Christos's Promise

by Jane Porter

  His mouth felt so warm against hers, his skin smelling of cologne and musk and she reached up to cling to his chest, needing him more than she’d ever needed anyone.

  But he didn’t want her touching him, and he caught her wrists, pulling her hands off him. “I’m waiting.”

  “You don’t want to know, oh, Christos, it’s bad—”

  “I don’t care. I just want the truth.”

  She gazed at him helplessly, knowing she’d lose him—no, she’d already lost him—but fear held her back. She’d kept her secret so long, told no one, not even her father, what had happened in that Paris studio that unbelievable afternoon.

  “Tell me.”

  Her heart lurched, her mouth so dry, it tasted of cotton. Where to begin? What to say first? “I…I had a baby.”

  “You what?”

  The adrenaline surging through her veins threatened to make her ill. She couldn’t look at Christos, didn’t dare take a glimpse into his face. “Had a baby. A little boy.”

  “When?”

  “With Jeremy. We were married, had been married for a little over a year when Alexi was born.”

  “And?”

  “I lost him.”

  “Stillbirth?”

  “No.” She shivered, chilled, wondering how she’d ever get the words out, not wanting to see Alexi, not wanting the horrible pictures to fill her head again. “I delivered him, loved him, raised him. I took him on my jobs. He had his first birthday. And then…”

  “And then what, Alysia?” Christos ground out, shaking her, almost violent in his impatience to hear the rest.

  “I killed him.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHRISTOS couldn’t believe it. He demanded the story again and again, ignoring her sobs, oblivious to her anguish, insisting she explain it all once more, from the beginning.

  He struggled to piece her past together. She ran away with Jeremy after meeting him in Paris. They married thinking they could make a living by painting. That part made sense. That much was clear. But the rest of it…

  “Christos, please, no more—”

  He saw her cowering on the bed, but felt nothing for her. “How did the baby drown?” he demanded again.

  “In water, in the bath—”

  “You said the sink.”

  “Yes, in the sink. He’d been taking a bath.”

  “No, he wasn’t taking a bath, you were giving him a bath.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He drowned.”

  “How?”

  “You know how! His little chair broke, I think. Or he wasn’t in his chair—I forget, Christos, it’s been so long.”

  “Not that long. Five years.”

  She closed her eyes, hugging herself. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Let me go, let me go.”

  “I want to hear this. I want to know how you let your baby drown.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can. You will.” He stalked toward her, his face dark with anger. “Did the phone ring? Someone came to the door? How did you forget him?”

  “Stop it!”

  “How could you do it? How could you let your baby drown?”

  “I was painting!” she screamed, her voice shrieking so high that it sounded like breaking glass. “I was painting.”

  “You were painting?” Christos stared at her aghast.

  “I killed Alexi because I had to paint.”

  A doctor came, and Christos’s parents. Alysia lay huddled in her darkened bedroom, unwilling to eat, or turn on a light. She wanted only to be left alone.

  But the voices could be heard through her closed door, murmurs and exclamations, urgency in Christos, disgust in his mother’s.

  Sometime later the doctor entered her room, and despite her protests, turned on the light and checked her vitals. His examination was brief but thorough, shining a miniature flashlight into her eyes, listening to her chest, and taking her pulse yet again. Finally he asked her if she’d been taking any other medications lately, other than her birth control pills.

  “No,” she answered dully, just wanting him to go, wanting to be alone again.

  But the doctor didn’t move. “I understand you were in a hospital in Switzerland. Were you on something then?”

  “Only when they first checked me into the hospital. It was a sedative…I fell apart at the funeral.” Her shoulders lifted, a listless shrug.

  The doctor didn’t speak and lifting her head, her gaze met his. She expected revulsion in his expression. Instead she found only pity. Suddenly her eyes welled with tears and she begged him to go.

  “I think you should rest,” he said.

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  The doctor sat down next to her on the bed. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “A mistake is burning toast.”

  “Good people can make tragic mistakes.”

  “Not like this.” The tears filling her eyes clung to her lashes, blurring her vision. Every breath she drew felt like an agony. Every beat of her heart reminded her of what she’d taken from her own child. “I loved him,” she sobbed. “I loved him more than I loved myself and yet look what I did—”

  In her grief she hadn’t heard the door open, or notice Christos standing silently in the doorway. She didn’t hear when he stepped out again, soundlessly shutting the door behind him.

  “I think,” the doctor said quietly, gently pushing her back, settling her against the pillows. “You must rest now. Tomorrow talk about the future.”

  Alysia woke to a sunlit room, the curtains drawn back to welcome the warm light. Her head felt heavy, her brain groggy, and slowly she slid from the bed to stagger to the bathroom.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Pale face, dark, sunken eyes, white pinched lips. She looked like a corpse. Then suddenly she saw Alexi, floating face up beneath the water, eyes open, mouth open, tiny hands outstretched and her knees buckled as she screamed, shrieking at the flood of memory.

  A woman in black appeared—Mrs. Pateras, Alysia dimly registered—to take her by the arm, and firmly lead her from the bathroom back to bed.

  Muttering in Greek, she pushed Alysia down and handed her a cup of tea. “Drink.”

  Alysia’s hand trembled as she clutched the hot cup. “Christos?” she whispered, disoriented by the intensity of her emotions and the realization that she’d probably lost Christos forever.

  “Gone,” Mrs. Pateras answered coldly.

  “Where?”

  The older woman pushed Alysia’s legs under the covers and drew the sheet up, and then the feather duvet. “Business.”

  Business. “Where?”

  “Greece. Something to do with ships.”

  Ships, there’d always be ships. Ships, contracts, profit and loss. Tears filled Alysia’s eyes. How could life be so black-and-white when she lived in shades of gray?

  She missed Christos, needed to see him, talk to him. He was the one person she trusted. The one she loved most. “When is he coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d like the phone number of his Manhattan office.”

  “He’s not there,” Mrs. Pateras answered sharply. “I told you that already, now rest, or I shall tell Christos how difficult you’ve been.”

  The bedroom felt cold after Mrs. Pateras left, the corners swathed in shadows. How difficult she’s been. Same words her father used to say. Alysia the difficult. But was she really that difficult? Was wanting love such a bad thing?

  Alysia closed her eyes but she couldn’t sleep, consumed by memory, confused by time. How could she have turned her back on Alexi? How could she have forgotten him?

  It didn’t make sense. She’d been a good mother, or at least, she’d tried to be a good mother. She never let him sit in wet diapers. She never skipped on his naps. Never left him out too long in the sun. She’d been young, but she’d really tried her best.

  Until that day. That one da
y…

  All this time later and she could still feel the weight of him, feel his limp body as she pulled him from the sink. She’d run with him into the streets screaming, God, someone, anyone, help me. Help my baby. Help my baby.

  The day of the funeral, she destroyed her easel and canvases, shredding the paintings with a pair of sharp scissors, slicing them like a madwoman into long, tangled shreds.

  As she destroyed her work, she howled, her agonized cries drawing the neighbors, and then the police. It was then they gave her the shot to calm her, and bundled her off to the hospital in Bern. They said she’d been talking gibberish, but it wasn’t gibberish. She’d been weeping for Alexi, promising him she’d never forget him, and never ever paint again.

  And she’d kept that vow.

  Alysia woke to bathe and eat. Mrs. Pateras was there, presiding over the house, overseeing Alysia’s meals, her iron tablets. She determined the routine, making it clear she was the mistress of the house, not Alysia.

  Alysia didn’t have the strength to argue. She was still struggling to put together pieces of the past, wondering at the gaps in her memory, even as she dreaded reliving the pain. But there were too many holes in her memory, places where nothing fit and nothing made sense.

  But now that the guilt had been fully awakened, she couldn’t rest. Nor find peace. It felt as though she were on fire on the inside, her own form of hell.

  Lying in bed was only making it worse. She had to get busy again, needed exercise, sunlight, work to do.

  On the third day after the horrible confession Alysia appeared downstairs for breakfast. Mrs. Avery beamed with pleasure but Mrs. Pateras blocked the doorway to the dining room. “The doctor said you were to rest,” she said stiffly.

  Alysia felt a ball of tension form in her belly. She didn’t want to fight with her mother-in-law, but she wasn’t going to sit around any longer feeling sorry for herself. What had happened, had happened, and awful as it was, it wouldn’t bring back Alexi.

  “Mrs. Pateras, I appreciate all you’re doing for me, but I think it’s time I began to act like a normal human being again. Hiding in my room will not bring Alexi back, and it will not help me forget.”

  “Some things you’ll never forget.”

  She met Mrs. Pateras’ unforgiving gaze and flinched inwardly but held her ground. “It was a mistake, a dreadful mistake, but I’m not going to give up on life. I love Christos—”

  “He doesn’t love you. How could he?”

  It was exactly her own fear, shouted at her in contempt. Alysia wavered, glanced at the stairs, and the front door behind her, then turned her back on the escape routes. There was no escape. She had to face herself, and the future. “It’s none of your business,” she answered quietly, far more calmly than she felt. “This is between your son and me.”

  The housekeeper disappeared into the kitchen and Mrs. Pateras took a step toward her, her finger pointed in accusation. “My son deserves better than you. He deserves a real woman.”

  “I am a real woman. I just happened to make a terrible mistake.”

  “You murdered your child. That’s not a mistake, that’s a crime!”

  “I can’t change the past. But I can promise Christos loyalty, and love—”

  “Do you honestly believe my son will ever be happy with you? Do you think he’ll ever trust you?”

  Mrs. Pateras was right, Alysia realized with a shudder, she wasn’t thinking about Christos’s needs, just her own. Christos deserved happiness. He was a good man, a loving man, he deserved a wife he could trust.

  Sick to her stomach, Alysia turned away, headed for the stairs, hurrying back to her bedroom. At her closet she yanked clothes from hangers, a long gray skirt and a loose-fitting cashmere sweater in a paler shade.

  Mrs. Pateras followed her into the bedroom. “If you were smart, you’d go now, before he returns. He could get an annulment, have a proper marriage.”

  “Leave,” Alysia choked, facing her closet, her voice failing her. “I do not want you in here, nor do I need you here. Please leave now.”

  “Yes, Mother, please leave now.” Christos appeared in the doorway, a dark coat over his arm, a briefcase in one hand. He looked exhausted, and pained. “I heard you, Mother, all the way into the kitchen. You have no right to speak to my wife like that—”

  “Your wife? She’s no wife—”

  He cut his mother short, his voice rarely raised now blistering with fury. “She is my wife, and I love her very much. If you have a problem with her, then you have a problem with me because Alysia is my heart. You speak to her like that again and I shall cut you off forever. Do you understand?”

  Mrs. Pateras stared at her only child in shock, her mouth opening, eyes wide. And then she shook her head once, a slow, angry shake, before walking out of the bedroom and closing the door behind her.

  Christos rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry she talked to you like that. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner.”

  Alysia stood rooted to the spot. She clutched the clothes tightly, too astonished, too overwhelmed to speak. The cashmere sweater tickled her neck, the long skirt rough against her bare arms. She could smell a whiff of her perfume on the sweater, a sweet light floral, a hint of Spring.

  “You should have called me,” he said, his features tight. “I left my numbers with my mother.”

  No point in telling him that his mother didn’t share them. She swallowed, pressed the wadded clothes to her stomach. “Where were you?”

  His dark gaze followed each jerky gesture, before lifting to her face, eyes searching hers. “I went to Paris.”

  She took an unsteady step to the chaise in the corner of the room and sank down. “Paris?”

  “Then to London. I spoke with many people. People you worked for in Paris, the police there, and then on to Jeremy. He lives in London now. In a small dirty flat overlooking the Thames.”

  Jeremy alive, and well, Jeremy in a dirty flat near a river. But she didn’t want to think of him, didn’t want to be reminded of the grief they’d shared. Jeremy ruined her life once. She wouldn’t let him ruin it again. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “We have to.”

  “I can’t, Christos, I can’t. Please, not again. I told you everything—”

  “No, not quite everything. You’ve forgotten the facts, Alysia, you’ve changed them.”

  She felt a tiny prick, almost like a beesting. “What do you mean?”

  He moved across the room and sat down next to her on the chaise, drawing the bundled clothes from her arms. “It’s time we talked about what really happened that afternoon in the apartment.”

  “I told you what happened.”

  “But that’s not what happened. Look at me, Alysia. Look into my face.” He waited until she dragged her gaze up, eyes meeting his. “The baby drowned,” he said quietly, “but it’s not your fault. You weren’t even there. Somehow you’ve mixed the facts up, guilt and grief. You have to remember how it really happened, not the story you told me.”

  She couldn’t speak, panic wrestling with hope and yet even as she dared to hope she remembered the truth. Alexi died, Alexi was dead, her baby, he was her baby, and it was her fault.

  “Jeremy was the one watching him. You weren’t home when Alexi drowned. You were painting—”

  She struggled to rise but Christos caught her around the waist, drawing her back down, onto his lap.

  His arms circled her, holding her fast to his chest. “You loved your baby, my sweet Alysia. You loved that baby more than anyone could love a child and you didn’t fail him.”

  “I should have been there. If I were there he wouldn’t have drowned. I wouldn’t have blinked, or moved a muscle. I wouldn’t have turned my back, not for an instant, not for anything in this world!”

  “I know. I know what a good mother you were. Your friends told me. Your neighbors told me. The police told me. That’s what makes this such a tragedy. You did what you could—”<
br />
  “It wasn’t enough.”

  He stroked the back of her head, fingers detangling the long silky strands of hair. “Jeremy had been drinking. He claims he lost track of time.”

  “He drank too much,” she whispered, awash in pain. It was awful, too awful to relive again and again and again. “He wasn’t happy,” she added dully, remembering his bitterness when he discovered that her father had cut her off, that there’d be no generous allowance, no financial support. He’d married her for her fortune and there’d been none.

  “But were you?”

  Her heart constricted. “I had my baby.” She felt her throat close. “You see why I can’t have children. And your mother is right. This marriage won’t work. You must give the money back to my father. Find yourself a real bride.”

  “You are a real bride. You’re my bride.”

  “But the dowry—”

  “There was no dowry. Your father is bankrupt.”

  “Bankrupt?”

  “I paid his debts, got rid of his creditors and set up a small nest egg in Switzerland for him. He needs something to live on.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You mean, I have no inheritance? I’ve nothing?”

  His lips twisted. “Nothing but me. I’m sorry, Alysia. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to break the news, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  She felt a bubble of joy. This was actually wonderful news. She hated her father’s money, had never wanted his money. Just his love. All she’d ever wanted from him was his love. “I don’t suppose my father will give the money back to you,” she said doubtfully.

  “No, and I don’t want it back, because I’m not about to give you up. I’ve waited for you for ten years. I first saw you over ten years ago in Athens, at a ship owners meeting. We were gathered in the living room and you interrupted the meeting to ask your father a question—”

  “You were there?” she breathed.

  His jaw thickened. “I hated what he did to you, I hated how he treated you. I vowed then and there to find you, to make you mine. I made a deal with your father, but it was for you, and me. I knew I could make you happy, and I will.”

  “How can you trust me after Alexi? Your mother, she hates me.”