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CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Angelo
When I arrive home, my mother is kneeling on the library floor with hundreds of brochures spread out in front of her.
“Oh, hi,” she says, shuffling the glossy pamphlets. “You’re home early.”
“I made good time with the boat. The wind was behind me.”
She smiles up at me. “How was the birthday party?”
The memories that flood me makes me work my jaw. “Good.” And bad. But mostly memorable. Inarguably satisfying.
“Did she like the car?”
“Apparently not.” My tone is wry. “She donated it to charity.”
My mother’s brow pleats. “I told you it was too flashy.”
“Don’t worry about it. I instructed her brother to buy her a more average car.” I peer over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Organizing the wedding leaflets by themes and color. I was thinking of apricot as the principal color and palettes of orange as accent colors. How does that sound?”
It takes effort to smile. The way in which I left South Africa put me in a foul mood. “Like you have everything under control.”
“Does Sabella like roses? I thought we could make flower arrangements with white, brown, beige, and burnt-orange roses. Brown roses are all the rage. Will that please her? I’m making theme boards that we can share with her to get her input.”
“We don’t need her input. Whatever you like will be fine.”
“But Angelo—”
“Trust me, Maman. Sabella has other things on her mind.”
“Like what?” she asks, incredulous. As if the colors and flowers of a wedding aren’t the most important things in the world.
“Like university.”
She sits back on her heels. “What? She’s going to university? To study what?”
“Marine biology.”
“Where? There isn’t a marine science faculty in Corte.”
“It’ll have to be in Marseille, but I haven’t looked into that yet. She’s joining the university in Cape Town for the moment.”
“The applications would’ve closed already.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You should’ve done that for her last year. Don’t you want her to study?”
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I ride on the balls of my feet. “I don’t have a problem with letting her attend university. Adeline does, doesn’t she? Although, the logistics will be a challenge. We’ll have to stay there in the week and come home on weekends.”
“What about the application?”
“I can submit a late application until April. Besides, with our connections, getting her in won’t be a problem.”
“Good.” Her shoulders sag as she blows out a breath. “You shouldn’t prevent her from getting a good education.” Her voice is wistful as she adds, “I didn’t have that opportunity.”
She never says anything, but I know she’s ashamed of not having finished school. I notice how she withdraws from conversations about academics and how she clams up in the company of women she considers to be learned.
My father married her when she was sixteen. The year after, Adeline and I were born. Although her face is youthful, she seems twenty years older in spirit. All those miscarriages after my sister and me took their toll. Her other pregnancies always ended in the same way—with grief and tears. My parents only stopped trying for another baby two years ago when the obstetrician said her body couldn’t sustain another pregnancy.
“Or from getting a job for that matter,” she adds.
“I’m not opposed to that either.”
“Good,” she says again, nodding as if the matter is settled.
I glance toward the stairs. “Papa?”
“He’s doing much better. He even went to the city yesterday to meet your uncles. You’ll find him in the study, going over the books.” She picks up a brochure and shows me a three-tier cake with a plastic bride and groom on top. “Shall we order a classically traditional cake or something more French like a pièce montée?”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. “Whatever you decide will be perfect,” I say as I take the phone out. It’s Edwards. I’ve been expecting his call. “Excuse me.” I press the phone against my ear and walk to the door. “I have to take this.”
Grateful to escape the talk of weddings and cakes, I go outside into the garden. The winter sun is bright in the sky, shimmering on the ocean below.
I answer with, “Mr. Edwards.”
Since the day I stole his book, our interaction has been minimal and only via email. For understandable reasons, he’s been avoiding me. I’ve mostly dealt with Ryan, but the instructions I sent yesterday concerns the father, not the son.
“What is the meaning of this?” he splutters, sounding incoherent and distressed.
“I assume you’re referring to the arrangements for the wedding I emailed yesterday,” I drawl.
“You got what you wanted,” he grits out. “There doesn’t have to be a wedding.”
“If you think running your business is what I wanted, you don’t have a clue.”
“You have the money,” he says, turning to pleading. “The power. Leave my daughter out of it.”
“See, here’s the thing you don’t understand. I didn’t do what I did for the money or the power.” I chuckle. “Well, not only. I did it for Sabella. I did it for what you always owed me.”
