Love Thy Sister
Maria Grazia Swan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.
Copyright © 2012 by Maria Grazia Swan
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or information and retrieval system, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the US Copyright Law.
Published in the USA
Third Electronic Edition
Dedication
To to my 3 sisters, Annica, Augusta and Fiordalisa.
PROLOGUE
Crawling away from the pain. She had to get up from the floor. Her mouth foamed. She felt like her chest was exploding.
“One big explosion, followed by a smaller one. Just as pleasurable but not as powerful,” the man had said last night in the bonding anonymity of the dark motel room, his voice an oily whisper.
What was that smell? Maybe decaying food the other girls left behind. She concentrated on the noises from below. A door slammed somewhere in the building. She didn’t care who saw her, she needed help.
Air, she had to get some air. She grasped the front of her smock until it ripped. Her long black hair fell over her breasts.
“One big explosion....”
Was it last night or just a few hours ago?
Footsteps on the stairs, measured steps, getting louder. Her head jerked up. The thumping grew louder, quicker. No, it was her own heartbeat. Now her whole body was one pounding muscle. Her skin could no longer contain it.
She struggled to stand, wobbled on her stiletto heels. Last night. The music, the writhing bodies...
Her ankle gave way. She lurched for the top of the stairs, grabbed the handrail. Her foot tore free, and she pitched down the stairwell.
That noise again. Her heart, she thought, as the bridge of her nose cracked on the edge of the concrete step. Strange, no pain, no resistance.
Her body slowed as it tumbled down, thoughts fled past her, faces of strangers lying in sheeted battlefields.
Tumbling, remembering, whipping the last with the first, mi querido. She inhaled the smell of her blood and the dust from the concrete. No longer would she wage nocturnal wars to keep morning dreams alive. Nor would she hide in the musty darkness, waiting for a secret rendezvous.
Her fingers relaxed, letting go. The marks impressed by her fingernails looked like tiny half moons on her colorless palms.
Blood slowly soaked the black mane covering her once-pretty face.
All was quiet now around the low mound on the landing.
Quiet and dark, yet the stillness had no threat. And the only possession she left behind was the red shoe at the top of the stairs.
CHAPTER 1
November 1989
Six years. Dio mio. Six years since her parents’ deaths.
From under thick brown bangs, Mina stared at a blank spot on the wall. A calendar used to hang there. A pretty calendar with pictures of flowers. Not just flowers, flora. Si that was the word, flora from various regions of the United States of America. Her mother had had a calendar like that, with flowers, or flora, from Italian regions.
Mina tried to focus, remembering the kind of flowers. Memories came hurtling back, gnawing at her soul. She shook her head to rid herself of the disturbance, then went back to stare at the wall. Whatever had happened to her mother’s calendar? She knew what had happened to her mother; she lay next to her father, below thick quarry slabs
Mina closed her eyes, clearly picturing in her mind’s eye the flowers from her mother’s calendar, yet not her mother’s face. It wasn’t the first time, either. She would try to recall the smile, the color of her eyes, the tenderness of her hand holding hers. Time after time, she could only recapture her mother’s image as she appeared in the framed photograph on the night table.
The calendar would have been six years old now, hardly useful. A tear sneaked from her eyes, landed on her hand. Mina glimpsed at the round, wet spot, and then quickly wiped it against her jeans. She had been barely sixteen with little knowledge of English when she had arrived in Southern California.
If they could see me now—they who? She hadn’t kept in touch with any of her friends back home. Sort of a blessing really. She was almost twenty-three and although older, as the saying goes, she wasn’t much wiser. Had she changed? Her fingernails were as stubby as ever, her hair the same shoulder length. Okay, her jeans were genuine Levi’s, the kind hard to find in Italy. She still wore the same size clothes, five junior, on top too, disgusting. According to her sister Paola, maybe her brain kept pace with her body, stayed junior, that is.
Huddled in the faded Naugahyde chair, absently studying the reception room of her sister’s software company, Mina hated life in general and this place in particular. Such a depressing sight! Drab walls and second-hand office furniture. Paola described West Coast Software’s decor as ‘Spartan but functional.’ Spartan? To Mina, the word brought images of glistening bodies, athletic prowess of glorious heroes from the past. Sort of a “Mount Olympus Male Sampler.” Not some beat-up furniture from the pages of the local Penny Saver.
How could anyone function in such a depressing environment? Like a bee in a silk flower shop. But no one asked her, the younger sister, about decorating ideas. Ideas, the one thing she had abbondanza of. And dreams, yes, dreams, too.
What she hated most about the place was the silence, the dead silence of this office on weekends. It reminded her of other silences, other places. Old terrors crept up her spine; she instinctively turned to look behind her. No watching eyes, no threatening stares, only silence.
The phone rang and Mina nearly fell off the receptionist’s chair. She stared at the red light blinking on the switchboard. It was Michael Davies’ line. On a Saturday? It had to be Paola.
Mina picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Who the hell is this?”
She recognized Michael’s voice.
“It’s me, your favorite sister-in-law.”
“You mean my only sister-in-law. Why the hell are you answering the phone? Where is Paola?” He pronounced it Paula.
Mispronouncing your spouse’s name should be grounds for divorce, Mina thought, as if anyone cared about her opinion.
“Home in bed. It’s her back, as usual. She sent me to get some papers.”
“From my office?”
She sensed fear in his voice. Why? “I’m not in your office. Never mind. When are you coming back?”
“Tonight. I don’t need a ride. Tell Paola.”
“You tell her.” Why was she being so nasty to him? “Do you have a cold?” His voice did sound raspy.
“What do you expect? It’s another goddamn November in goddamn Chicago.” He hung up without a good-bye.
What a jerk. Mina didn’t understand how her sister could still love him. They hardly talked any more. The less Paola talked, the more Michael cursed. Was there a common denominator? And why was Michael flying to the windy city so often? On business or pleasure? That would explain why he didn’t want to be picked up at LAX. Husband-stealing Rachel Fernandez probably went to Chicago with him.
What time was it anyway? A hideous clock hung on the gray wall, its electronic buzz, like a nest of wasps, set her on edge. Twelve-thirty. How long had she been da
ydreaming?
Her sister must be furious by now. Mina could almost hear Paola’s perfectly manicured nails tapping away on the nightstand, one tap for each minute she’d been gone.
Her growling stomach reminded her of the missed breakfast, and now a postponed lunch, just to run errands for her sister. Better get going. She swiveled in the chair. Let’s see, Paola said the folder was in her in-box, on the file cabinet behind the desk.
Something glittered on top of the white folder. A chocolate-covered cherry in gold foil, Paola’s favorite candy. Mina’s, too. Michael must have put it there before he left for Chicago. One of their stupid love rituals, maybe the only one left. To hell with Paola, Michael, and their love games. Her mouth watering, she stripped the wrapper off the candy and lifted the mound of dark chocolate to her lips.
Somewhere in the warehouse, a door slammed. She jumped and the motion sent her chair wheeling. It hit the full wastebasket, which toppled and spilled everything under the desk.
“Maledizione!” Six years in America and she still responded in Italian to every unexpected event. Mina put down the chocolate and crawled under the desk to pick up the trash. Good thing Paola couldn’t see her scrunched under the desk collecting garbage. Definitely not ladylike behavior.
Sounds came from the direction of the warehouse, sharp little noises, like high heels tapping on a tile floor. The sound reminded her of a late, late-night TV movie—sinister footsteps right before an ax murderer surprised the naive heroine.
Mina ordered her heart to stop the impromptu tarantella. How stupid. It was probably Elena, coming to clean the office like she did every Saturday. Someone entered the reception area.
“Hey, Elena? It’s me, Mina. I’m under the desk.”
No answer, no more footsteps. Only silence. But in the few inches between the desk’s modesty panel and the floor she could see a pair of pointed red patent pumps.
Relieved, Mina whistled. “Mamma mia, dancing shoes to clean the office? Bet you didn’t go home last night.”
The shoes moved, beating a staccato rhythm across the tile floor.
“Hey, wait, I was only kidding.” Mina crawled out from under the desk, hitting her head on the top corner in the process. “Ouch!” She got up, rubbing her scalp. The office was empty.
“Fine, I’m going home.” Mina grabbed her purse. “Stop hiding, Elena, I’m out of here, you can pick up the rest yourself, I’ve had enough of this.” No answer. “Ask Paco to lock up when you’re through. He’s in the back, doing inventory. Ciao.”
She was halfway around the desk when her stomach rumbled loudly. She looked for the chocolate-covered cherry. Gone.
“Okay, Elena, where are you? And where’s my chocolate?”
The door to the restroom opened and Elena stepped out. Like Mina she was in her early twenties, petite and slim. Elena’s black hair was short and curly, while Mina wore her brown hair shoulder length.
“Buenos dias, Mina.”
“Did you take the chocolate that was on the desk?”
“Chocolate? No comprendo.”
“Come on, cut it out, we both know you comprendo.” Mina looked down at Elena’s feet. “Hey, what happened to your red shoes?”
“No chocolate, no red shoes.” Elena tapped her forehead. “Maybe Mina loca today.”
Mina stared at Elena’s white Reeboks and shook her head. “Maybe I am. Oh well, this loca’s going home.” She hoisted her purse back onto her shoulder and pointed a finger at Elena. “I’ll bet you have chocolate breath.”
Paola’s folder under her arm, Mina left through the front entrance.
Before coming to California, Mina had pictured West Coast Software as a tall, shimmering glass building, with elevators, marble floors, and all kinds of ultra-modern gizmos that opened and closed doors, greeted visitors—the works. Another fantasy from watching too many American movies.
Instead, West Coast Software’s squat one-story building was as gray and unattractive on the outside as inside. Hard to think of her silk-stockinged, pearl-wearing sister working there, yet Paola owned and operated the whole business.
Mina got into her yellow ragtop VW Bug, drove out of the business complex’s empty parking lot and onto an almost deserted Harbor Boulevard. This short stretch of road was actually less traveled on weekends—while ten miles to the north, buses and vans with license plates from every state of the Union filled Disneyland’s parking lot to the limit.
Here, business parks similar to the one occupied by her sister’s company lined both sides of the wide road. Most of the buildings had been built long before the little Orange County Airport became the glitzy John Wayne Airport.
“The rent’s right and there’s plenty of blue collar help,” Paola had said.
Blue collar, white collar, the kind of Americanisms that drove Mina crazy. As if you could categorize workers by the color of their shirts.
Driving past the three-story high Marriott Suites, Mina thought of another three-story place, the one where she had lived for the first sixteen years of her life. The casa her great-great-grandfather had built stone by stone at the foot of the Italian Alps. Mina loved to brag to her American friends about the three-story-house she left behind. Of course, she never mentioned that it consisted of three square rooms stacked one on top of the other. Her great-great-grandfather was no architect, yet the stone walls of that house had exuded a sense of stability and continuity. Even after her parents had died and she knew she would have to leave, she looked upon the casa as her link to her past, to her roots.
The house had outside walls so thick, the window formed a niche wide enough for her to sit on. In the summer months, late at night, Mina would curl up on the windowsill of her bedroom, to dream and to wait. She waited for the night breeze to come and blow away l’afa, the hot, humid air blanketing the valley from mid-July to September.
From her third-floor perch, the surroundings below took on a whole new look in the night stillness. The tall trees became Ulysses, Hercules, her sentinels lying in wait for the armies of fireflies, tiny soldiers invading their branches. And the sweet-smelling wisteria became Medusa’s hair, creeping toward Mina’s window.
An occasional motorino disturbed the nocturnal peace. A young man and his noisy scooter back from a late date. Then all would be quiet again. Quiet, not silent. She missed all that. Sadness came from deep inside, the longing, the memories.
Mina slowed down at the last intersection before the freeway. Just in time too. Ignoring the changing light, a red Thunderbird turned left onto Harbor with a squeal of tires. Whoa, that was close! She shrugged, released the tension of her hands on the steering wheel. Some people liked to fly low. She glared after the vanishing car and its driver, a woman with long, tangled—Wait a minute. That looked like Paola’s dark mane.
Nah, Paola was in bed with a bad back. Too late to try to see the license plate. Still, how many red Thunderbirds...
The light changed. Mina headed for the San Diego Freeway south, and home.
Mina parked on the quiet Mission Viejo street and headed straight for the mailbox, piled magazines, junk and personal mail on top of her folder. Maybe there was a letter from Patrick. She unlocked the side door and threw it open. “Paola, I’m back. I have your papers.”
The automatic icemaker was the only sound she heard. Her arms still filled with mail, Mina climbed the stairs to her sister’s room.
“Paola, did you hear from Michael? He called the office.”
The double doors to Paola’s room were open, the huge bed neatly made up. Boucheron, Paola’s favorite perfume, lingered in the air. Mina dropped the load of mail on the white silk moiré coverlet and went to the closed bathroom door.
“Paola, are you in there?”
She opened the door. More floral French fragrance filled her nostrils. Neatly displayed cobalt bottles of perfume were the only bright spot on the white marble countertop. They looked like enormous rings, made for a giant’s hand, and through the skylight above, the shy
November sun set their golden caps ablaze. But the bathroom was empty.
Mina ran downstairs to the garage. The red Thunderbird wasn’t there; but the front end of Michael’s gleaming black Corvette seemed to sneer at her.
She kicked one of the tires.
“Maledizione!” She had to stop cursing. She’d promised Paola. To hell with promises. She slammed the garage door and went back into the kitchen to check the notepad by the phone. No messages, nothing tacked on the refrigerator door. This wasn’t like Paola.
Maybe Michael called and she had to run an errand for him. Or maybe she went to the doctor. Hmm, either way, she’d have left a note.
Her rumbling stomach reminded Mina she hadn’t eaten lunch. She slapped some peanut butter on a slice of bread. Well, Paola would show up. And she’d better have a good excuse.
As usual, when the smell of peanuts reached her nose, Mina wondered how she could have lived the first sixteen years of her life without peanut butter and sliced bread. She took a bite of the sandwich, leaned back against the kitchen counter with a sigh of pleasure. And pleasure reminded her of Patrick.
She ran back upstairs to her room, elbowed the books off the night table to make space for her lunch, then went back to Paola’s room and rifled through the mail. With a small cry of triumph she carried Patrick’s long, lavender envelope with its U.K. postage to her bedroom.
The familiar handwriting made her forget everything else.
“...The hours on the beach are past. Was there an ocean? Did the sand support us? I remember only you...”
She lay on the bed, eyes closed, and let the letter drift to her lap. Patrick... His words brought him close, so close she could almost feel his fingers stroking, stirring the heat within her. She missed his hands, the scent of his skin that lingered on her body after—
“Mina, I’m home!”
“Where have you been? I’m in my room. Come talk to me.”
Her sister stopped at the open door, probably to survey the clutter level. Framed by the doorway, she reminded Mina of a fascinating blend of famous women, the beauty of a younger Elizabeth Taylor, the spunkiness and grooming of the everlasting Cher.
Love Thy Sister (Mina's Adventures Book 1) Page 1
