing. The radio announcer said that the rebels had tanks on the street in Valencia, and that the army had gone over to the rebels.
Where was her father?
Richard moved by her. He put his hands on her shoulders and ducked his head to meet her eyes. “Do not be afraid, Adelina.” His tongue brushed his lips as he said the words. He stood close to her. Close enough she could smell his acrid sweat.
“Please, Mr. Thompson…”
“Call me Richard.”
“Richard, stop.”
“Adelina,” he whispered as if he could taste her name on his lips.
“Stop.”
He brought his lips to hers. She didn’t respond, but her body shook, frail. In response, he gripped her arms harder, and his lips forced hers open.
Girl of Lies (Rachel's Peril) Page 20
