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That’s what I remember. It’s that too that makes me feel the guilt I continue to feel for their deaths.
I put the little ribbon in my pocket. I’ll take this to keep her close. Close to my heart.
I take a few more things, and as I leave, I hope that life will get better soon… in whatever way that means.
* * *
Marguerite meets me at the door when I get back.
“Buona serata, Signora,” she says. “Please, keep an old woman alive by eating something. I worry so much about you.”
I smell cookies when we get closer to the kitchen, and my stomach grumbles with hunger. She hears it and gives me that knowing look with her head tilted to the side.
“Okay, thank you,” I answer.
“Thank God. Come.” She taps my shoulder, and I follow her into the kitchen, where I see she’s made sandwiches and a host of baked goodies.
Even if I wanted to be stubborn today, I don’t think I could be. Everything looks and smells amazing. I dive in straightaway and probably eat a week’s worth of food, much to Marguerite’s satisfaction.
“Do you want more?” she asks, and I laugh because I’m so full I’ll probably burst if I have another bite.
“No, I’m stuffed.”
She smiles and sets a glass of orange juice down in front of me on the table. “My dear, you have such a nice laugh. It’s nice to hear it.”
She takes a seat in the chair opposite me. It’s the first we’ve sat like this, and I don’t know what to say to her or talk to her about.
The situation is unconventional, and so am I. I know she reports back to Vincent all that happens during the day, and you can’t really trust a person like that, but I don’t feel that malicious vibe from her. I never have. If anything, I’ve felt that motherly warmth I’ve lacked for the last ten years.
“Did it go okay? Getting your things, I mean?” she asks.
I nod. “I just got a few things. I guess there’s clothes here, and they’re a lot better than anything I could afford.”
Sympathy appears in her warm eyes. “They may be expensive, but your own things mean more to you. It’s okay. I understand, and I get it that you can’t say much. I can’t either. I just do my job. Doesn’t mean I am blind to what is happening, or that I agree with it.” She makes a point of quirking her brows for those last words.
“You must know why I’m here, then.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I never know details.”
I don’t know how she does it. Just doing her day-to-day work and never knowing what’s going on. Add the fact that Vincent is a mobster and most of what he’s doing isn’t going to be legit. How is she okay with it?
“No one tells you anything.”
“No. It’s not for me to know. I can… guess though.” She raises her shoulders and gives me a small smile.
Shame fills me when she says that, and my cheeks burn. She knows I’m here for sex. Maybe there were more like me. Foolishly, jealousy takes me. I don’t know what the hell’s happening to me.
“Has this ever happened before? I mean women here. Like me?”
She chuckles. “No, Vincent does not have women in his home, and as long as I’ve known him, he’s been the same. The only woman he lived with is his wife.”
That surprises me.
“Really?” I ask, and she nods.
I think of Vincent’s wife. Sorcha. She seemed so perfect on the video. Then there was what she said. How she loved him.
What happened to her? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Marguerite, but I hold my tongue as the seconds pass. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. So, I can only assume my thoughts are right.She died.
