Chapter 5 - THE AUNT WHO STOLE FIFTEEN CHRISTMASES
“She told my mother I didn't want her?”
Adrian's voice sounded unfamiliar.
He sat beside my father's hospital bed, holding the yellow admission ticket.
I could see his fingers trembling.
Aunt Eleanor Castellano had been the closest thing Adrian had to a mother for fifteen years.
She'd organized his birthdays.
Chosen flowers for his mother's grave.
Sat beside him at Christmas dinners.
And every year, she'd told him Maria would have been proud.
Now he knew she had been visiting Maria all along.
My father nodded slowly.
“Eleanor said you were angry. That you blamed Maria for disgracing your father.”
Adrian shook his head.
“I never knew she was alive.”
“I know.”
“Did my mother believe her?”
Dad looked down.
“For a while.”
Adrian turned away.
I watched his shoulders stiffen.
This wasn't simply a revelation about a missing woman.
It was the destruction of hundreds of ordinary memories.
Every birthday cake.
Every Christmas card.
Every comforting word from a woman he'd trusted.
All of them suddenly meant something different.
Samuel placed a hand on Adrian's shoulder.
“Your mother never stopped asking about you.”
Adrian swallowed.
“Then why didn't she come herself?”
Dad hesitated.
“She tried twice.”
Adrian turned.
“What happened?”
“The first time, her medical guardianship prevented her from leaving the residence alone. The second time, someone convinced her you had married and wanted no contact.”
“But I never married.”
Dad nodded.
“That's when Maria realized she was being lied to.”
Adrian stood.
“We're going back to the mansion.”
I caught his sleeve before he reached the door.
“Mr. Castellano.”
He looked at me.
“Don't go there and do something you'll regret.”
His jaw tightened.
“You think I don't have a right to be angry?”
“You have every right.”
I took a breath.
“But your mother has waited fifteen years for you. Don't give these people another reason to keep you apart.”
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought I'd overstepped.
Then his expression softened.
“What would you do?”
“I'd find the letters.”
He looked toward my father.
Dad nodded.
“Eleanor kept things. Always did.”
Samuel spoke.
“She has a cedar cabinet in the old sitting room.”
Adrian exhaled.
“Then that's where we start.”
Before leaving, he turned back to my father.
“Daniel.”
Dad opened his eyes.
“Thank you for protecting her.”
My father's smile was tired.
“I should have done more.”
Adrian shook his head.
“So should I.”
By the time we returned to the mansion, the engagement dinner had become something nobody could pretend was a celebration.
Most guests had left after security collected their contact information.
The enormous dining table remained covered with untouched desserts.
Champagne glasses sat beside melting candles.
White roses hung over the edge of a silver centerpiece.
Bianca stood near the piano.
Her father sat beside her.
And Eleanor Castellano waited in the doorway.
She was sixty-eight.
Tall.
Perfectly dressed in a burgundy evening gown.
Her silver hair had been arranged in an elegant twist.
When she saw Adrian, she smiled.
“My darling boy. I've been looking everywhere for you.”
Adrian stopped.
For a heartbeat, I saw the old instinct in his face.
He wanted to go to her.
To believe her.
Then he remembered the ticket.
“Eleanor,” he said, “where are my mother's letters?”
Her smile remained.
“What letters?”
“The ones she wrote after her funeral.”
Eleanor's expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Her lips simply pressed together.
“Who told you that?”
“Daniel Mitchell.”
She looked toward me.
I felt the judgment in her eyes.
“Of course.”
Adrian stepped forward.
“Answer me.”
Eleanor sighed.
“Adrian, your mother was deeply troubled.”
“She's alive.”
“I know.”
He stopped.
The words hung between them.
“You know?”
Eleanor folded her hands.
“I've always known.”
Even Charles Sterling looked uncomfortable.
Adrian stared at her.
“You watched me stand beside her grave.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me cry.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
Eleanor's face tightened.
“I did what I believed was necessary.”
Adrian laughed once.
A bitter, wounded sound.
“Necessary?”
“Your father was losing control of the family. Maria threatened to expose his business partners. People would have turned against you.”
“So you took away my mother?”
“I protected your future.”
Adrian shook his head.
“You stole my past.”
The words seemed to strike her.
For the first time, Eleanor looked uncertain.
I understood then that she loved him.
In her own possessive, terribly damaged way.
She'd raised him.
Protected his inheritance.
Managed his public appearances.
But she'd also decided that loving him gave her the right to control the truth.
“Where are the letters?” Adrian asked.
Eleanor looked toward the staircase.
“In my sitting room.”
“Take me there.”
The cedar cabinet stood beneath a portrait of Vincent Castellano.
Eleanor opened its lower drawer with a small silver key.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
Cream-colored.
Some tied with ribbon.
Some worn at the edges.
Every envelope bore the same name.
ADRIAN CASTELLANO.
The earliest dated back fifteen years.
The newest was only four months old.
Adrian picked up the first.
His fingers moved carefully across the paper.
“Can I?”
Eleanor nodded.
He opened it.
I stood beside Samuel near the doorway.
Adrian read silently.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
“What does it say?” Samuel asked softly.
Adrian swallowed.
“She asked whether I still liked cinnamon toast.”
I felt my eyes fill.
Such a small question.
Such an ordinary thing.
He read another.
“She remembered the year I broke my bicycle. She wanted to know if my knee still hurt in cold weather.”
He opened a third.
His jaw trembled.
“She said she'd seen a photograph of me in the newspaper.”
He stopped reading.
Then quietly placed the letter against his chest.
Eleanor watched him.
Tears rolled down her face.
“I told myself you'd understand when you were older.”
Adrian looked at her.
“I'm forty-one.”
She lowered her head.
“I know.”
“Fifteen years, Eleanor.”
“I know.”
“You could have given me one letter.”
She started crying harder.
“I was afraid you'd leave me.”
The admission stunned the room.
Adrian stared at her.
“You were afraid of losing me, so you made sure I lost her?”
Eleanor covered her face.
Nobody spoke.
Then Bianca appeared in the doorway.
“Adrian, this has gone far enough.”
He turned.
“What are you doing here?”
She glanced toward Eleanor.
“I need to speak to you.”
“Later.”
“No. Now.”
Her hands shook.
“My father told me something before the engagement.”
Adrian's expression changed.
“What?”
Bianca looked at me.
Then at Samuel.
Finally, she faced Adrian.
“He said your mother might still be alive.”
Silence.
Adrian didn't blink.
“You knew?”
“I didn't believe him!”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Three weeks.
The same week Bianca had ordered Maria's photographs removed.
The same week she'd begun dismissing longtime servants.
Adrian stepped back.
“You knew there was a chance my mother was alive, and you tried to destroy her music box?”
Bianca began crying.
“My father said the box contained false evidence that could destroy our engagement.”
“And you believed him?”
“He told me the Castellano family would blame us for everything!”
Adrian stared at her.
“Bianca, you humiliated Clara in front of fifty-eight people because she wouldn't break something my mother loved.”
“I was scared!”
“So was Clara.”
Bianca fell silent.
He continued quietly.
“The difference is that Clara had something to lose and still did the right thing.”
I lowered my eyes.
Bianca looked as though he'd slapped her.
Then Eleanor spoke from behind us.
“Adrian, there's something you must understand.”
He turned.
She held a final envelope.
Unlike the others, this one was gray.
Sealed with red wax.
“I didn't hide all of Maria's letters because of Charles.”
Adrian stared.
“Then why?”
Eleanor's voice trembled.
“Because the last time I visited her, Maria showed me something that would change everything you believe about your father.”
She handed him the envelope.
On its front were four handwritten words.
FOR ADRIAN. OPEN TOGETHER.
Adrian broke the seal.
Inside was a small black-and-white photograph.
Vincent Castellano stood beside Charles Sterling.
Behind them was a third man, his face partly turned away.
Adrian recognized him immediately.
His knees nearly gave way.
I caught his arm.
“Mr. Castellano?”
May you like
He pointed at the third man.
“THAT'S MY SECURITY CHIEF'S FATHER—AND HE WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE DIED THE SAME NIGHT AS MY MOTHER.”
