Chapter 6 - MARIANNE’S LAST CHRISTMAS
Roman did not go alone.
He also did not bring an army.
Anthony knew how Roman thought.
That meant doing either obvious thing would be useless.
Roman returned to Hawthorne shortly after sunrise.
Eleanor was sitting outside Lena’s room.
She had removed her shoes.
Roman had never seen his mother barefoot.
It made her look strangely human.
He placed Anthony’s note in her lap.
Eleanor read it.
Her face lost all color.
“The Vale house.”
“You know it.”
“Yes.”
“Marianne lived there.”
Eleanor looked up.
“Yes.”
Roman leaned against the opposite wall.
“Anthony says I should ask why she died.”
Eleanor folded the note carefully.
Roman almost laughed.
Even terrified, Eleanor D’Angelo could not tolerate untidy paper.
“She had cancer.”
“That’s not what he means.”
“No.”
“Did you kill her?”
Eleanor stared at him.
Lena’s door opened behind them.
She stood holding the frame for support.
Roman immediately straightened.
“You should be resting.”
“I have rested for three years.”
Fair enough.
Lena looked at Eleanor.
“Tell him.”
Eleanor’s eyes closed.
Roman’s stomach tightened.
“Tell me what?”
Eleanor looked older than she had six hours before.
“Marianne asked me to help her die.”
Silence.
Roman’s face hardened.
“Careful.”
“She was dying.”
“That is not an answer.”
“She had pancreatic cancer. It had spread everywhere. Anthony kept her hidden because she knew too much about his businesses.”
Roman stared at her.
“He imprisoned my mother too.”
“Yes.”
The word landed with sickening familiarity.
Hawthorne.
Lena.
Patterns repeated themselves inside families until somebody had the courage to name them.
Eleanor continued.
“Marianne contacted me through Samuel Mercer.”
Caleb, standing at the end of the corridor, lowered his eyes.
“She wanted to see you,” Eleanor said.
“Did she?”
Eleanor nodded.
“You were thirty.”
Roman searched his memory.
Twelve years ago.
He had spent Christmas in Boston negotiating a shipping deal.
At least, he thought he had.
Then he remembered being summoned home unexpectedly because Eleanor claimed she had chest pains.
“You faked being sick.”
“Yes.”
“To keep me away from her.”
“Yes.”
Roman’s hands curled.
Lena watched him carefully.
Eleanor said, “Marianne was dying and frightened Anthony would use you to protect himself. She believed if you met her, you would start asking questions.”
“She was right.”
“I know.”
“You chose the lie.”
“I chose you.”
“No.”
Roman’s voice sharpened.
“You chose control.”
Eleanor absorbed it.
This time she did not argue.
“What did Marianne ask?”
“She wanted enough medication to sleep through the pain at the end.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“And you gave it to her.”
“Yes.”
“Did she choose it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove that?”
Eleanor’s eyes filled.
“No.”
That answer, more than anything, made Roman believe her.
A liar would have produced certainty.
Eleanor only had regret.
“She recorded something for you,” Eleanor said.
Roman stared at her.
“Where?”
“The Vale house.”
Lena whispered, “That’s why Anthony wants you there.”
Roman looked toward her.
“He knows the recording exists.”
Eleanor nodded.
“He never found it.”
The old Vale house stood outside New Hope, Pennsylvania, tucked behind leafless trees and a stone wall.
Roman took Eleanor.
Caleb followed at a distance against Anthony’s instructions.
Tessa stayed with Lena and Sophie.
Before Roman left, Sophie handed him the red flannel scrap.
“For Nicky.”
Roman crouched.
“You want him to have this?”
She nodded.
“He gets scared.”
Roman swallowed.
“Of what?”
Sophie looked toward Eleanor.
Then back at Roman.
“Grandpa mad.”
Roman’s entire body went still.
“Grandpa Anthony?”
Sophie nodded.
“He says Nicky naughty.”
“What does he do when Nicky is naughty?”
Sophie’s face closed.
A three-year-old shutting a door.
Roman did not force it.
“All right.”
She pressed the cloth into his hand.
“Bring Nicky.”
Roman kissed the top of her head.
“I will.”
At the Vale house, dust covered almost everything.
Except the kitchen table.
Someone had been there recently.
Eleanor led Roman upstairs.
Marianne’s bedroom remained nearly untouched.
A floral bedspread.
A hairbrush.
A ceramic jewelry dish.
And a framed photograph of two boys.
Gabriel and Roman.
Michael then.
Roman picked it up.
He remembered nothing.
That grief was different.
He was mourning a childhood somebody had taken without physically taking him anywhere.
Eleanor moved toward an old wardrobe.
Inside was a green winter coat.
“Marianne’s.”
Roman touched the sleeve.
Something hung inside the pocket.
A rosary.
Worn wooden beads.
One bead cracked near the cross.
Eleanor began crying.
Roman had seen his mother cry only twice.
Once when her biological baby died, though Roman had been too young to remember.
And once when Anthony’s coffin went into the ground.
Now he knew both griefs had been wrapped in lies.
Eleanor removed a small tape sewn beneath the coat lining.
Roman found an old player downstairs.
Marianne’s voice filled the kitchen.
“Michael.”
Roman closed his eyes.
Nobody had called him that with love in forty-two years.
“If you hear this, Eleanor finally decided fear was more dangerous than truth.”
Eleanor covered her mouth.
Marianne continued.
“You were Anthony’s son, but you were mine first.”
Roman stared at the red flannel Sophie had given him.
“I let Eleanor take you because men were coming for Gabriel and me. She promised you would have a safe name.”
Marianne laughed weakly.
“I did not expect that name to become a kingdom.”
Roman almost smiled.
Then her voice softened.
“Eleanor loved you. Never doubt that.”
Roman looked at Eleanor.
“She loved you so much she began believing every lie was protection.”
Eleanor’s tears fell.
“And Anthony loved no one without needing to own part of them.”
Roman looked toward the window.
A shadow moved between the trees.
Caleb.
Still outside.
Marianne’s recording continued.
“If Anthony is alive when you hear this, do not let him convince you that blood makes him your father.”
Roman froze.
“Fatherhood is what a man does when nobody is watching.”
Roman thought of Sophie asleep in his arms.
Nicholas calling Anthony Grandpa.
Then Marianne said, “There is one thing Eleanor never knew.”
Eleanor looked up sharply.
“Anthony did not disappear after Gabriel died because he was afraid.”
The recording crackled.
“He disappeared because Gabriel discovered where Anthony kept the ledger.”
Roman frowned.
“What ledger?”
Marianne answered.
“The one containing every name Anthony owned.”
A crash sounded upstairs.
Roman pulled his weapon.
Eleanor stood.
Footsteps crossed the second floor.
Roman moved toward the staircase.
A small wooden train rolled down one step.
Then another.
Then another.
It stopped against Roman’s shoe.
Blue ribbon tied around it.
The same toy from Nicholas’s backpack.
Roman looked up.
A little boy stood at the top of the stairs.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
Bare feet.
Nicholas.
Roman could not move.
The child stared at him.
Then whispered, “Daddy?”
Roman’s weapon slipped from his hand.
Behind Nicholas, a man stepped into view.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair.
Walking with a cane.
May you like
Anthony D’Angelo smiled.
“Hello, son.”
