For a second, I froze, unsure what to do. Chase her? Yell after her? Run away?
I raced to the glass doors and flung them open, rushing outside.
Off to one side, was a set of steep, spiral metal stairs that led to the beach and a dock. A small seaplane floated next to the dock, and I got a glimpse of black as she stepped into the plane. A scream caught in my throat. It was too late. I had so many questions.
The seaplane chugged away, churning up the water around it.
I stood stock-still on the deck, watching as the plane took off, soaring into the brilliant swirling orange and pink Sicilian sunset and leaving with the aunt I’d never known I had.
The Queen of Spades.
49
The light in Cabo San Lucas had a soft glow to it at sunrise and sunset that made Eva feel both energized and languid at the same time.
From her penthouse suite, she stood on the deck and looked down at the turquoise cove smattered with small white boats before her. The first day she’d arrived, she’d spotted a pod of whales frolicking in the cove, and it had taken her breath away.
She only wished she’d had someone to share the moment with. But she was alone.
Jonathan had been called back to L.A. His son was having problems and needed him.
“I hope you understand,” Jonathan had said. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with one of the mothers in Mexico.”
“Of course,” Eva had said. But her heart ached. Because even Jonathan, who knew her whole story, didn’t seem to consider her a mother now that her children were dead. By saying he hoped she’d understand, she realized he didn’t see her as a fellow parent.
Swallowing her pain, Eva reminded herself that she would allow herself to grieve, to have one of her “episodes” on her return to Italy. After she helped this woman find her daughter.
Once upon a time, these “episodes” had ruled her life. Not long ago, she could only keep them at bay for a few hours before she found herself breaking down, weeping and wailing the loss of her husband and children.
Now, more often than not, when she told herself to “wait until later,” the breakdown never came. Then, she’d realize that she’d forgotten, caught up in her task of building an army. And that’s when she knew that keeping busy was the answer to her grief. The busier she was, the less time she had to mourn.
And while mourning was fine—even natural and necessary—there was a time and place for it.
For now, she had a job to do.
A mother, like she was and always would be, needed her help.
Nothing else mattered.
***
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The Suicide King Page 15
