Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I haven’t thought about Sergio.
“Smells like heaven in here.”
I gasp and drop a jar of roasted peppers on the floor. I really need to work on my startle reflex.
“Jesus, I’m sorry.” Sergio heads my way. He grabs a thick dish towel and tosses it on the roasted peppers. When my hand wraps around the dish towel, I close my eyes at the rush of memory.
Me, a little girl only fifteen years old. Dressed in an old-fashioned, floor-length dress while I scrubbed the kitchen clean.
“Eden, I’d like to speak with you.” My father stood in the doorway. My heart began to quicken when I saw the look on his face. Perpetually etched in disapproval, anything we children did was met with swift and severe punishment. We never learned to be perfect, but not for lack of trying. We did learn to hide anything that would get us punished.
The worst of it was, we never knew when to expect anger, or what looked like kindness. One day, my father would beam at us and tell us he loved us, the next he’d rant and rave because our dresses were too short or we’d failed to clean something to perfection, or we didn’t respond to one of his many lectures the way he thought we ought to.
I paused my cleaning and faced him. “Yes?”
“I have good news,” he said with a smile. I never trusted it when he smiled. Though a part of me liked to believe that there was a time when he could laugh, when he truly tried to love his family, or when he thought he was doing the right thing to purify our souls with his merciless punishments and adherence to strict rules… striving for perfection only left us empty and ashamed of who we were when we fell short.
I stood with a dish in my hand, the dishtowel frozen on the rim of the plate. Waiting.
“We’ve found you a husband.”
I was only a child, but the elders believed that an early marriage would prevent temptation and ultimately sin. My own theory, that I knew better than to share with anyone else, was that they married us young so we could bear children and populate the fellowship.
“A husband?” I asked, incredulous. My mind raced at the possibilities, the face of every man I knew in my mind’s eye.
“Seth Costanza,” my father said. “One of the most esteemed men of the fellowship.”
Marriage. Marriage to Seth Costanza, the man with the sallow skin and scowl that rivaled my father’s, but a man of impeccable principle. It felt like a death knell on any hope I had of marrying for love.
The dish clattered to the floor and shattered into brilliant shards.
I braced.
“I can do this. I’m so sorry.” I shake, prepared for his wrath. “I’m so clumsy.” The floor blurs. He’s a powerful man and could hurt me so easily. I pick up the pieces of glass carefully and lay them in a pile in the palm of my hand. “I didn’t hear you coming. It startled me, and I just—”
“Eden.”
I look up to see how close he is to me. Closer than he should be. So close, the angry breath he exhales makes the little wisps of hair around my temples move. I swallow hard.
“I don’t know where you came from or what you’ve been through,” he says in a tone that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He sounds as if he’s battling to control his anger. “But I’m not going to hurt you for dropping a fucking jar of peppers on the floor.”
I blink. I stare. It’s hard to comprehend a man with so much power and authority who doesn’t wield it like a weapon. I have a hard time reconciling what I expect him to do based on my past experience with how he actually reacts. I shake, clenching my hand into a fist because I am so far out of my element, I’m not sure what to do with myself. I don’t know what to say or where to look or what he expects of me.
Sharp pain pricks my hand. I look down to see I’ve clenched my fingers around the glass in my palm. My blood mingles with the brined peppers, and it hurts like crazy.
“Eden.” His voice is gentler now. I don’t want to look at him. I remind myself that I don’t trust anyone, most especially men, and definitely not men who show me kindness.
I look up at him. I swallow. “Yes?”
“Give me your hand.”
Earlier, I wanted to show him my worth. I wanted to prove to him that I could cook and that I was worthy of whatever salary he can pay me. Now, the softer tone makes me want to do what he tells me.
I give him my hand.