Life Sentence

by Jennifer Dunne

  “…after sitting for so long. You understand,” her mother was telling the stylist.

  “Of course, Mrs. Taylor. Don’t you worry about it.”

  Sam hopped up and took her accustomed place at her mother’s side. As expected, her mother transferred her grip from the stylist’s arm to Sam’s.

  The physical therapist insisted that there was nothing wrong with her mother’s legs and spine that exercise and attention to balance couldn’t cure. Her initial fracture had healed cleanly and completely. But the blow to her mother’s confidence hadn’t. She should be able to walk, garden and drive with no assistance. Instead she relied upon Sam to help her with everything. Given how badly she’d let the house deteriorate after the death of Sam’s father, Sam was afraid to leave her alone to fend for herself.

  Sam waited patiently while her mother counted out the money for the stylist. Both Master Giacomo and her mother needed her, but for the wrong reasons. Master Giacomo needed her because she’d been the submissive who read the book who called him back to the world of the living. Her mother needed her because the bonds of family ensured she would care for her and the lack of a family of her own meant she could care for her 24/7.

  They needed her because of what she was. Not because of who she was.

  The situation sucked.

  Still dwelling on the unfairness of it all, Sam escorted her mother to the deli where they routinely ate lunch after visiting the salon. As they both sat picking at their sandwiches, Sam realized her mother wasn’t prattling on about the latest gossip as usual.

  “Mom? Is something wrong?” She dropped her sandwich to the plate. “Did tipping back in the chair hurt your back?”

  Her mother smiled reassuringly. “No. I’m just tired.”

  “Oh.” That was good. Except, her mother wasn’t the sort who got quiet when she grew tired. She got louder, a lot louder. And her complaints grew both strident and irrational.

  So something was wrong. But what?

  “Did you have a nice chat with Mrs. Peterson?”

  Her mother’s lips pressed together. “Eve Peterson is about to become Mrs. Jerome Watkins.”

  Sam blinked. “That’s what, her fourth husband?”

  “Fifth.”

  Five husbands and only one divorce. She was either the unluckiest woman alive or a very successful black widow.

  “Where does she find all these men?”

  “She found Jerome Watkins at the center.”

  “The senior center?” She’d have thought Mrs. Peterson would rather die than admit she was old enough to get a membership there. Much like her mother.

  Her mother nodded. “Apparently, they have a new manager. It’s not all arts and crafts while you wait to die anymore. They’ve started a lecture series, an investment club and other things.”

  “Do you want to swing by after we get Toby’s gift? They probably have fliers printed up with all their events on them.”

  “Actually, I’m feeling rather tired. Why don’t you just bring me home? You can get the gift and pick up the fliers.”

  Sam frowned. “Are you sure?”

  Her mother nodded but refused to meet Sam’s eyes. She wasn’t tired, she was guilty.

  “What else did Mrs. Peterson say, Mom?”

  “Her granddaughter Rebecca is having a birthday next week. She was looking for a specific plastic slide, shaped like a medieval castle and Toys ‘R’ Us had one in stock. She was going out with Jerome to pick it up this afternoon.”

  “And you don’t want to run into her?”

  Her mother flushed. “Not looking like an old cripple, I don’t.”

  Right. The electric shopping carts. The whole reason they’d planned on going there instead of to the Gray Goose.

  “Not a problem. I’ll take you home then go back out and pick up Toby’s gift.”

  Her mother nodded then bit into her sandwich, her appetite apparently restored by the news she wouldn’t accidentally run into Eve Peterson a second time in the same day.

  Sam took a huge bite of her own sandwich, hiding her grin behind a wall of turkey, lettuce and bread. She hoped she did run into Mrs. Peterson. Because she intended on stopping at the library first and getting Master Giacomo. And the only thing better than strolling about town with a charming hunk was having a notorious gossip see them together.

  If he was going to be gone soon, she needed to make sure people saw her with him before he disappeared.

  Chapter Six

  Sam pulled open the library door and strode inside, trusting that the foyer would be empty of obstacles as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer, book-friendly light. Her sandals slapped against the terra cotta tile as she hurried across the foyer and through the second set of doors into the main stacks.

  She glanced quickly to her left, her eyes drawn to the primary-colored foam seating groups for the children’s area and the low, round tables and chairs behind them. Turning to the right, she passed the shelves of new books and periodicals and spotted the ring of computers on their tall tables. Two college-aged young men stood in front of terminals, no doubt making quick search queries before diving back into the stacks. An elderly woman in an electric scooter was using the accessible terminal mounted at a lower height.

  Sam’s heart plummeted. Master Giacomo wasn’t here! Where could he have gone?

  One of the patrons doing a search cleared his computer screen and turned away, allowing her to see across the top of his computer. A dark head of hair was bent over the computer on the other side of the ring.

  It was him. Her blood grew heavy, making her hyper-aware of the pulse in her neck and throbbing through her pussy, and her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. She felt so light she practically danced around the computer ring to join him. Or maybe she was just feeling lightheaded. Whatever it was, she could hardly contain her eagerness to see him again.

  The screen upon which he was focused so intently was for Coral Isle, an assisted living facility on the coast. He was copying down the driving directions.

  “You can print that screen out, you know. You don’t have to copy it.”

  He snapped upright, twisting to face her. His eyes glowed with pleasure as he smiled and held out his hands. She eagerly clasped his fingers in hers, reveling in his heat and strength.

  “Mia tesora, you’re early. Did you find your nephew’s gift so quickly?”

  “No. Mom felt tired and wanted to go home so I thought I’d come by and see if you wanted to go shopping with me.”

  Sam bit her lip and glanced down, only now realizing what a foolish request that was. She’d been so fixated on seeing him again and spending more time with him, she’d forgotten his purpose in coming to the library. He was looking up information on his remaining family. That was far more important than shopping.

  “Did you find a relative? Someone staying at Coral Isle?”

  “No. This is not for me, it is for you.”

  “For me?” She frowned. Coral Isle was one of the premier facilities in the area with a residents-only golf course and private beach as well as a small marina for family members who came to visit by yacht. She didn’t know anyone staying at Coral Isle.

  “For your mother. To free you from your obligation to care for her.”

  That would teach her to speak in hyperbole. “I was exaggerating. I don’t really feel trapped. I just meant, I couldn’t get out of taking her places today since I’d already promised.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Besides, do you have any idea how much a place like that costs? It’s a fortune.”

  He shrugged. “It is taken care of.”

  He nodded toward a platinum credit card lying on the table beside the keyboard. The scenic background picture was a black monstrosity of a medieval monastery, crouched and lurking among broken shards of a bleak mountainside. Raised gold letters spelled out Giacomo Bravetti, and that the card had been issued just this month. If Sam had to guess, she’d have bet that the card had b
een issued just this morning, from the same magical source as his change of clothing. God only knew what sort of fairy gold was backing the line of credit.

  She stilled, her hands turning to ice in his grasp. “What do you mean, it’s taken care of?”

  “I mean that I already gave them a deposit of the first month’s rent, to hold the suite for her.”

  “You. Rented. An. Apartment. For. My. Mother.” It was an effort to force each word through numb lips, impossible to draw breath to speak with frozen lungs.

  “It was necessary, to convince them of my interest. All of the reviews said that this was the best facility in this county. I knew you would want only the best for your mother.”

  “What is best for my mother is staying in her own home with her own family to care for her!” She let her voice’s pitch and emphasis convey her anger, keeping the volume soft in deference to the other library patrons. Even so, the elderly woman in the scooter was now watching them instead of her terminal.

  Master Giacomo’s eyes darkened, his eyebrows lowering and his fingers tightened on Sam’s. “You will not even consider it? After all I went through to get it for you?”

  Oh God. She didn’t even want to consider how someone who had some seriously spooky ties to the spirit realm knew that there was an opening at a nursing home. She prayed he hadn’t pulled any metaphysical strings to make an opening. But he wasn’t entirely human. She had to remember that. He was dangerous for more than just the obvious reasons.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  He relaxed on his stool, a confident smile teasing his lips as he stroked the back of her hands with his thumbs. “I’ve spent hours on this computer looking at facility reviews, comparing features and benefits then selecting Coral Isle and making a reservation.”

  “Hours.”

  “Yes. Since the librarian showed me how to use the computer.”

  “So you didn’t look up anything about your family. Your…accident.” She glanced at their audience. The old woman was still eavesdropping.

  “According to the librarian, the newspapers from 1967 are not online and are on something called microfiche.”

  “You didn’t have to read the entire newspaper! An Italian obituary wouldn’t have been carried in a Florida newspaper anyway. But there are genealogical records online. As well as news stories.”

  He pulled his hands from hers and stood up, glaring. “I did not have time to search those things. I was finding this for you.”

  “Liar.” She stabbed a finger at the screen. “You found this for you. So I’d have time for you. And you’d have time to get what you want from me.”

  “But it is what you—”

  “Liar, liar, liar! You’re lying to me and you’re lying to yourself. You spent all that time on this because you were too chicken to look up what you came here to find out.”

  He drew himself up to his full height, his face an icy mask of fury. Her heart clenched and she feared she’d gone too far. Was he familiar with the idiom of calling someone a chicken? Had she insulted his manhood and his machismo?

  “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, then letting his breath out on a shaky sigh. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer glaring.

  “No. You were right. I was hiding from the truth.”

  Sam stared at him in dumb fascination. She was right? She insulted him and she was right?

  This was something completely outside the realm of her experience. She knew that all men did not react like her ex-husband, screaming and shouting as they demeaned and belittled the person responsible for making them uncomfortable. She had after all dealt with plenty of men while getting her degree and doing her student teaching. But the most common reaction she’d seen was denial, ranging from angry to merely insistent and sometimes walking away from the argument. In the heat of the moment, they seemed as a gender to default to the need to win the argument first and only later considering what had been said during the argument when they had a chance to cool off.

  “Sam?” Master Giacomo waved his hand in front of her eyes and she blinked rapidly.

  “I’m sorry. You surprised me.”

  He smiled again, a boyish grin—if the boy had just been caught putting a frog where frogs were not supposed to be.

  “As did you. We are neither of us at our best when surprised, sì?”

  “Sì,” she agreed, and caught herself before apologizing a third time.

  A quick glance to the side showed that the old woman had no interest in watching them make up after their fight and had returned her attention to her computer.

  He heaved another deep sigh and Sam realized this was his technique to keep himself calm and rational, the way she counted to ten in all the different bases. “I have spent years wondering and worrying about what happened that day. The one who saved me refused to say anything about it.”

  “You mean you have amnesia? You can’t remember the accident?”

  “No. I remember it clearly. But I was not alone. I don’t know what happened to the others.” He shook his head and his hand closed about hers. “I need to know. But…you were right. I am afraid of what I may find.”

  She wove her fingers through his, clasping his hand securely and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Then we’ll find it together.”

  He nodded and stepped away from the tall stool in front of the computer, leaving the keyboard open for her. She pushed the stool away, preferring to stand in front of the computer. Master Giacomo stood behind her, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist and his jaw brushing her hair as he looked over her shoulder at the screen. She smiled, relaxing into his embrace, and called up her favorite search engine.

  “What name are we looking for?”

  “Jeffrey Middlemarch.” He spelled both names for her. “1967.”

  “And what kind of accident was it?”

  “The fuel line leaked and the yacht’s engine exploded.”

  She quickly keyed in search terms, using the Boolean operators to find any combination of his name, the terms boat, ship, yacht or engine, and any word starting with the letters “explo”.

  The first hit was an About Us page for the Middlemarch burn clinic in England. It had been endowed with funds by Reginald Middlemarch, a British earl, in memory of his youngest son, who died in the explosion of his yacht in 1967.

  “But what of his family?” Master Giacomo whispered. “Did they survive or not?”

  “His family?”

  “His wife and young son. I did not know their names.”

  His arms tightened around her waist and his deep breathing blew furrows through her hair. This is what he was afraid of learning the truth of.

  She thought for a moment then searched within the results for a combination of wife or mother, and son or father. If she got too many hits or too few, she could reshape the query.

  Five pages popped up. The first was an article on automotive designer Jason Middlemarch, for a sports car enthusiasts’ magazine. She called it up.

  She skimmed the article, key phrases catching her eye…a unique merger of safety and speed…father, a power boat designer…his death in the explosion…burned his mother and forever changed young Jason’s life.

  Master Giacomo rested his forehead on her shoulder. “Rendiamo grazie a Dio. They lived.”

  His arms quivered slightly where he held her and his breathing hitched unsteadily. She waited patiently while he restored his composure.

  “Do you want me to print out the entire article?”

  “Grazie.”

  She sent the article to the library’s printer and clicked back to her original search. Then hesitated, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Is there anything else you want to look up?”

  “Scusilo?”

  “Do you want to see if there’s anything about you?”

  He thought for a long time then nodded, his hair brushing up and down her cheek. “Sì, per favore.
”

  She typed over Jeffrey’s name with Giacomo then stopped. “‘Is the name on your credit card correct?”

  “Sì,Bravetti.”

  The search engine promptly displayed two articles. The first was from a corporate report on the history of the company. After both Bravetti sons were killed in boating accidents mere weeks apart, Nico in a wreck during a power boat race and Giacomo in an explosion, control of the company passed to their father’s brother Antonio. The second was an article on a fan website devoted to European power boating history titled “A Sad End to 1967”.

  She opened the document.

  Scrolling down, she skimmed the description of the various races throughout 1967, changes in engine placement and materials until she reached an account from one of the witnesses of the race that had killed Master Giacomo’s brother.

  “Nico,” he whispered, his voice a breath away from a sob.

  Sam rested her free hand on top of his, giving him her silent comfort while she continued to scroll down with the other hand, reading the web site’s summary of subsequent events.

  Although the investigation ruled the accident that killed Nico Bravetti was a tragedy caused by unsafe speed and his determination to best Rodrigo Valente, his brother Giacomo insisted that the new Middlemarch design had been partially to blame. Ironically, he was most likely attempting to confront Middlemarch with his suspicions when they were both killed, the result of a faulty hose in the engine compartment of Middlemarch’s yacht. Bravetti’s yacht was tied up just a few slips down and Middlemarch’s son Jason recalls seeing him running down the dock when he heard them arrive. Although neither Jason nor Pauline Middlemarch remembered the explosion that killed Jeffrey and Giacomo, they survived because they were in the water when the fireball swept over them. Jason’s arms bore bruises in the size and shape of a man’s hands, so investigators speculated that Bravetti’s final act, rather than diving into the water himself, had been to throw both Jason and Pauline to safety. Middlemarch, aboard the yacht when it blew, was killed instantly.

  “Oh God. How horrible!” she whispered.