Authors: Rebecca Brandewyne
“
My
God, Renzo!” she cried, blanching. “What—what are
you doing with that?”
“
Protecting
my family, if need be.” His face and tone were grim,
determined.
“
N-n-no.
I mean, why do you—why do you even have it in the first place?”
Despite herself, Sarah shivered as she stared at him, unable to
prevent herself from thinking of that summer’s day at the old
quarry, and of last evening, of the slamming of his car door in the
dead of the night. That Lamar Rollins had been shot with a 30-06
rifle could
only
be conjecture until an autopsy was performed, or unless shell casings
had been recovered from the crime scene, she thought—horrified,
ashamed, hating herself for even thinking Renzo might be capable of
murder. Still, he had been capable of taunting Sonny Holbrooke into a
dangerous—ultimately deadly—game; of ripping open her
screen door last evening and taking her in ways that had had a darkly
erotic edge; of nearly beating Bubba to death in the sheriff’s
office today.
“
Look,
Sarah, ever since the Racket Club, there are a lot of people, in
Washington and elsewhere, who are in prison or who will be there
shortly, thanks to me—and a lot of ’em just aren’t
the kind of people it pays to cross.”
“
You—you
mean they might—they might try to—to
kill
you?”
“
It’s
probably not likely, baby. They don’t usually assassinate
reporters—at least, not in this country. But I’d
certainly be a damned fool if I hadn’t considered that
possibility, now, wouldn’t I?” Renzo opened the drawer of
the nightstand, put the gun and clip away inside it, so they would be
within easy reach at night. Then he motioned toward the rest of his
belongings. “Are you going to make room for me someplace?”
She
recognized then that of course he planned to stay here, in her house,
in her bed. “Renzo, I—I don’t know if this is such
a good idea, such a—a good example. Alex—”
“
Knows
I’m his father and how he got here, both. So please don’t
tell me I can’t sleep with you, Sarah. After last night and
this morning, I won’t stand for that—and you know it,”
he insisted softly.
No,
of course he wouldn’t, she realized, a dizzying, frightening
tremor of excitement shooting through her as she glanced at the bed
and thought again of all he had done to her in it last night, of
sharing it with him once more. He wasn’t Bubba; he wouldn’t
be held at bay, the way Bubba had been. Renzo had known her too long
and well, too deeply and intimately for that—and because she
loved him, wanted him, it wasn’t in her to resist him, anyway.
Determinedly, Sarah thrust from her mind her terrible suspicions that
he might be capable of murder, reassuring herself that they had no
basis in reality.
“
I
mostly use the armoire. The dresser’s practically empty,”
she told him.
“
Fine,
I’ll take it, then. I’m going to shower, too, and get
cleaned up.” He hauled off what remained of his torn, bloody
shirt, tossed it in the wastebasket. “I phoned Morse, told him
to handle things today at
the
Trib.
Did
you call your secretary, Kate?”
“
Yes.
She’s going to drop my things off Monday, on her lunch hour.
It—it just seems so strange... the idea that I don’t have
to think about getting up for work in the mornings now, that I don’t
have a job anymore. I mean, I’ve worked since I was seventeen
years old.”
“
And
that’s my fault, I know.” Renzo’s mouth tightened
with anger at himself.
“
Oh,
Renzo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it
sounded. Really, I didn’t,” Sarah asserted quietly. “I
just meant that my schedule has been so hectic lately that I’m
having a hard time adjusting to the fact that it isn’t going to
be like that from now on.”
“
Well,
if you miss it, you can come to work at the
Trib
if
you like. If you want to stay home full-time, that’s fine, too.
Meanwhile, it isn’t going to hurt you to have some time off for
a change, until you decide what you want to do. I know your life
hasn’t been easy or much fun for you these past several years,
Sarah, and I can’t help but blame myself for that. I want to
make that up to you, to take care of you and Alex both.
I
will
take
care of you both.”
“
Where
is
Alex,
by the way?” she inquired curiously.
“
He’d
better be down the hall, cleaning up that pigsty he lived in until he
showed it to me so proudly.” Renzo smiled wryly, shaking his
head. “Somehow I got the impression that my reaction wasn’t
precisely what he had hoped for. Sary, you know you’ve spoiled
him rotten. I understand why you did it, but it’s got to stop
now. The boy has to learn that nobody in this life hands you anything
on a plate, that you’ve got to earn it yourself, through hard
work and determination, that you’ve got to take responsibility
for your actions, either to reap the rewards for them or to suffer
the consequences.”
“
I
know that. Don’t you think I’ve tried to teach him that?”
“
I
know you have. But I’m here now—and I’m not going
anywhere, either. So he no longer needs a bunch of material objects
to make up for him not having a father. He
does
have
one, however belatedly I may have arrived on the scene.”
Before
Sarah could respond, the telephone rang. She jumped, startled, her
face draining of color as she stared at the instrument on the
nightstand as though it were some kind of monster—and she were
just seventeen again. Seeing
that,
Renzo growled a low imprecation and picked up the receiver to answer.
“
Yes?”
After a long moment, he drawled coolly, “You’re drunk,
Bubba. Go sleep it off.” Renzo paused, holding the receiver a
little away from his ear as a tirade of abuse clearly followed. Then
he continued. “Bubba, I’m not going to argue with you,
and I’m not going to put Sarah on the phone, either. You said
it yourself. The two of you are through. And that’s all there
is to it—so don’t call back here.” Then he replaced
the receiver in the cradle.
“
Why
didn’t you just hang up on him?” Sarah asked nervously,
biting her lower lip.
“
Because,
believe it or not, I’m sorry for him. I know how the poor
bastard feels, losing you.” Abruptly, Renzo strode over to the
vanity, where she still sat. He wrapped one hand gently in her hair,
tilting her face up to his, gazing down at her soberly. “Cara,
you’re going to have to keep out of his way from now on—or
at least until he cools down considerably—and I mean that. He’s
angry and hurting, and so, while he may have played the part of a
gentleman before, it may be that he won’t now.”
“
What
makes you think that?”
“
Trust
me. I know. I’m a man, and that’s the nature of the
beast. Whether we like it or not, Sarah, emotions are volatile,
primal, an inborn part of us. My father told me that once, and I’ve
since learned he was right. Under the right circumstances, any one of
us can be driven to sloughing off the trappings of civilization and
reverting to the wild, the savage.” Lowering his mouth to hers,
Renzo kissed her deeply, lingeringly, silencing anything else
she
might
have said, releasing her only when the telephone rang again
insistently. This time, instead of answering, he unplugged it from
the wall. Then he disappeared into the bathroom to take his shower,
leaving Sarah sitting there, staring at the nightstand drawer, where
his automatic pistol lay—and shuddering at the sudden, chilling
thought that murder was undeniably the most savage act of all.
Surprisingly,
given the day’s events, the evening passed quietly. Discovering
that Sarah’s cupboards and refrigerator held the makings for
spaghetti, a Caesar salad and garlic bread, Renzo cooked supper, much
to Alex’s bemusement. As Renzo did so, he entertained the two
of them with tales of his life as an investigative reporter, how he
had over the years worked his way up the journalistic ladder from one
big-city newspaper to another, until he had finally reached
Washington, D.C., where, based on a tip he had received from the
source known to him only as the Whistle-blower, he had broken the
Racket Club story, in the end winning the Pulitzer Prize.
The
three of them ate by candlelight in the dining room, Renzo opening a
bottle of Lambrusco from Sarah’s wine rack and, over her
protests, pouring three glasses—although Alex’s held no
more than a few sips’ worth.
“
It’s
not going to hurt the boy to have just a taste, Sarah.” Renzo
raised his glass. “To us—all three of us,” he said
simply, and they all drank, Renzo and Sarah unable to repress smiles
at Alex’s grimace when he swallowed the wine. “It’s
an acquired taste, Son,” Renzo explained. “Now, let’s
eat.” He dished up the meal, handed Sarah and Alex their
plates.
“
Gee,
Dad, this is great!” Alex consumed his spaghetti with gusto.
“You’ll have to teach Mom how to cook it this way. Hers
isn’t nearly so good!”
“
That’s
because she doesn’t have an Italian mother.” Then, seeing
the shadows that haunted Sarah’s eyes, knowing she was
remembering that summer’s day at his parents’ bungalow,
Renzo smoothly changed the topic of conversation. He told himself he
was going to have to speak to his parents eventually, to make them
understand that he had never stopped loving Sarah Kincaid and that he
was going to marry her—come hell or high water.
After
dinner, Alex played his saxophone, Renzo giving him pointers to
improve his technique and applauding enthusiastically when he had
finished, much to the boy’s delight. Then Renzo played, and
Alex knew he was hearing a master, and Sarah thought it was perhaps
this more than anything else that impressed him most deeply about his
father.
Finally,
it was Alex’s bedtime, and the boy retired to his room. That
was when Sarah opened one of the doors in the entertainment cabinet
to reveal a row of videocassettes to Renzo.
“
I
made these over the years,” she told him quietly. “Oh,
Renzo, it was the strangest, most incredible thing. I’ve never
got over it. Even now, I still can’t believe it when I think
about it. One day this big box addressed to me was delivered to the
house, and when I opened it up, there was a video camera inside,
along with a typewritten note that said, ‘For the baby and its
father—because you will have your memories.’ That was
all. It wasn’t signed or anything. So I didn’t have any
way to return the camera, and I had to keep it. At first, I thought
you had somehow learned I was pregnant and sent it. But later, I
realized that couldn’t possibly be so. To this day, I still
don’t know who gave it to me, who I have to thank. But I used
the camera to record Alex’s life, because I realized what the
card had said was true—that I would have my memories, but that
Alex would be too little to remember his early life and that you
would never know about it at all without these videocassettes. Oh,
Renzo, who do you imagine could possibly have done such a thing? The
only people I could think of were your parents, but somehow, deep
down inside, I don’t believe it was them.”
“
No,
I don’t think it was them, either, Sarah.” Renzo stared
down at his wineglass, realizing belatedly that of course, there had
been someone besides his parents who had known about him and Sarah,
someone else who could have told him about his son. Papa Nick. Why
hadn’t his grandfather ever let him know? Renzo wondered with
anger, bitterness and deep sorrow. But even as the question occurred
to him, he knew the answer: Papa Nick had wanted him to make
something of himself, something to be proud of, and he couldn’t
have done that in this small, prejudicial, rural town. Renzo
recognized then that the price he had paid for that seemingly simple,
innocent favor given in the long, sleek black car on the old town
road that summer’s day had been far higher than he had, until
now, ever known.