The Master
Page 12
If that man was him, then the last three years had altered him. He was now gaunt with bitterness etched into his face. No more angelic good looks to recommend him.
I’d been seventeen when we’d had a “chance” meeting over my summer break. He’d told me he was an attorney from Atlanta who’d moved to Jacksonville to start his own practice. He’d also told me he was twenty-five, too old for me. I’d thought, Forbidden fruit!
He’d already seen the world; I’d never traveled far from home. He was a sophisticated gentleman; I’d been proud of my keg stands. He spoke four languages, though strangely not Spanish.
Despite our differences, we’d had an uncanny amount of things in common—we’d liked the same movies, music, sports, pastimes, and foods.
My mother had seen right through him, saying he was a sinner with the face of an angel. So naturally, I’d had to have him.
When she’d died and her strict rule had ended, I’d suddenly had no counterbalance to my own strong will. I’d floundered, grasping onto Edward for stability. Utterly naïve about men, I’d accepted his heartfelt proposal of marriage, inviting him into my life, my home, my body.
Lightning flashed through my threadbare curtains, thunder shaking the building. Storms always reminded me of that last night with him. I’d come home early from a half marathon in nearby Savannah. A tropical depression had been blowing in, and the race had been canceled. I’d rushed home to help him batten down the hatches.
As I stared at my water-stained ceiling, my eyes lost focus, the memory overtaking me. . . .
A strange car was parked behind the house, a Jaguar. I almost hoped Edward was having an affair. It would explain so much, confirming my new suspicions. It would make my decisions going forward easier.
In one year of marriage, we’d gone from two people who had everything in common and finished each other’s sentences to strangers.
I entered quietly, creeping up the stairs, hearing voices coming from our bedroom. I paused in the upstairs foyer. When my mother was alive, the walls had been covered with crucifixes and gloomy old portraits of our ancestors. After her death, Edward had hired a decorator, telling me, “You’ll never move past her if you’re constantly reminded. Let’s make a fresh start.”
I’d thought at the time, If you don’t like mi madre’s home, then why are we living here, instead of in your own mansion? The one I’d yet to see.
But I’d stifled that question, because it would open the door to so many other ones—a pulled thread that would unravel the blanket that I still occasionally slept with.
I’d agreed to the decorator, anything to repair the sudden rift between me and him, the one that’d appeared directly after our hasty courthouse wedding. He’d stopped calling me Lucía, insisting on Ana-Lucía (what my mother had called me when I was in trouble). He’d stopped flirting with me. We rarely had sex, and only at my urging.
I stepped closer to our room, avoiding the groaning spots in the wood floor. I knew their exact locations, had been sneaking out of this house since I was twelve.
At the door, I detected perfume and heard my husband and a woman speaking.
“This is taking too long,” the woman said.
“You have to be patient and trust me.” That was my husband’s voice—but now he spoke with a British accent.
Who the hell was in my bedroom with my husband, and why had his accent changed? My fists clenched, my unruly temper about to blow. My first impulse was to bust inside and start cussing, but somehow I forced myself to bite my tongue and listen.
“I usually am patient,” the woman said, her accent also British. “But you can’t let her leave for these races, Charles.” Charles? “You need to be working on her constantly.”
Working on what?
“Her training is the ideal cover, darling,” my husband continued. “Poor Ana-Lucía’s going to collapse after one of her long runs.”
I rocked on my feet. They planned to . . . kill me? These motherfuckers were going to kill me.
This. Is. Not. Happening.
“It will work seamlessly,” Edward said. “Oh, if only my poor wife hadn’t taken amphetamines while marathon training in this heat.”
Amphetamines? He’d given diet pills to me, saying, “Maybe you should lose a pound or two. Honestly, Ana-Lucía, your clothes scarcely fit across your backside. It’s only fair, since I do make an effort to keep myself in shape for you.”
I’d nearly told him I would lose weight in my ass as soon as he gained weight in his dick, but he loathed curse words. I used to admire that he was such a gentleman. It’d gotten old.
Edward said, “With that combination, no one will suspect another drug.”
“Will she take them?” the woman asked. “She might be young, but she isn’t malleable like the others.”
The others? They’d done this before?? Serial killers were in my room, like snakes loosed inside!
“Give me more credit than that,” Edward said. “Once I work my magic, she’ll be choking them down. Julia, I vow to you that I will be a widower by the holidays. Shall we go to Aspen to celebrate?” He had a smile in his tone.
A horrific thought struck me. Por Dios, had they killed my mother? She’d had a degenerative disease, but her actual passing had been sudden. The floor wobbled.
Had they killed my mother?
Had they killed her?
This Julia wasn’t swayed yet. “If she suspects you . . .”
I’d been seventeen when we’d had a “chance” meeting over my summer break. He’d told me he was an attorney from Atlanta who’d moved to Jacksonville to start his own practice. He’d also told me he was twenty-five, too old for me. I’d thought, Forbidden fruit!
He’d already seen the world; I’d never traveled far from home. He was a sophisticated gentleman; I’d been proud of my keg stands. He spoke four languages, though strangely not Spanish.
Despite our differences, we’d had an uncanny amount of things in common—we’d liked the same movies, music, sports, pastimes, and foods.
My mother had seen right through him, saying he was a sinner with the face of an angel. So naturally, I’d had to have him.
When she’d died and her strict rule had ended, I’d suddenly had no counterbalance to my own strong will. I’d floundered, grasping onto Edward for stability. Utterly naïve about men, I’d accepted his heartfelt proposal of marriage, inviting him into my life, my home, my body.
Lightning flashed through my threadbare curtains, thunder shaking the building. Storms always reminded me of that last night with him. I’d come home early from a half marathon in nearby Savannah. A tropical depression had been blowing in, and the race had been canceled. I’d rushed home to help him batten down the hatches.
As I stared at my water-stained ceiling, my eyes lost focus, the memory overtaking me. . . .
A strange car was parked behind the house, a Jaguar. I almost hoped Edward was having an affair. It would explain so much, confirming my new suspicions. It would make my decisions going forward easier.
In one year of marriage, we’d gone from two people who had everything in common and finished each other’s sentences to strangers.
I entered quietly, creeping up the stairs, hearing voices coming from our bedroom. I paused in the upstairs foyer. When my mother was alive, the walls had been covered with crucifixes and gloomy old portraits of our ancestors. After her death, Edward had hired a decorator, telling me, “You’ll never move past her if you’re constantly reminded. Let’s make a fresh start.”
I’d thought at the time, If you don’t like mi madre’s home, then why are we living here, instead of in your own mansion? The one I’d yet to see.
But I’d stifled that question, because it would open the door to so many other ones—a pulled thread that would unravel the blanket that I still occasionally slept with.
I’d agreed to the decorator, anything to repair the sudden rift between me and him, the one that’d appeared directly after our hasty courthouse wedding. He’d stopped calling me Lucía, insisting on Ana-Lucía (what my mother had called me when I was in trouble). He’d stopped flirting with me. We rarely had sex, and only at my urging.
I stepped closer to our room, avoiding the groaning spots in the wood floor. I knew their exact locations, had been sneaking out of this house since I was twelve.
At the door, I detected perfume and heard my husband and a woman speaking.
“This is taking too long,” the woman said.
“You have to be patient and trust me.” That was my husband’s voice—but now he spoke with a British accent.
Who the hell was in my bedroom with my husband, and why had his accent changed? My fists clenched, my unruly temper about to blow. My first impulse was to bust inside and start cussing, but somehow I forced myself to bite my tongue and listen.
“I usually am patient,” the woman said, her accent also British. “But you can’t let her leave for these races, Charles.” Charles? “You need to be working on her constantly.”
Working on what?
“Her training is the ideal cover, darling,” my husband continued. “Poor Ana-Lucía’s going to collapse after one of her long runs.”
I rocked on my feet. They planned to . . . kill me? These motherfuckers were going to kill me.
This. Is. Not. Happening.
“It will work seamlessly,” Edward said. “Oh, if only my poor wife hadn’t taken amphetamines while marathon training in this heat.”
Amphetamines? He’d given diet pills to me, saying, “Maybe you should lose a pound or two. Honestly, Ana-Lucía, your clothes scarcely fit across your backside. It’s only fair, since I do make an effort to keep myself in shape for you.”
I’d nearly told him I would lose weight in my ass as soon as he gained weight in his dick, but he loathed curse words. I used to admire that he was such a gentleman. It’d gotten old.
Edward said, “With that combination, no one will suspect another drug.”
“Will she take them?” the woman asked. “She might be young, but she isn’t malleable like the others.”
The others? They’d done this before?? Serial killers were in my room, like snakes loosed inside!
“Give me more credit than that,” Edward said. “Once I work my magic, she’ll be choking them down. Julia, I vow to you that I will be a widower by the holidays. Shall we go to Aspen to celebrate?” He had a smile in his tone.
A horrific thought struck me. Por Dios, had they killed my mother? She’d had a degenerative disease, but her actual passing had been sudden. The floor wobbled.
Had they killed my mother?
Had they killed her?
This Julia wasn’t swayed yet. “If she suspects you . . .”
