by Becky Melby
“Yes. No one’s ever going to take the shelves down to tear it off, so it’ll be here as long as we own the place.”
“I love that. So nostalgic. My parents built three new houses while I was growing up. No sense of family history at all.”
“At least your parents didn’t have to tell you not to chew on the windowsills because you’d end up with brain damage.”
Her soft laugh filled the small space as she ran her hand along the scalloped bottom edge of a shelf.
“These were all cupboards once upon a time. My grandfather took the doors off to make it a more efficient—and junky—space.”
Dani nodded and looked up at the wooden crucifix hanging by the back door. “That looks really old, too.”
“It came from Italy with my great-grandparents.” He fastened the chain lock on the door and propped it open. Night air, several degrees cooler than inside, seeped through the narrow space.
Nicky picked up the three-legged chair, carried it to the desk, pushed the padded desk chair to the side for Dani, and turned on the computer.
“Are you Catholic?” Her voice, so small, seemed to have floated down a long hallway. She still stood in front of the crucifix, staring up.
“I was raised in the church.”
She turned around, crossed her arms, and rubbed them as if she were cold. “And now?”
Now. He chewed on his bottom lip. He couldn’t put it into words even for himself.
Dani crossed the room, her sandals ticking on the wood floor. She sat down and swiveled to face him. As he stared at the screen coming to life, he balanced on three chair legs and tried to formulate an answer.
“Why is that hard to answer?”
Her hushed question slid over him like a caress. For no definable reason, his eyes stung.
She touched his arm, tentatively at first then conformed her hand to his forearm. “Talk to me.”
He pressed his teeth into his lip, willing the pain to overtake the emotion. He shook his head. He was not going to fall apart in front of her. The pressure on his arm increased, and then she let go. The spot felt cold. She folded her hands on her lap and bent toward him. “What happened four years ago?”
Anyone could have told her. Vito, Todd, Rena. She could have looked back and found his name in the paper she worked for. But if she knew, why was she asking? Just to make him talk? Because asking questions was what she did? She had a right to know. He’d tell her about it, just not now. Not at this time of night or in this room. Not with the smell of baking bread, the heat of summer, bringing it all back. Too sharp. Too vivid.
His fingers curved in toward his palms. He watched them, as if they belonged to someone else. Someone else’s hands covered with blood. Not his. Someone else’s fist jutting at a dark, cloudless sky. He shook his head. “Not now.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw her nod, but he couldn’t see her expression. Was she hurt? Angry?
“Okay,” she whispered. She gestured toward the screen. “Let’s leave all this for another time.” She stood.
He’d pushed her away. She stood less than a foot from him and yet the room already felt empty. Don’t go. Don’t be mad. His stomach clenched. They were the words of an eleven-year-old boy running after his mother. Please stay.
But she wouldn’t. He stared at the door, seeing her walk out even though she hadn’t moved.
At the moment he expected her to say good-bye, she reached toward him. Her hand rested on his cheek. She bent down, lifting his face to hers, and kissed him. Light, soft, too brief. “I’m praying for you, Nicky.”
With a half smile that stopped his next breath, she walked out.
Nicky pulled the sheet over his head and closed his eyes. The cloth touched his lips, making it easier to relive the kiss. But when he closed his eyes, it was too easy to imagine he’d just dreamed it.
“Nick? Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He pulled the sheet down and turned on the lamp as Rena opened the door. She wore plaid shorts and an oversized black T-shirt with an old-fashioned silver microphone sparkling on the front. It brought to mind the shirt she’d given Dani. He’d never gotten a satisfactory answer about what had happened that night. He glanced at the clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning. You really need to sleep once in a while, kid.”
“I was asleep until I heard Dad come home.” She sat down on the end of his bed, curling long legs beneath her. “It’s Gianna’s birthday.”
She knew he knew. Something else was going on here. “I made the cake, if that’s what you mean.”
“I was just thinking…she’d love it if we went to church with her.”
“Church? You?”
One shoulder lifted. The neck of her shirt dipped. What was that on her shoulder?
“I just thought it would be nice to do it for—”
“What’s that?” Ice coursed through his veins as he leaned forward and pointed at her collarbone. The light was bad. It was just a shadow.
Rena’s eyes widened. She clenched the top of the shirt. Her expression froze.
“Let me see.”
She pulled back. “See what? You’re being weird.”
“Let go of your shirt.”
“Why? Quit acting like a perv.”
“Rena. Stop it.” His voice came out rough and louder than he’d intended. Every second she resisted convinced him he hadn’t seen a shadow. Dear God… Heat rose from his belly. He gripped the sheet to keep from grabbing the hand that held her shirt.
He expected her to run. She didn’t. She stared back. Tears pooled in her eyes. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” Her tears slowed his rage. “Show me.”
Her eyes closed as she slowly released her grip and pulled the neck of her shirt to the side. In the hollow triangle above her collarbone, a 7 seemed to vibrate with the pounding of her pulse. Like subscript, a small S curled around the base of the seven.
Anger seeped from him. As if the plug had been pulled, and he couldn’t retain it. In its place it left deadness. “What’s the S for?” Once again, he felt like an observer. The flat, emotionless voice wasn’t his.
“Sisters. We’re not…what you think.”
“You said that.”
“It’s more like a club.”
He laughed, hating the sound. “Right. Like the Girl Scouts.”
“We’re just…it’s just a way…to be protected.”
His turn to close his eyes, but the picture stayed. His cousin had ignored a promise of safety. “And what do you have to do to earn the protection? Sell enough cookies?”
“What do you mean?”
A thin line of fury, like a white-hot needle, rose through the numbness. “What do you pay for your safety? What do you give in return?” He suddenly realized he had no idea what his sister did with the paycheck he gave her each week. “Money?”
“Do you honestly think I’d do that?”
“Then what? Your body? Do you—”
“Nick? Rena?” Their father didn’t wait for an answer before opening the door. “What are you two talking about?”
His cheery tone fanned the heat, bursting it into flames. “We’re talking about—”
Rena’s fingernails bit through the sheet, stabbing his leg. He stopped and stared at the stark fear in her eyes. Trembling with the pressure of unspoken words, he smiled. His father didn’t know him well enough to recognize it for what it was. “We were talking about Gianna’s birthday.”
“Oh. That’s today, isn’t it?” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “Do you have plans?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Nicky wasn’t about to fill it. Rena stared at the floor.
He wouldn’t ask for details. He knew he wasn’t invited. “I was wondering if maybe we could go out for breakfast today.”
Rena shook her head, a barely perceptible motion.
Nicky copied her response. “Sorry. We’re going to church with Gianna.”
“Oh. Good. She’ll like that. You two don’t need to be back here for brunch. We’ll handle it. In fact, take the rest of the day off, both of you.”
Rena raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.” She slid her feet to the floor. “I’m going to bed.” She raised her face for a kiss on the way out. “Night, Dad.”
“Maybe we can talk about what you hear at church when you get back. We should do that more, you know…talk about things that matter.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Rena answered from the hallway.
Great idea, Dad. Or would have been…years ago.
“Fabulous.” Gianna smashed the last chocolate crumbs with her fork, slid her plate onto the patio table, and leaned back in the chaise lounge. Eyes crinkling around Sophia Loren-worthy teal-rimmed sunglasses, she waved at Rena, perched on the diving board. “She looks cute in that suit.”
Nicky curled his fingers around the ends of the armrests. Try as he might, he couldn’t force his body to conform to the lawn chair. “What did you call it?”
“A tankini. Nice to see her in something modest.”
He’d agree if he didn’t know she’d bought it to cover the skin graffiti. “I guess.”
Gianna raised her leg and wiggled her toes. Bright red toe nails sported little white flowers. “Did I tell you my prayer partner took me to the spa yesterday? Hot stone massage, cucumber mint sugar scrub, steaming towels. Must be so sad to be a man.”
Nicky laughed. “I pay fourteen bucks for a haircut and three-ninety-eight for deodorant. How sad is that?”
“It’s why it’s fair that you guys foot the bill for everything.” She lifted her glasses and eyed him. “Footing any bills lately?”
“Smooth. And yes.”
“Danielle, right? That wasn’t just a casual acquaintance.”
The woman had radar. The day she’d met Dani was the day he’d decided he wanted to see more of her, in spite of her lack of street smarts. “There might be some potential there.”
“Hmm.” She lowered the glasses and turned her head back to neutral, but the tight, red-tinted lips fighting a smile said more than all the Italian exclamations of joy she was holding back. “You should have invited her to church this morning. Do you think she would have come?”
The woman should work for the CIA. He gave her the answer she was looking for. “Yes, I think she would have come.”
“And what would she have said about Ecclesiastes 4:9?”
Grateful he’d been listening, he laughed. “I think she would agree that two are stronger than one.”
Gianna’s sunglasses rose as a grin lifted her cheeks. “‘How can one keep warm alone?’ Verse eleven.” She folded her hands and in minutes was softly snoring.
April 29, 1927
The Palmer House lobby bustled with well-dressed, well-heeled patrons. Francie clutched her handbag against the front of her wrap coat. She still missed the black fox.
Scanning the room, she took in more than just the latest fashions. Tag wouldn’t be awake this early on a Sunday morning, and this really wasn’t his kind of place anyway. She stared at a man reading the Sunday paper, half hidden by a massive rubber plant. Was he one of Tag’s men?
She glanced at her watch. Tag hadn’t returned the fox coat, but not long after the Albert incident, he’d given her the Gruen Cartouche bracelet watch with its face encircled by diamonds— “just because.”
Needing to set her thoughts on anything but Tag, she stared up at the vaulted ceiling supported by stone columns resembling gold-topped palm trees with fronds branching toward exquisite mythological murals. It still amazed her that she could walk into a place like this and blend in—still couldn’t believe she was in this place, sporting a watch worth more than her father made in a year.
“Francie!”
Albert’s boyish yell pulled her into the moment. He strode toward her, his hand on his mother’s elbow. As they approached Francie darted a look toward the rubber plant. The man was gone. She breathed a sigh. Would the day ever come when she could stop watching over her shoulder, imagining eyes following her everywhere?
Albert embraced her with a brotherly hug. No trace of hurt or anger. What was this all about?
“So glad you could join us, Francine.” Mrs. Hollanddale leaned forward, and Francie kissed her cheek. A delicate cloud of Chanel No. 5 hovered around her.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
They walked to the dining room where sumptuous smells assaulted Francie’s willpower.
Chew slowly. Drink lots of water. She read the menu, see-sawing between indulgence and restraint. Aiguillette of Striped Bass, Potatoes a la Hollandaise, Medallion of Spring Lamb, Asparagus Tips au Gratin, Breast of Chicken a la Rose. Irrationally close to tears, she listened as Mrs. Hollanddale ordered beef tips in sage gravy over toast points, in a voice as rich and buttery as the sauce her name resembled.
With a smile she wanted to feel but couldn’t, she ordered lamb chops and steamed asparagus with pearl onions. Albert asked for the Salisbury steak.
A waiter brought salads. Fresh greens drizzled with vinaigrette and topped with raspberries. Francie picked up her salad fork. Albert cleared his throat. “I’d like to say a blessing first.”
A blessing? Albert?
“Heavenly Father, Mother and I thank thee for allowing us time to share Your truth with Francie today. Thank you for this food and the many blessings You provide. In the name of Your perfect Son, Jesus, we pray. Amen.”
Francie’s fingers, laced together as if her hands were one, pulled stiffly apart. For all her practice at pasting smiles, she couldn’t conjure one now. She’d come here for two reasons—curiosity and the possibility that Suzette was right. Money meant power. She’d never before considered the far-fetched idea of Albert’s family buying their freedom, but she was more than willing to pursue it. What had happened to the Albert she knew?
Mrs. Hollanddale patted her hand. “I know you’re wondering why we invited you here.”
Not anymore. She nodded.
“Don’t let my son’s newfound boldness scare you. While it’s true, we feel God would have us share something with you, that is not the only reason we invited you. Albert has often spoken of your gift as a seamstress, and I have recently been convicted about the money I spend on my wardrobe. That’s when Albert brought you to mind. I am wondering if you would consider coming to work in my employ as a—”
“Excuse me.” Francie looked up into the round, florid face of the man who signed her paychecks. He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Hollanddale, Albert, how good to see you. Hello, Francine.”
He remembered her name. Francie wiped her palms on the embroidered napkin.
Albert’s mother extended her hand. “Mr. Walbrecht. How was your trip?”
“Far too short. Aren’t vacations always too short?”
“You have a home in Paris, am I correct?”
“Yes. Couldn’t tear my wife away from it. Business demanded my return, but she’ll be there for another eight weeks.”
“Paris is so lovely this time of year.”
“Indeed. I won’t take any more of your time. When I saw you, I just had to stop by and say hello to you…and to my soon-to-be personal secretary.”
Francie gasped.
“I’m looking forward to a profitable working relationship, Miss Tillman.”
CHAPTER 23
Rena stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Her new bathing suit lay in a wet lump in the sink. She combed her hair straight back. The dramatic look used to make her feel like a super model. Now it only emphasized the grayish circles under her eyes.
She hadn’t fallen back to sleep after talking to Nicky.
Nicky knew. At least part. It should upset her, but in a strange way, it was a relief.
Things were strained between them. She’d expected questions, but he’d been quiet on the way to church. On the way home from Gianna’s he’d handed her the church bulletin. “Read those verses again.”
She’d r
ead them out loud. Part of it was inked in her brain. “Pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up!”
When they got home he’d headed to his room and she’d turned into the bathroom. She was just about to shut the door when she heard him say, “I’m here when you need me, Wren.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. She swiped them away. She pictured the pathetic scene when Jarod shoved her down and she’d crept backward into the shadows like a frightened cat. With no one to help her up.
No more. Two are stronger than one, the pastor had said.
There were ways of getting out. Like China, she could leave. She thought of the things she knew. That Jarod had had a gun. That he might have stashed drugs. Was it enough to make her a threat? Enough to make him come looking for her if she left? Most likely he wouldn’t bother. He’d just move on to someone else who’d make him look good and give him what he wanted.
But if she left, she couldn’t come back. Jarod might not come looking for her, but if she dared show her face in the neighborhood… She shuddered.
Maybe she’d try disappearing right under his nose. Just fade away emotionally. Not fight, just play dead. Not respond to anything he said or did. He’d get tired of her. And she’d be free.
Or she could find out what was going on and expose him. Blow the whole thing up in their faces.
The Sevens had a reputation for being wannabes. That was mostly true, until you got to the middle of the circle. The eye of the hurricane, Jarod called it. It was where he wanted to be, he said. She’d always laughed. There might be an eye, but there was no hurricane. They defended their streets and their people. They fought if they had to. They didn’t move in on other neighborhoods or take what wasn’t theirs.
But things were changing, she could feel it.
“Two are better than one.”
She tore off the towel, put on shorts and a tank top, and flew into the hallway. Nicky was walking down the steps, wearing running clothes.
“Nick?”
He turned around.
“You don’t have to worry, okay?” She rubbed her tattoo. “I’m getting out.”
