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“No, it’s because you had a gut feeling about him. Because you warned me about him. And because, most of all, you’ve shown me what a kickass woman looks like.”
Our excited lovefest continues for a short while longer. But, finally, we end the call and I hand Reed’s phone back to him.
Reed looks at his watch. “We should think about catching our flight soon. If you’re still planning to show my mom that article you wrote for her, I think you should do it now, sweetheart.”
“Okay. Yeah, let’s do it.”
We head back into the game room, where Eleanor is chatting with her favorite nurse, Tina. After Reed tells her why that Howard Devlin news story sent us sprinting into the hallway, we lead Eleanor to a table in a quiet corner of the game room. And that’s where I reach into my purse and tell her I’ve brought her a special surprise.
“Since I last saw you,” I say, my heart thrumming in my chest, “I’ve been researching and writing an article inspired by something you told me.” I hand her the folded pages of my article. “I wrote an article especially for you, Eleanor.”
“For me?”
I nod. “If, for any reason, you don’t want the world to read what’s in your hand, then I promise, I won’t submit it to my boss. The only reason I wrote it is to give you a tiny drop of some much-deserved peace.”
Chapter 38
Georgina
Looking deeply perplexed, Eleanor puts reading glasses on, squints at the first page in her hand, and reads aloud the words printed at the top: “‘A War of Fire: How a Battle Between Rival Mobsters Shattered Innocent Lives.’”
She looks at me blankly.
“It’s about your family,” I say nervously. “About the fire. After you told me about it during our last visit, I decided to poke around to see if I could solve the mystery of how it got started. I wanted to see if I could clear your father’s name. And I did it, Eleanor. I figured out, without a doubt, your father didn’t set that house fire. I’m positive.”
Eleanor looks beyond flabbergasted. She looks at her son, and then at me, before throwing her hands over her face and bursting into wracking sobs.
“Aw, Mom.” Without missing a beat, Reed gets up and takes his weeping mother into his arms. “Wait until you hear what Georgina figured out. You’re gonna be so happy, Mom.”
But Eleanor is inconsolable. Crying so hard, so violently, a nurse comes over to make sure she’s okay. And, of course, I’m mortified to have provoked this horrifying reaction. All I wanted to do, the only thing, was to give this poor, tormented soul, who’s suffered so much in her lifetime, the tiniest measure of peace. But, obviously, my unexpected news has had the exact opposite effect than intended.
Thank goodness for Reed. This ain’t his first time at this particular rodeo, obviously, and he’s smooth as silk with his mother. He holds her tenderly. Strokes her back and whispers to her in a calm, controlled voice. He’s so simultaneously confident and nurturing, in fact, I can’t help thinking as I watch him, “Damn, this man is going to make one hell of a father one day.”
Eventually, Eleanor quiets down and becomes a rag doll in her son’s muscular arms.
“How about Georgina tells you the gist of what she wrote, so you don’t have to read the article itself?” Reed suggests. “She can tell you how she solved the mystery, like she’s telling you a detective story.”
Eleanor nods, rubbing her slack cheek against Reed’s broad shoulder. “I’d like that.”
My stomach somersaults. “Maybe you should tell your mother about the article. I’d hate to say something wrong.”
Eleanor shakes her head. “No, I want you to tell me. You’re the one who solved the mystery. I want to hear it from you.”
I look at Reed and he nods encouragingly.
“Okay. Of course. Whatever you want.”
But where to begin?
In my article, I start by setting the stage for the reader. I describe the ill-fated Charpentier family, and the tragic house fire that claimed four of six of them in one horrible night. I describe how Charles’ insurance company refused to honor his property claim because of “suspected arson and insurance fraud.” And how he fought to clear his name, and secure the funds owed to him, for the better part of the next year, because he wanted desperately to build a new house, and a new life, for his sole surviving teenager, Eleanor.
I explain in my article that, in the end, a defeated and beleaguered Charles Charpentier marshalled every last dime in his bank account and used it to send his bereft daughter to an art school in Paris. And that, when he knew she was safe and sound on another continent, painting family portraits while overlooking the Seine, he put a gun in his mouth and ended his life on the one-year anniversary of the fire.
