Page 107 of Cruelest Contract
I look at Miguel. He shrugs as if to say he’s equally clueless about Getty’s intentions.
“Send out a search party if I’m not back in an hour,” I say and give Luna’s neck one final soft pat before following Julian’s least likeable brother outside.
Getty doesn’t look back and takes long strides past the fenced corral. He’s heading for the grassy meadow that ends at a shallow hill.
A warm breeze toys with my hair and quivers the high branches of the cottonwood trees beyond the hill. My skirtflutters around my calves and the heel of my boot catches in a divot in the grass, wrenching my bad knee. I bite my lip and gingerly flex the joint before taking another step.
“I’m not exactly dressed for hiking!” I yell, unsure if Getty can even hear me now that he’s about twenty paces ahead.
He stops and appraises me with indifference. “You never are,” he says but he waits for me to catch up.
The main reason I keep going is curiosity. Since Julian left, Getty hasn’t gone out of his way to make my life miserable, but I also wouldn’t call him pleasant. He obviously resents the fact that he’s been ordered to stay close to home for my sake. When Julian finally gets back I’ll let him know that his brother should be released from whatever bodyguard duties he was assigned.
Getty comes to an abrupt halt and I nearly crash into his back. He points to the right.
“Wildflowers,” he says and goes tramping in that direction.
This field trip is becoming more mystifying by the second. But all questions aside, I’m delighted by the patches of color stretching their necks out of the grass.
“What are these called?” I kneel beside a clump of light purple flowers with brilliant green leaves. Each flower contains dozens of wispy, narrow petals. I bend down and inhale a fragrance that’s familiar.
“Bergamot,” says Getty. To my shock, he’s carefully collecting an assortment of vivid blue flowers. “These are larkspur.”
When he’s assembled a pile of flowers, he uses his knife to strip a long stem and uses it to tie together the bouquet. If someone told me when I woke up this morning that I’d be picking flowers with Getty Tempesta in the afternoon I would have wondered which Twilight Zone portal I’d fallen into.
While I’m grappling with the surreal nature of this scene, I take stock of my surroundings. I’ve never been to this part of the property before. There’s no road here, no path indicating a trailis nearby. To my left, the softly sloping hill that I’ve only seen from a distance hides whatever waits on the other side.
Finally, I realize exactly where we’re going.
“She’s buried on the ranch. A quarter of a mile beyond that hill there’s a cluster of cottonwood trees. The rest of us visit but my father doesn’t.”
I’ve never seen Teresa Tempesta’s gravesite. Her boys are highly protective of her memory and I sensed the topic was a touchy one. Outsiders, I figured, might not be welcome and I didn’t push.
The cremated remains of my own parents are locked in a mausoleum that I’ve visited twice. Each experience was cold and gloomy and left me feeling even more desolate than I did when I walked in.
Getty waits until I’ve successfully gathered a handful of wildflowers. Mine aren’t tied as neatly as his but my offering looks respectable.
The hill, small as it is, will be a chore to scale with my skirt, boots and stiff knee. I’m grateful when Getty chooses to take the long way, circling around the base of the hill and doubling back on flat ground.
I see the statue long before we reach the clearing at the foot of a small tree grove. The area is noticeably well maintained with closely cropped grass and completely free of weeds. The sculpted angel sits on a stone bench atop the grave marker. Her sorrowful, serene face looks down at the hand resting on the bench while the other hand holds a bouquet of chiseled roses. Wings extend from her back and her long gown drapes her body, puddling at the floor of the grave. I’ve never seen a lovelier or sadder work of art.
Getty doesn’t hesitate to approach his mother’s grave. A wilted, browning flower bouquet that was placed beside the angel is tossed away. He replaces it with the one he just picked.This small act tells me more about him than I’ve learned in the past month.
My throat constricts with emotion. I’d hate to interrupt his private moment but he steps to the side and glances back at me.
Getting a grip, I place my meager bouquet beside his. For the first time, I see the dates on Teresa’s tombstone. With a small cry, my hand automatically covers my mouth.
Teresa Castelli Tempesta was only twenty-six when she was murdered. Just a year older than I am now. The cherished wife of a man who idolized her. The mother of four lovable, rambunctious little boys who desperately needed her. She was stolen from them all.
The unfairness.The fucking unfairness…
I feel Getty’s eyes on me when I touch the angel’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the grave of Julian’s mother.
Birds chatter in the trees. Leaves rustle in the wind. The sun shifts an inch in the sky.
Entire minutes pass before Getty breaks the tranquil silence between us.
