Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
My phone rings as the SUV slows. I take it out of the breast pocket of my jacket and consider not answering it, consider switching it back off. But what comes next, what comes after the burial, is not something I can put off forever.
I accept the call. “Brother.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Caius asks without a greeting. “Where are you?”
The funeral was a few hours ago. It was larger than I’d thought it would be, although I suppose it’s not surprising that the good folk of Avarice paid their respects to the newest and most powerful family to join their ranks.
But it was overwhelming in a way I didn’t expect and I was unprepared. What I needed most after that, what I wanted most, was to be alone.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say.
“The will is scheduled to be read in seven hours. Think you can make it by then?”
No, I won’t. I rub my forehead, then sigh. He doesn’t know what’s coming, doesn’t know how disappointed he will be tomorrow. I do. I was privy to the details—another gift from a father to his favored son. His blood son.
“I needed to get away, Caius. Just for a little bit. Surely you can understand that today of all days.”
“And you left me behind.”
“Mom needed one of us. She prefers you.”
“Like Dad preferred you?”
“Caius.”
“Besides, she doesn’t need anyone,” he says, sounding more vulnerable than I’ve heard him sound in a long time. “Where are you?”
“Savannah.”
“Ah.” I hear him sigh, then take a swallow of something. It’s whiskey, most likely, although he does have a bad habit of drinking good wine straight from the bottle.
“Look, I needed to be away.”
“I get it,” he says after a long silence.
“You going to be all right?” I ask him, feeling a little guilty for having left him behind.
“I’ll be fine. When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. Put the reading off until the next morning.”
“Fine. But why go see her? What will that do? What are you hoping for?”
“I don’t know. It was the only place I could think of.”
“Well, if you’re expecting a warm welcome, I have a feeling you’re going to be disappointed.”
That I know. Her letters have told me as much, letters I required of her, but it hadn’t been entirely unexpected. I cut her off from her life entirely, from her brother, although I am aware she’s had contact with him.
The other girls have cell phones. She’s been using one of theirs. As far as her father, I don’t imagine she cared much about keeping in touch with him.
I required her to write to me once a month. I don’t know why, and I’m not sure what I’d expected—maybe to hear from her that she was all right even if she hated me. It’s stupid. I said it on a whim to the headmistress, maybe half-expecting the letters not to come, but they had. Although they weren’t exactly letters. They were sketches—self-portraits—of her flipping me off. I smile a rare smile at the memory.
I used to write letters when I was younger, too, with Alexia, the girl who never got to become a woman. The girl who Madelena reminds me of, though not in looks or behavior or anything I can put my finger on. It’s just something about them both. A vulnerability. Maybe that they both need protecting from those closest to them because in looks and personality, she and Alexia couldn’t be more different. Alexia and I used to write to each other during the summers when she was away visiting family on the west coast. I still have every one of them.
"Look, I need to go. I’ll be back tomorrow evening. We’ll talk then.”
“All right. You take care, brother.”
“You too.”
I disconnect the call and slip my phone back into my pocket. When the SUV comes to a stop, a light goes on in the foyer. Sister Catherine opens the front door. By nature she’s not a very welcoming woman, but she does paste a false smile on. She doesn’t like me. Honestly, the feeling’s mutual. I don’t like her either, and I hadn’t from the moment I’d met her.
But by then, Caius had arranged everything for Madelena, so I just made sure the nun knew my expectations of her where they concerned Madelena.
“Mr. Augustine. Always a pleasure,” she says flatly, closing the door once I enter.
“I doubt it’s a pleasure at this hour, sister.”
Without any more pleasantries, she reaches into her tunic pocket and retrieves a single key on a thin chain.
I take it. She looks at me, and I wonder if she’d say something if I wasn’t Santos Augustine, if my money didn’t ensure the survival of Sacred Heart College of Art for Talented Young Ladies and keep her very comfortable. But it does. Anyone who thinks nuns don’t care about material comforts has never met Sister Catherine.