Playing Dead. Jessie Keane
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half-smile in return.
Before Annie could speak again, Cara moved away.
‘Stepmom,’ said a male voice behind her.
Annie turned. It was Alberto. She smiled. Alberto was so like Constantine to look at; nothing like him in character. Constantine was an authoritarian with an edge of fire; Alberto was smoother and, if he had aggression – and she knew he must – it was more rigorously controlled than his father’s.
‘Stepson,’ she greeted him.
He kissed her cheek. ‘Having a good time?’
‘Oh, spiffing.’
‘Spiffing?’ He laughed. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means great.’ They stood side by side, looking at the happy couple at the high table.
‘Isn’t she lovely?’ marvelled Alberto, watching the bride. ‘Just think of it – Lucco, married. You know what, that’s scary. It’ll be me next.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Would you divorce Papa and marry me instead?’
‘That’s a tempting offer, but no, I don’t think so.’
‘Then I don’t have anyone in mind.’
Annie smiled at him. She liked Alberto’s ways. In business he was polite and efficient. In his social life, she had found him to be the same. When he had women in his life – and there had been a few – he treated them well and somehow always managed to part from them on good terms.
‘Is Cara all right, do you think?’ she asked him.
‘Cara?’ Alberto looked over to where Cara was now standing, deep in conversation with Aunt Gina. ‘Why? Has she said something?’
‘No, nothing at all. It’s just a couple of times she’s seemed . . . I don’t know, sort of upset.’
‘She hasn’t said anything to me. I think maybe Rocco and she have been going through a rough patch again. Happens a lot, believe me.’
That probably explained it. Or did it? Annie thought again of the look that had passed between Cara and the young driver. Sick and furious on Cara’s part; sort of gloating on Fredo’s.
‘Well, better mingle,’ said Alberto, and was off among the crowds again. He met up with Rocco.
And there’s another miserable face, thought Annie.
Rocco was more than miserable. He soon made his excuses to get away from his brother-in-law. He was feeling too tense and unhappy to socialize, but he’d had to come today. It was expected of him; there was no way he could back out. Frances was making a thorough pest of himself. He’d only phoned at first, and then, when Rocco had blocked all his calls, he’d written letters, pouring out his heart, saying that he still loved Rocco, why had Rocco hurt him like that, why didn’t Rocco love him any more?
Rocco certainly did not. He ripped up all the letters and didn’t bother to reply. And then Frances had shown up at his door.
‘What the fuck do you want from me?’ he’d screamed at him, distressed by even looking at him.
My God, the ugliness of his face now. His mouth looked as though it reached his ears. There was purple mottled scarring, and the marks where the stitches had come out, and two of his fingers ended in stumps. Jesus, he was a mess!
‘I wanted to see you. That’s all,’ said Frances, trembling with the force of his love and desire for this heartless son of a bitch.
‘Well I don’t want to see you,’ said Rocco coldly. ‘And I’m warning you . . .’
‘What?’ Frances couldn’t believe it. The man he loved, the man he’d thought loved him, had defaced him, and was now threatening him again?
‘You heard. Try to come anywhere near me again and you’ll be sorry.’
Then, shaking, Rocco had slammed the door in that repulsive face. Frances had stayed there for almost half an hour, hammering on it, begging, crying, pleading. Rocco had stood there listening to it all, trembling all over, chewing his nails, wondering how the hell he could get rid of this monster.
But finally Frances had gone. And – so far – he hadn’t come back. But Rocco’s biggest fear was that he would. And he blamed his wife over and over in his mind, cursed her name, because she had caused this thing to be unleashed upon him – her and her father. As for his own father – well, nothing new there. His father didn’t give that about him.
Annie saw that the light was going now. A cool evening breeze was coming in off the ocean. Gerda came over, ushering a tired-looking Layla in front of her.
‘Say good night to your mama, Layla,’ said Gerda.
‘Night-night, Mommy,’ said Layla, holding up her arms for a kiss and a cuddle. Annie happily delivered both.
‘You had a good day, sweetie?’ she asked, hugging her tight, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin.
‘Yeah, good.’ She grinned.
‘I’ll be up later to tuck you in, okay?’
The evening stars were winking on up in the blackening heavens. The mariachi band struck up and the bridal couple took to the floor to cheering and clapping. Other couples started to drift onto the dance floor. She saw Constantine in a huddle with several other men, talking intently.
She watched him, concerned. She’d heard the rumbles about the Cantuzzi clan; there had already been trouble. Shit, there was always trouble. But he seemed to handle it well; nothing ruffled him. At least, nothing appeared to. Sometimes she found it hard to equate the two strands of his personality – the cool, controlling Don, and the tender, considerate husband. Sometimes he seemed like two different men entirely.
She went to slip upstairs but, as she passed the doors onto the terrace, she saw that there was no one out there. She went outside onto the decking, and was instantly enveloped in the rush and thunder of the ocean, the stiff breeze riffling through her hair. She walked to the edge of the terrace and looked over the deserted beach, breathing deeply of the fresh, tangy air. The presents were piled up on the table at the end of the terrace, ready for the Don to present them to the couple at ten o’clock.
God, she was tired! The pregnancy was taking a toll on her energy levels. She gripped the rail and looked up at the nearly full moon. It was so weird to think that men had walked up there; that Apollo 15 was in orbit right now, gliding through space.
‘Honey? What are you doing out here all alone?’ asked a voice behind her.
‘Just taking a moment,’ said Annie, turning to smile at Constantine as he stepped out onto the deck and closed the French doors behind him. He looked at the pile of presents and picked up the one at the front of the table, the biggest, with a red bow over sky-blue paper. ‘Hey, wonder what’s in this one?’ he asked, walking towards her.
Then her whole world exploded.
Majorca
Chapter 22
February 1970
The first thing the man knew was pain. Pain, then blinding light. Something was moving through the light. Shapes. Maybe birds.
Buzzards?
They were circling overhead, like in an old Western movie when the gunman’s been laid out to die by the Sioux or the Apache. He’d been laid out to die too, and die he would, because for sure he couldn’t move. Everything was pain. Any movement – oh, and how he had tried to move – hurt like a bastard. So he’d just lie back and let it all unravel. He had decided that was the best thing to do. Let the buzzards come down and pick him clean. Get it over with. No more struggling, no more fighting.
Thoughts,