Page 148 of Cruelest Contract
“You already know,” I tell him. “You’ve never said a word of accusation to me but you know.”
He takes a step back, perplexed. “I’ve got no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. I was having fun. I’m the one who convinced you to stay an extra night at the camp. You should have been here at home to protect her. And you would have been, if not for me.”
My father goes ashen. His shoulders slump and he exhales with a pained wheeze. “Julian.”
“Look, you don’t need to make me feel better about it. What happened is what happened. Can’t be undone.”
He keeps shaking his head. He briefly closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath and seems to age a decade right before my eyes. “That’s not how it was, son. You put that thought out of your mind right now.”
“I know what I remember,” I whisper.
And what I remember is the last time I ever saw my mother alive she was waving from the front porch with Fort propped on her hip while Getty pouted on the steps. I barely waved back at her. I was too excited to camp out with the cowboys.
“You listen to me,” he says, grabbing a fistful of my shirt. “And you hear what I’m telling you. Yes, I planned to bring you and Tye back after one night. I wasn’t sure you’d behave and I wanted to be free to go out riding. I was always going to return to the camp. You begged to stay for another night and I allowed it. But your mother would have been alone either way. All because I wanted to pretend like I was a real fucking cowboy for a few days a year. I’m the one who left her alone, Julian. Not you.ME!” He chokes out a sob, releasing my shirt, and turns around to speak to my mother’s image, just as he speaks to her every day. “Forgive me, angel. God knows I can’t forgive myself.”
Naturally, there’s no answer. Not from the painting, not from the grave. The dead have no power to blame or to forgive.
A sharp knock on the door pierces the moment.
“WHAT?” my father shouts.
The door opens and Getty walks in. He stops short at the sight of us standing in the middle of the room and doing a shittyjob of smothering our tears. He blinks, visibly shocked, which is no small feat. “They’re, uh, getting dinner on the table. Cecilia said you wanted to eat a little early.”
“That’s right,” my father replies without looking at either of us. “Go to your wife, Julian. I need a moment with mine.”
Doing as he asks, I leave the room with my brother right on my heels. There’s no one around to notice my red eyes and Getty keeps his mouth shut when I pause for a moment by the huge Christmas tree to pull myself together.
Finally, he squeezes my shoulder, his version of a question that asks if I’m ready to move on.
With a nod, I give my answer and we proceed to the dining room in comfortable silence.
35
JULIAN
Any second now I’m going to pick up my plate full of congealing ravioli and fire it at the head of Angelo Grimaldi.
Honestly, he’s no more crass and irritating than usual. It just wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge tonight.
My crappy mood might be coloring my opinion but this Christmas Eve dinner feels like a tension-packed shitshow. Over at this end of the table I’m biding my time until I can banish everyone else and take Cecilia to our bedroom. I need to be alone with her. I need to talk to her, to make her understand what our marriage really is.
No matter how excellent Enzo’s cooking is, every bite feels like a monumental struggle. I’m unable to enjoy food or conversation or anything else until I fix this terrible divide with my wife.
Sitting at the head of the table, my father has his own way of handling angst. He concentrates on his plate, eating steadily and profusely but frequently glaring at the wall of bullet proof windows. There’s nothing to see out there but blowing snow andencroaching darkness but he’s obviously lost in his thoughts so I guess this doesn’t matter.
Even Getty is off his game, refraining from his usual one-liners and mischief. Fort is annoyed that he was forced to come inside for dinner when he’d rather be out running around in the blizzard. Tye has been bumped a seat to make room for Gabe, who wanted to sit beside his twin sister. Caleb, the kid who works in the stable, is quietly amazed just to be here, sandwiched in the midst of Sonny and his two remaining men.
As for Cecilia, she’s right next to me, picking at her food and occasionally watching me with puzzled concern. She forks a single cheese ravioli, then drops the fork back on her plate and moves her hand under the table. I know she’s rubbing her bad knee, as she always does when she’s troubled, and I reach for her hand.
She allows this, cooperating with my effort to lace our fingers together. I lift her hand and press my lips to the delicate underside of her wrist. Her forehead creases with surprise and this kills me, that she’s learned not to expect token gestures of affection.
“Hey, I ought to get my gun back,” Angelo declares. “If you’re not even gonna have real security around here then I shouldn’t be stuck with nothing but a fucking fork if shit goes sideways.”
Sonny has paused his conversation with his men and turns suspicious eyes toward Angelo. He searches out my father to check his response but my father is dumping grated cheese on his plate and paying zero attention to the conversation.
When Sonny looks my way, I subtly shake my head as a message we’re on the same page. There’s no fucking way Angelo Grimaldi is going to be allowed to run around here fully armed.
