Forbidden Fruit (21 page)

“Anything but this?” She averted her gaze, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “But this is the only thing I want, Glory. So, what are you going to do?”

“She'll destroy us. She'll find a way.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head. “And this won't destroy us?”

Her tears welled, then spilled over. He drew her into his arms, and she pressed her face to his chest, wishing they could go back ten minutes. If only they could, she would change the future, somehow she would make it better.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentle, but his words firm. “I don't like sneaking around this way, as if we're doing something wrong. I don't like lying. I don't like what it means.”

“It doesn't mean anything, Santos. It doesn't.”

“It means you don't think I'm good enough for you.”

“No!” She struggled free of his arms. “It's my mother! And my father. They're the ones—”

“Who would think I'm not good enough.”

She heard the anger in his voice. The accusation. Not just toward them, but toward her, too. As if her being a part of them had somehow tainted her. As if being a part of them made their beliefs hers, whether she acknowledged it or not.

Santos made a sound, part angry man, part hurt boy. “If my father had been in Comus, I'd be good enough. If I went to Tulane, if I were in premedicine, if my skin was as lily white as theirs, they'd understand our feelings for each other. Hell, they'd probably applaud them.”

“Daddy's not like that. He's sweet and understanding, but…but he sides with her.” Bitterness and anger rose inside Glory. “He's always sided with her. No matter what she did or said.”

“I'm tired of lying, Glory. We're not wrong, but what we're doing is.” He dragged his hands through her hair, smoothing it away from her face. “We care about each other. We shouldn't be ashamed of that. We shouldn't try to hide it.”

“Don't do this, Santos. Give me some time.”

“I want you to meet Lily. Tomorrow.”

He had told her about Lily, the woman who had saved him from the streets. Almost defiantly, he had told her about Lily's past, as if he had expected her to cast stones. She hadn't. How could she have? His Lily sounded kind; she sounded as devoted to Santos as he was to her; without her, Santos might have died. But still, Glory was afraid. Irrationally, dizzyingly afraid.

She shook her head, her chest so tight with fear that she could hardly breathe: fear of her mother's power, of the future, fear that she would lose him. “If I meet her, it would be—” Glory squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “I know you won't understand, but I have this feeling, this terrible feeling, that once someone knows about us, it'll be over. They'll find a way to tear us apart, I know they will.”

“This is such a bunch of bullshit!” The angry words exploded from him, startling her. He threw down her hands, slid across the seat and out of the car. She followed him, shuddering as the cold, dark night surrounded her.

He stood stiffly, his back to her, hands fisted at his sides. His breath made clouds in the frigid air. “I won't go on this way, Glory,” he said quietly, not turning. “If you wanted me, if you weren't ashamed of me, you would tell your parents about us.”

“I'm not ashamed of you! You have to believe me.” She went to him, tried to put her arms around him, but he shook her off. His rejection cut her to the core.

She clasped her hands in front of her. “I'm anything but ashamed of you. I want to tell everyone about you. I want to show you off. Brag to the world that you're mine.”

“Then prove it.” He turned and met her eyes. At the expression in his, hopelessness welled up in her.
She was losing him.
And her mother was winning.

She couldn't let it happen. She wouldn't. This time she would not let her mother steal her happiness from her.

Glory stiffened her spine fighting her fear. “I'll talk to my father. I'll get him on our side. But first, I want…I need to tell you something. About my mother. I want you to…understand why I'm so afraid of her. Will you listen?”

Santos nodded, and she began. Choking on the words, she told him about the library and little Danny, about her mother's insane rage when she came upon them, about her brutal, unthinkable punishment.

As she recounted the story, Glory gazed at Santos, but saw her mother's face, twisted into something grotesque and terrifying. She felt the punishing rasp of the nailbrush, the sting of the burning water on her raw skin, heard her mother's ugly, frightening words. She saw the blood leaking from her stripped skin into the water, turning it pink.

“I will cleanse you, daughter. If I have to scrub the flesh from your bones, I will cleanse you.”

As Glory spoke, she unlocked the horror of that day; with each remembered word, with each recalled image, hysteria built inside her, like a powerful killer wave that could swallow her whole. Glory felt it happening, but didn't know how to stop or control it, didn't know how to save herself from drowning in it.

She began to shake, so badly she could hardly stand. She realized she was crying, sobbing. She curved her arms around her middle and sank to the ground.

Santos crossed to her. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the car. He bent and fitted her gently into the back seat, closed the door, then went around. He climbed in beside her, then drew her onto his lap and held her. For a long time, he held her that way, rocking her, making low sounds of comfort and reassurance.

And she cried, until she had no more tears, until the horror of that day more than eight years ago had again receded to a deep, bitter place inside her. A stale, airless place, one without light or warmth.

“I've never told anyone else,” she whispered, drained, exhausted. “Not even Liz. I wish I couldn't even remember.”

He made a low sound of regret. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. Really sorry you remembered for me.”

She glanced up at him; he met her eyes. In that moment, she understood how close to violence he was. She caught her breath. “Don't be. I'm glad I told you. I wanted you to know.”

She laid her cheek against his chest, comforted by the steady beat of his heart. “Whatever I love, she takes away from me. Whatever joy I find, she finds a way to kill. It's always been that way.” Glory shuddered and nestled closer into his side. “She'll kill us, too. Once she knows.”

“I won't let her,” he murmured, his voice edged in steel. “I promise you, she will not come between us. No matter what.”

But he wouldn't be able to stop her. No one could.

Glory didn't share that thought. The future would come soon enough, she knew. For now, she would cherish this moment and pretend, as best she could, that tomorrow didn't exist.

She brought his mouth to hers.

T
he Darkness called her name. Loud, clear, the call echoed in her head, drowning out all but its twisted shouts. Hope dropped the phone back into its cradle and brought her hands to her ears.
She would not heed its call. She would not succumb, not this time.

The Call became thunder, and she fell to her knees, doubling over, panting like an animal. She pressed her face to her knees. She had made a deal with The Darkness. Now she had to pay. Now, it demanded payment in full.

The Lord's Prayer ran through her head, as did the words of the Rosary and the Twenty-third Psalm. They jumbled together, creating a disjointed mix of promise and plea. Hope clung to the words, using them as a way to push The Darkness back.

“No,” she muttered, then repeated it, louder. She squeezed her fingers into fists, so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Through sheer force of will, she fought The Beast's call. Finally, it dimmed. Finally, the thunder became a rumble, the rumble a murmur.

Then it was gone.

For long minutes, Hope remained on her knees, doubled over, exhausted from the battle. Her heart slowed, her breathing became deep and even, her sweat-dampened skin cooled. Triumph spiraled through her. She was safe. She had beaten The Beast again.

Hope straightened, then got unsteadily to her feet. She went to her dressing table and sat down before the mirror. She gazed at her placid reflection, looking for a sign of The Darkness but seeing none. A small smile curved her lips, and she unpinned her hair and began brushing it, two hundred strokes, same as she had since childhood.

She pulled the brush through her hair, her palms stinging, thinking back to the moments before The Darkness had come for her. Her mother had called to whine about having difficulty coming up with the last of the money and to ask if Hope really needed the entire five hundred thousand. Her accountant, she said, had warned her against liquidating all her assets.

Hope narrowed her eyes. She had battled The Darkness all her life. She had paid the price for her mother's sins, again and again. And yet, her mother had the audacity to hesitate to do her this favor. Did her mother think she would have lowered herself the way she had, if she could do without the entire amount? Did her mother really think she could go to Philip now, after he had accepted her story about a loan from an old family friend, and say, “Sorry, but I don't have all the money, after all”?

No, she needed that final payment. She had to have it, and had told her mother so, though in a simpering, pathetically distraught tone. So pathetic it had turned her stomach.

Hope yanked on the brush, wincing as it dug into her scalp, her thoughts turning to Philip. Oh, yes, he had grasped on to that story about an old family friend, grasped on to it like a lifeline. “You remember,” she had said to him, “the one who gave us the Baccarat stems for a wedding gift, the horrible ones we exchanged.” Conveniently, he had remembered.

Hope made a sound of contempt. He had been so grateful to her for saving him from his own stupidity, that he hadn't asked questions.

Though he'd had them. She had seen them in his eyes.

Hope smiled at her reflection. She had been relieved. And disgusted. Philip was a spineless fool.

In the mirror, she caught the reflection of Glory, trying to tiptoe by her half-open bedroom door. Hope swung toward it. “Glory Alexandra, is that you?”

Hope heard her sigh and smiled. Her daughter was up to something, though she didn't know what. Until she did, she would let her think she was getting away with it. Like her husband, her daughter was easily controlled.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Come here, please,” she called.

Glory appeared in the doorway, though she did not step into the room. She folded her arms across her chest, her expression defiant. “What?”

“How was
Mask?
” Glory looked confused and Hope narrowed her eyes. “The movie.”

“Oh. It was okay.” Glory shrugged. “Liz liked it better than I did.”

“Did she?” Hope arched an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Glory hesitated, her cheeks growing pink. Hope pretended not to notice. “She just did.” She moved her gaze over the room, then returned it to her mother's face. “Where's Daddy?”

“The hotel.” Hope made a dismissive motion with her brush. “One of his little emergencies.”

Glory's eyes widened. “Mother! Your wrist, you're bleeding!”

Hope lowered her eyes. A trickle of blood ran from the handle of the brush down her wrist. A red smear marred the cuff of her white terry robe. She stared at it a moment, momentarily off balance.

Glory took a step into the room. “Are you all right?”

Hope swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. “It's nothing,” she murmured, setting down the brush. “Just a little cut.”

She grabbed a tissue from the box on the vanity and wiped the blood away, then met her daughter's gaze once more. “You haven't forgotten we have several social engagements next week, beginning with the Krewe banquet?”

“No, Mother, I haven't forgotten.”

“Mardi Gras will be in full swing by then. I'm afraid your little friend will have to do without you for the next few weeks.”

Glory paled. “My little friend?”

“Why, Liz, of course.” Hope searched her daughter's expression. “Who else could I have meant?”

“No one,” Glory said quickly, hiking up her chin. “I just…I would never refer to her as my ‘little friend.' It makes her sound like a child.”

Hope studied her daughter a moment, then picked up the brush. “You know, Glory, if I find you have been lying to me, I will punish you. But if I find that you have been sinning against the Lord—” she met her daughter's gaze in the mirror “—I will make you regret it.”

Glory shook her head, her eyes wide. “I'm not doing anything, Mother. Really I'm n—”

“There are places I could send you,” Hope continued, enjoying watching Glory squirm, “where you would not be surrounded by constant temptation. Places where they have people who know how to control wayward girls.”

Glory took a step backward, her face draining of color. “You would…send me…away?”

“I would hate to, of course. I know how you would miss your friends and your home. But if I have to, I will.” Hope smiled at her daughter's fear. “Do you understand?”

Glory nodded. Hope's smile widened. “Good. You look tired, Glory, and mass is early. You should go to bed.”

Glory backed into the hall, then stopped. “Tell…Daddy I said good night. And that I…that I need to…” She shook her head, looking almost panicked. “Never mind.”

Hope turned back to the mirror. “Close the door behind you, please.”

Glory did as she asked. As the latch clicked into place, the brush slipped from Hope's fingers, clattering onto the vanity top, sending several bottles toppling. The scent of
Poison
filled the room. Hope opened her shaking hands and gazed down at her palms, stained with red.

Sacrificial blood. Like that of Christ on the cross.

The Darkness was determined to have its lamb.

Hope brought her hands to her face. They were wet, sticky. A faint, musky scent mingled with that of the spilled perfume. Her stomach heaved, and she leaped to her feet and raced to the bathroom.