Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
The thought bothers me, but I shove it aside as Madelena comes down the stairs dressed in black from head to toe, which is her usual, except that today it’s more elegant. Not so contrary. She’s winding her hair into a loose braid as she heads down and doesn’t notice me. I’m happy to say I think the move to the house was a good idea. She looks better, not glancing over her shoulder all the time.
What she told me that night in the kitchen a week ago, though, upsets me. Does she truly believe she could have the same mental illness as her mother? Is the thought of it on her mind more often than I realize? I have been doing some reading on the matter. While it’s a fact that these things do run in families, I don’t like that she’s worried about it, that she’s already decided, probably at a far younger age than I even realize, that she will never have children just in case.
“You look nice,” I tell her.
“Thanks. Shit.” She begins to undo her braid and shakes her hair out to start again.
“What is it?”
“I keep messing it up.”
“It looked fine.”
“My mom used to braid my hair like this when I was little. She’d do hers too, tell me we were twins.”
“It looked good, Madelena. We should go.” I check my watch.
After finishing the braid, she takes a deep breath. She takes my wrist and checks the time because she doesn’t wear a watch and I haven’t given her a phone yet. I plan on giving her a new one. It’s probably paranoia on my part that the old one could somehow have been tampered with, her location or conversations tracked, but I am not taking any chances.
“Few more minutes. I like to get there last.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want everyone staring at me.”
I nod and take her arm to steer her into the living room for privacy. “I wanted to mention something anyway.”
“What?”
“Dr. Fairweather’s visit is between you and me. No one knows about that, and it has to stay that way.”
“Okay?” she says it like a question.
“Not a soul. It’s very important. Not even your brother.”
“That’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t anyway; contraception is a weird conversation to have with one’s brother, don’t you think?”
“Good.”
She checks my watch again. “Now we can go.”
We head out to the chapel where the ceremony will begin. It will end at the De Léon house. From what Madelena told me, they’re expecting almost seventy-five people.
Once we arrive, I see how well Madelena has timed it. Most of the pews are filled, everyone standing to watch the altar boys and priest on their procession toward the altar. Their candles flicker as somber organ music winds down, and incense fills the air.
I breathe through my mouth to block the images that smell conjures. The memories of all those Sunday masses I had no business attending, not after the things I did.
Odin, who is sitting in the front pew, turns to glance at the entrance. He looks relieved when he sees his sister. Madelena raises her hand in a subtle greeting. He’s seated beside his father and there’s enough space for one more person on the other side of Marnix De Léon. I know it’s intended for his daughter, but she won’t be sitting in it for two reasons—one being he neglected to save a space for me, and two that Madelena will want to disappear along the edges of the crowd rather than become its centerpiece.
I look at those who’ve come, recognizing some faces. I’m just scanning the pews across the aisle from where the De Léons are seated when I do a double take.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” I mutter. People in the back pews turn to look. I guess I said it louder than I thought. I couldn’t give a fuck. The organ quiets and pews creek as the dearly devoted are seated.
“What?” Madelena asks, stepping backward into the shadowy corner of the baptismal font.
I gesture with a subtle nod toward Bea, Liam, and Camilla Avery, who are settling into their pew, second to the front. Liam is flipping through pages of the bible like he’s never seen one before. Bea’s eyes are on the altar. Her lips are moving as she says the rosary. In the five years I spent with the Avery family, I don’t think she or the Commander missed one Sunday mass. They’d make us all go with them, too, and throughout, they’d mutter their prayers as if those words could cleanse them of their sins.
But I don’t care about Bea Avery. It’s Camilla that has me sliding my hand up my wife’s back and wrapping it around the back of her neck to tug her closer, a move the little viper doesn’t miss. She smiles wide and even raises her hand in a schoolgirl-like wave.