Page 20 of Severed Heart
“You too, Dad.”
“Fuck,” he croaks, “I hope you know I still hate this... leaving you. I hope I never make it look easy.”
“You don’t, and I’m proud of you. You’re a good Marine and father.” Though the words come harder this time, I still mean them.
His eyes shimmer, and he looks away briefly before turning back to me. “I’m proud of you too, Tyler. Really proud. I couldn’t have asked for a better son. Never forget that, okay?”
“I won’t,” I swear, trying to tamp down the fear that, one way or another, this might be the very last time I lay eyes on Carter Jennings.
Chapter Seven
DELPHINE
US PRESIDENT: GEORGE BUSH | 1989–1993
FEELING THE HEAVYweight of a stare on my profile, I crush my cigarette into our large, overflowing marble ashtray and stand suddenly from the table. Without looking up, Alain stops me as I move past his chair with a palm on my hip. “Where are you going?”
“Make coffee,” I whisper low as Ormand glances over to me for the second time in mere minutes, his eyes lowering to Alain’s palm before floating back up to mine.
Alain sharply nods and releases me as I walk through the ever-present cloud of smoke while the arguments ensue over our kitchen table. Dreading the long hours ahead, I’m spooning coffee from the tin when I feel him approach.
“Your neck,” he whispers hoarsely. “Is he hurting you?” He asks in French, and I reply in our tongue, thankful that Ormand always makes it easy for me—whereas Alain often uses my limited English to humiliate me.
“It’s my marriage you’re asking about and none of your concern.”
“Not private when he marks you for us all to see,” he scolds.
The sound of Alain’s laughter allows me enough time to glance at Ormand, who I can’t deny is attractive. He’s taller than Alain and has lighter brown hair and kind eyes, but behind that kindness lies the capability of doing very unkind things for very good reasons. He’s been with Alain since they were young boys, which is where the last of his allegiance remains. It’s inside his eyes that I see that allegiance fading when I glimpse a look I’ve seen one too many times before. One I can’t seem to escape. “Don’t forget yourself, Ormand. I am Alain’s wife.”
“He keeps you a recluse when it’s not your nature,” he states, seemingly outraged for me. “He silences you when you have so much to offer.”
“He’s been a good friend to you, has he not? Friends since you were young children.”
“Things have changed, and he’s not the same.” He glances back toward the table to see Alain occupied before I feel his eyes tracing my face again. “Not since we got here. We’ve been talking.”
“Don’t speak of this to me,” I whisper harshly, more a plea as I fill the pot with water from the sink. “Don’t.”
“He’s becoming a directionless drunk. This is not what we came for. We believe you should start to run the meetings.”
“He is my husband,” I state in warning.
“You are unhappy. Any fool can see that.”
“He is not a fool,” I warn, “and he sees much,” I emphasize, pulling more cups from the cabinet to busy my hands. “Even things that aren’t real.”
“We could turn him into the American authorities to be sent back to France to face judgment for his crimes. No one has to know.”
“I will know,” I snap, looking over at him. “I will know. It’s still very early. He is adjusting to life here. Give him time.”
“He hurts you, quiets you, diminishes you, and you still love him?”
“He’s my husband,” I repeat as I have to myself so many times since I landed in America. “I am his only family. His papa—”
“That’s not an excuse. Delphine,” he whispers, and I brace myself for what’s coming. “You must sense by now I have—”
“Stop,” I whisper roughly. “He’s my family, we’re a family. You are part of that family.”
His eyes glaze over as I continue.
