by Sandra Scott
“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me,” she interjected calmly, deliberately forcing herself not to scream the words at him. She rose on unsteady feet, now desperate to locate her mother and Andra. “You don’t know me.”
George reached out and gently grabbed Racine’s hand. “Please do not run away. Please sit.” He waited until she reluctantly returned to her seat before he continued. “I am telling you this to let you know men can be ruthless, hurtful, and blind. Blind to the truth that everything we want, we cannot have—or through our selfishness and cruelty, we can destroy something as lovely and fragile as a woman’s spirit with one greedy act.”
As if caught in a tumultuous cyclonic eye, anger and shame whirled inside Racine, driving her to cover her face with her hands. Yet she refused to let any man see her cry.
I will not cry.
“Whatever happened to you, my dear, sweet Racine, whoever harmed you in the past was wrong, as I was wrong. We were wrong. And I am here now to apologize—not only for what I did to my Cecil but also for what he did to you. I am so sorry. Please forgive us.”
Inside her open palms, Racine allowed the building tears to flow freely, wishing desperately they could finally cleanse her tormented soul. Blindly, she let in a variety of street noises—blasting horns, tooting scooters, passing laughter, clamoring people hustling by. They were such life-giving sounds. However, George remained still, and for some reason, his silence comforted her even more than the surrounding clamor.
She wept and wept until she could weep no more. Finally, she pulled her hands away and, with tearstained eyes, looked up.
George was there with a tentative smile on his face. It said he would wait patiently for her, however long it took for her decision to live again.
Wiping her eyes and nose with her hand, she returned his smile when he extended an embroidered linen handkerchief her way.
“I guess I can predict the ending to your story,” she said, her voice wavering with residual tears. She grabbed the handkerchief and blew hard. “Evidently, it worked out between you and Cecilia. You have two gorgeous sons to prove it.”
He smiled gently. “Would you like to know how I won her?”
Mopping her face with the cloth’s cleaner side, Racine mutely bobbed.
“I first had to let her go and release her to return home to her parents. I needed her to come to me willingly. Yet I never stopped courting her, and I did so gently, consistently.” His expression turned wistful. “Six months later, she returned to me. I refused to force my love upon her, as I had before, but desired to cherish her like the delicate treasure she was.”
At the next table, two men laughed joyously, and although Racine knew they weren’t laughing at her, she still recoiled at the sound. Lowering the sodden cloth, she found herself twisting it into knots. “You know, at least for Cecilia, it was only one man involved—you. And even though you were wrong to rape her, you actually tried to make things right by marrying her afterward.” Sighing wearily, Racine paused in an attempt to gather her hurricane-like thoughts so she could express them correctly. “With me, it was three men—three sick, twisted drunk bastards who violated me in every possible way while others watched and did nothing. I was a virgin too. So much for saving myself for that special guy.”
“Racine, you are still special—a priceless treasure, my little one.” He covered her hand, not caring about the residual snot and tears that lingered on her skin. He squeezed reassuringly. “Were you able to prosecute those men?”
“Yes, what little good it did.” She snorted ruefully. “They were all out within a year for good behavior. College frat boys. White college frat boys.”
Across the table, George’s face distorted with misery. “Once again, I must extend apologies, my dear. No woman deserves what happened to you.” Angry, he raised his fists and rotated them, contemplating them with stormy eyes. “If I could, I would kill each one with these hands.”
Racine sniffled loudly, only to then surprise herself.
She laughed.
“Put them away before you hurt somebody. Those punks ain’t worth going to jail over.” She reached over to briefly cover his fists. “But thank you, Papa George.”
Sitting back in his chair, his expression suddenly turned reflective. “You are extremely close with your sister.”
She couldn’t help but smile at his change of direction in subject as well as his instinctively knowing to form his words, not as a question, but as a declaration. “Yeah, Andra’s always been there for me, sorta a second father and mother. She and Mama were in there tough after what happened.” Not knowing what to do with her hands, she folded and refolded the sodden handkerchief. “Although Mama was really great, it was Andra who got me over the hump.”
Through glittery tears, she stared at George’s wavering image. “I tell you, under her sweet-doctor exterior beats the heart of a fierce gangsta! She actually went looking for those guys while I was in the hospital. But fortunately, they had already been arrested and jailed, so she couldn’t get to them. All kinds of bad things could’ve happened if she had come across those creeps.” Swiping again at her damp eyes, Racine smiled proudly. “What I mean is, it’s fortunate for those white boys she couldn’t get to them. Andra don’t play.”
They both laughed.
“So she’s—how you say?—a fierce gangsta.” George shook his head. “I cannot perceive it.”
Racine looked off into the crowd but didn’t see the people. “Yeah, back in the day, Andra used to get into fights. There was a girl who kept picking on Andra. Sis got so mad she knocked the bully out. I mean cold. Put the girl in the hospital overnight.” Racine read George’s astonishment and laughed apologetically. “The school administration agreed it was all self-defense. She’s actually more restrained since then.”
“Why do you believe she was so angry?” George asked.
“I don’t know. A number of things. It could’ve been my father dying so young and abandoning us. Or the fact that certain girls were jealous of her looks and brains and would pick on her regularly.”
“Why would they treat your sister in such a horrible fashion?”
Racine shook her head. “Who knows? Maybe they were trying to prove something to themselves—that they were just as good looking and just as smart as Andra.” Reflectively, she chewed her bottom lip. “After what happened with her classmate—you know, the one she knocked out—it scared her. She told me one day that was the reason she wanted to become a doctor. To channel her anger into something good.”
George nodded, impressed. His face quickly sobered to allow a few silent seconds to tick by. “There is something I must say, Racine.” George’s smile was apologetic yet firm. “Your father did not abandon you. He simply died—there is a big difference you should try to understand.”
She ducked her head, uncomfortable in her embarrassment at the quick psychological analysis. “Yeah, sure. I know you’re right.”
“And not all white men are evil.”
When she said nothing, George cleared his throat. “May I ask what do you want to do with your life, my dear?”
“Well,” she whispered, hating the tremble in her voice, “I don’t know. It’s as if my trying so hard to forget what happened blocks me from moving forward. Andra’s right. I’m afraid of everything. Beyond her and my mother, I don’t see a future.”
She buried her face in her open palms again, hearing the silence between them grow into a deafening roar. She then felt a gentle tug on her hands, which were instantly engulfed within George’s. Embarrassed, Racine looked across the table.
“My darling girl, you must live the life you were meant to live. That can only come with an open heart.”
Racine couldn’t stop a snort from slipping out and he shook his head.
“No, we all must find a way to love beyond the damages life sometimes inflicts upon us. It ta
kes courage.” He added a fatherly wink. “As your young people speak, I double dare you to live life to its fullest. Entáxei?”
“Entáxei,” she said, the Greek word for okay slipping clumsily off her tongue. “I’ll try.”
As he squeezed her trembling hand, his eyes implored her. “Listen to me. You do not have to go back to America and remember. You can stay here under my protection. You and Andra can be the daughters my Cecilia could not give me. I understand you two are grown women. But girls still need a papa at any age.”
“My papa’s dead,” Racine said defiantly.
George nodded once. “Yes. But I am not.”
Suddenly, Racine’s eyes blurred.
At witnessing her tears, George presented her with a hopeful smile. “The family would love for you and your family to live at the villa indefinitely.”
His words caused Racine’s face to fall. She snorted. “For real?” she asked. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
“Even Stefano?” she asked disdainfully.
At the mention of his son’s name, George sighed. “Yes, I know. Stefano does have his problems. I do not want to make excuses for him—”
“So don’t, Papa George.”
“Please give him some time. If given the chance, I believe he would come to love you like family, Racine.”
“You mean the way he loves Andra?”
“What?” he asked, his face confused. “What do you mean?”
Racine jerked her eyes away from George’s upon hearing her name and glanced around. Immediately, she spotted her mother’s wild approach. Al was rushing toward them in a frenzy, weaving in and out and knocking aside people who stepped into her path, her face the epitome of panic.
Racine and George jumped to their feet. George’s sodden handkerchief floated to the ground forgotten as Racine ran into Al’s embrace.
“What is it, Mama? What’s wrong?”
“Please! You two must help me find her!”
“Who?” Racine searched beyond her mother’s trembling frame. “Mama, where’s Andra?”
“I don’t know,” Al sobbed. She released Racine to next fall into George’s open arms. “She was walking toward an open van that was maybe selling—oh, I don’t know! Something! I turned around when someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to purchase something. And then.” She sobbed raggedly, causing a hiccup to erupt when she attempted to catch her breath. “When I turned back around, the next thing I knew, both she and the van were gone!”
40
The main study was quietly subdued as Jayson entered it. His eyes scanned the area and stopped at his far right. Stefano, the lone occupant in the room, was already at the bar. His mouth grim, Jayson glanced at his wristwatch. “Ten thirty in the morning. That’s a record even for you, big brother.”
Stefano’s straight posture didn’t change as he lifted ice tongs with slightly unsteady hands.
“How long have you been at it this morning, Stefano?”
“Long enough,” he replied, his voice emotionless.
Silence followed. The trivial sound of ice dropping into a brandy glass was immediately followed by pouring liquor. Both men remained mute until Stefano resealed the brandy container.
With a full glass in hand, he finally turned to Jayson, a sardonic expression layered his pale, drawn face. “You should try it sometime, Priest.”
He ignored the sarcastic religious reference, and despite his ever-present suppressed anger for his older brother, alarm filtered inside Jayson’s brain at Stefano’s appearance. Precipitously, he took in the ashen pallor of his brother’s skin; Stefano’s sunken eyes displayed dark circles that could’ve easily been smudged with black coal.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before. Jayson took a step closer to his brother. “Hey, man, what’s wrong with you? You don’t look so hot.”
Stefano paused to pull a long swig from his glass before he stared directly at Jayson. His faced produced a smirk. “You have been in America too long.” He turned to refresh his brandy, pouring an even greater amount than before. “You speak like they do.”
Jayson quickly covered the distance separating them. Reaching out to grab Stefano’s upper arm, he forced him to turn around. Brandy droplets splashed in an outward arc and landed upon the floor as well as on his and Stefano’s clothes. He didn’t care. “When you say they, do you mean my wife and her family?”
Stefano pulled away from Jayson’s grip and uttered a blunt, careless chuckle. The sound chilled Jayson to the bone. “If you wish,” Stefano muttered.
Irritated beyond reason, Jayson violently combed his fingers through his hair. The strands on his crown bristled when he observed Stefano watch the gesture only to laugh with a slightly inebriated unsteadiness.
“Little brother, you are going to go—”
“Bald! Yeah, yeah, I know!” Jayson said. “I’ve heard it before, Stefano. What I’d like to know is what you’ve got against Andra and her family.”
Slightly unsteady, Stefano strolled around him to head for a single-backed settee across the way, which, coincidently, faced the bar. He lowered himself into the chair and reclined, crossing his legs in the process. His shrug was careless. “I have nothing against them in particular,” Stefano said. After placing his glass on the table next to his chair, he folded his hands across his lap. “However, they do not belong here. This is not their world.”
“And I guess you’re the judge, prosecutor, and jury as to who can fit in whose world, right?”
Stefano lingered in his silence.
Jayson stalked over to Stefano and attempted a threatening stance as he loomed over his older brother’s chair. His ire cranked to the next level when Stefano’s demeanor showed no intimidation but instead remained cool inside his slightly intoxicated air.
Wanting to come across as both adamant and defiant, Jayson shook his fist in his brother’s face. “Stefano, you’re wrong. Andra belongs in whatever world I’m in. And that goes for Al and Racine too.”
“Very touching, little brother.” Stefano’s lips curled in a benign manner. “Along with being a holy man, you can be a poet as well. A priest and a poet. You are full of many talents.”
“And you’re just full of it!”
“My, my, what is all the shouting? Are we interrupting a business meeting?”
Jayson whipped around at the female voice and saw Sly and Paulo enter the study. Not quite understanding why, he grew furious at their appearance. “Look, you two, now is not the right time for a visit.”
At his words, Paulo appeared ready to back from the room. Sly glanced at him and stopped his retreat with a firm hand. Although her smile appeared sweet, her eyes were glassy and hard once they returned to Jayson.
“Visit? I thought we were family?” Her green eyes sliced the air, moving between Stefano and Jayson. “Or has someone changed your sentiments?”
“Oh, for the love …” Jayson trailed off, combing his fingers through his already disheveled hair. He attempted a calmer voice. “Why don’t you come back later? The ladies are not here to visit with.”
“I know,” Sly replied. She made her way to a chair on the far side of the room, away from the brothers. Ladylike, she took a seat. “Papa Georigios has taken them into town, and they probably won’t be back until this evening.”
“Okay, so why are you here?”
“Yes,” Stefano interjected darkly. “Why are you here?”
Sly’s demeanor changed from outward rejection at Jayson’s words to downright lividness at Stefano’s. After uncrossing her legs, she slowly rose. “So this is how it is to be, yes? After growing up with you.” Her remaining words tapered off uncertainly. However, a moment later, she jammed her fists into her hips and stomped one petite foot. “Maybe I am here to impart some important details about two ce
rtain people.”
Paulo arrived at Sly’s side, seizing her arm. “Sly, let us go,” he said. When she snatched her arm away from his grasp, he grabbed her again, this time pulling her toward the exit. “Be quiet! What is happening here is not our affair.”
Yanking free, Sly took a couple steps forward beyond his reach. “Ha! Affair is right!” Folding her arms, she tossed her head so that her perfectly combed locks fell in perfect disarray over her shoulders. “Jayson needs to know the truth about his precious Dr. Andra and big brother, Stefano!”
Jayson’s stomach churned at her unspoken accusations. “What are you talking about, Sly?” he asked quietly, his lips so pinched he could barely push his words through. He saw the Trojan-horse thing fly out the window. “What nonsense are you going on about now?”
“Nonsense, yes? Was it nonsense when I came upon Stefano and Andra behind the toolshed in the north field, standing so close there was no room to breathe? Is it nonsense I came upon them just as they were about to kiss?”
Momentarily, Jayson stood paralyzed in place, his mind force-feeding him images of Andra locked sensually inside Stefano’s embrace. A thick crimson fog soon rolled in, slowly at first and then gradually picking up momentum, to cover each mental picture one at a time until all he could envision was red.
Paulo pushed past Sly’s rigid form. When he arrived before Jayson, his head moved from side to side in an attempt to lock eyes with him. “Listen, J. J., let us all stay calm. We are distraught over this investor, this Mr. Hog person, and he has put everyone on edge. We need to—”
Suddenly, Stefano rose, his unwavering stare glued to Paulo’s face. “How did you know Harlan Grainger went by the disgusting name Hog? No one here told you such information.”
At Stefano’s dark displeasure, Paulo backed away from Jayson, looking around as if ready to ditch Sly and head for the nearest exit all by himself. “No, I am sure you or Jayson mentioned his horrible nickname at one time.”
