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Eva’s been back to school, too, at her own request which shows me how bored she was getting. Although Santiago has stationed two guards to remain at her side. She tells me they at least stay in the hallway when she’s in a classroom. I love watching them interact especially. My little sister taking on Santiago De La Rosa, poking holes in his armor, even having him outright laughing when she’s not testing every boundary.
He’s a different man from the one I met just months ago.
I would feel better having my father moved into the house, but he still refuses me that.
Today, though, I am going to see Colette. It’s late afternoon by the time Marco returns to take me but I don’t complain. I know he’s one of Santiago’s most trusted men and when it can’t be Santiago himself to accompany me to the few places I am permitted to go, it’s always Marco and only Marco.
“How is he?” I ask Marco as I settle into the Rolls Royce. It feels strange sitting in the back seat when it’s just the two of us but when I tried to slip into the front seat once, I realized quickly how uncomfortable it made him.
“Working too hard and sleeping too little,” Marco says, knowing I mean Santiago. He cares about him. I wonder if Santiago realizes it. If he even sees how many people he has around him who truly care about him. It makes me sad to think he finds himself unlovable.
“And my father?”
“Same as your husband.”
I want to ask more, but I don’t. He won’t tell me anything else.
We’re silent on the drive to Colette and Jackson’s Garden District house. It’s a sunny day, the temperature warmer than it’s been in a while. I have always loved spring in New Orleans. I’m wearing a simple cotton dress and a light sweater, and you can see my rounding belly clearly now. It’s a small bump, but it’s definitely there, and I put my hand over it, waiting for the day I feel the first little flutters of movement. According to the books Santiago bought me, it’ll be a few weeks before that happens, though.
When we get to Colette and Jackson’s house, Marco grumbles something under his breath as he turns onto the circular drive to park behind the other Rolls Royce that’s already there, the driver standing outside smoking a cigarette. The man looks into the windshield at us but doesn’t smile or greet us. Instead, he takes the last drag of his cigarette and flips the butt onto the manicured lawn.
“Prick,” Marco says.
“Who is he?” I ask, but before he gets a chance to answer, the front door opens, and Cornelius Holton walks briskly out of the house, his face red, his step angry and hurried.
I want to shrink away and hide. I will never forget that man. Never forget how he looked at me, how his fingers felt when he opened my robe as I’d tried to cover myself that horrible morning before the wedding.
God. I feel sick. But instead of allowing myself to cower, I take a deep breath in to steel myself. I narrow my gaze and look at him straight on.
He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that it almost appears to surprise him when he sees our car, and he stops momentarily. Through the windshield, his eyes alight on me. Not Marco but me.
And I don’t look away.
“Wait in the car,” Marco tells me as he opens the door and steps out, then closes it behind him. He doesn’t approach Holton, but his hulking presence does drag the older man’s gaze away from me and I swear for a moment, there’s a flash of insecurity there. A twinge of fear or even panic. And I know Marco is making sure Holton sees him. Making sure he knows he’s been seen.
Holton clears his throat. I don’t hear it, but his hand moves to cover his mouth as he does. He nods once to Marco before he slips into the back seat of his own vehicle, and they’re gone.
“What was that?” I ask Marco as I climb out of the car.
“Like I said, a prick.” Marco closes the door and reaches for the bag I’m carrying.
“I can carry it,” I say. It’s a gift for the baby.
He nods, and we walk up to the house together, where even through the door, I can hear Jackson and Colette arguing, her voice higher than usual, her upset audible from here. His is lower but obviously agitated.
“What should we do?” I ask Marco, who is making no secret of listening.
He puts a finger to his lips.
“You can’t listen!” I ring the bell when there doesn’t seem to be any break in the conversation inside. As soon as I do, the house falls silent. Marco and I look at each other momentarily before I hear hurried steps and a baby’s cry. The door opens, and I see Colette. Jackson is a few steps behind her. The men exchange a look, but I don’t bother with them. I’m worried about my friend. It’s obvious Colette has been crying. Her skin is blotchy, and her eyes red and puffy.
