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Her father, not her mother, came for her. He didn’t speak, just scooped her into his arms and carried her to her bed. He sat on its edge and cradled her in his arms, murmuring sounds of love and comfort.
Glory sank into him, too weak to do more. She longed to tell him she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to be such a bad, wicked girl, but she couldn’t make her mouth form the words. Just as she couldn’t cry, though she felt like weeping. She had cried herself dry hours ago.
The room grew dark. Still her father rocked her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could block out the image of her mother’s face, twisted with rage, her eyes hot with something that had frightened Glory clear to her core.
And later, much later, as she lay alone in her bedroom, dark save for the closet light her father had left burning for her, she wished she could block out the sound of angry voices. Her mother’s. Her father’s.
Glory dragged the blankets over her head. She had never heard them shout at each other this way. And although she couldn’t make out much that they were saying, she heard her name, many times. She heard her daddy say divorce; she heard her mother laugh in response.
Glory hid her face in her pillow, guilt overwhelming her physical pain. She was to blame for her parents’ fight. If her parents divorced, that, too, would be her fault. She was to blame for kind Mrs. Cooper being fired. It was her fault Danny had cried.
Her fault, it was all her fault.
Guilt and fear mixed inside her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She had lied to her mother about Danny. She had told her mother that it had been Danny’s idea to look at the books, Danny’s idea to pull down his pants.
Glory drew in a strangled breath. She had promised Danny that everything would be all right. That they wouldn’t get caught.
But they had. And then she had lied.
She was bad and wicked, just as her mother said. She wouldn’t blame Danny if he never wanted to be her friend again.
Just as the rest of the household staff no longer wanted to be her friend, she learned the next morning as she sat alone at the breakfast table. They came and went, silently, their eyes averted or downcast. When they did happen to meet her eyes, they looked quickly away.
Glory wrapped her arms around her middle, eyes burning. Usually, the staff joked with her. Usually, they laughed and winked. No more, she thought, tears choking her. They knew that she had lied. They knew she was to blame for Mrs. Cooper’s being fired. They didn’t like her anymore. Now they thought she was bad, too.
Glory gazed at her plate, at her fried eggs, their gooey yellow yolks spilled across the china plate, and her stomach hurt. She hugged herself tighter and thought of Danny, of the way he had looked at her the day before. He had been her friend. He never would have lied about her to save himself.
She had betrayed him.
She hung her head, remembering all the times they had played together, remembering all the times he had made her smile when she was sad. She remembered, too, how Mrs. Cooper would bring her a snack when she had missed lunch because of one of her mother’s punishments, recalled the times the woman had allowed her a bit of something her mother had forbidden.
Despair pinched at her chest, hurting, making it difficult to breathe. She missed Mrs. Cooper. She wanted Danny to be her friend again. A tear spilled over and rolled down her cheek, another followed. What she had done was wrong. Lying had been wrong. She wanted her mother to ask them back.
Glory heard her mother in the foyer, returning from morning mass. Glory brushed the tears from her cheeks. If her mother knew the truth, surely she would reconsider. Once she understood that none of it had been Danny’s fault, she wouldn’t blame poor Mrs. Cooper anymore.
Glory straightened. Danny had done nothing wrong, neither had his grandmother. If she told her mother the truth, her mother would ask them to come back. Surely she would. Surely she couldn’t punish them for her daughter’s sins.
All Glory had to do was face her mother. And tell her the truth.
Glory began to shake as the image of her mother from the day before filled her head. She recalled the punishing scrape of the nail brush against her skin, recalled the accusatory rasp of her mother’s voice as she had preached about evil and darkness.
Her mother might punish her again.
Glory whimpered, afraid. She shrank back in her chair, making herself small, as small as she could. Maybe she could tell her daddy instead. He could talk to her mama, or rehire Mrs. Cooper himself.
She thought of her parents’ fight. Divorce, her daddy had said. Glory squeezed her eyes tight shut. What would she do if her parents divorced? She knew how these things worked; she would have to live with her mama. How would she be able to stand it?
Glory straightened, fear souring the inside of her mouth. She couldn’t ask her daddy to do this. She had to talk to her mother herself.
And if she chickened out, she would never see Mrs. Cooper or Danny again.
She had to tell. She had to.
Glory swallowed hard, the taste in her mouth turning her stomach. She scooted off her chair and, heart pounding, tiptoed across the floor. She paused at the doorway to the foyer and peaked around the doorjamb. The foyer was empty, but she had a good idea where her mother was. Every morning after mass, her mother had a cup of tea and read the paper in the garden room.
She found her there. Glory hesitated in the doorway, her heart thundering. Her mother looked so pretty now, with the sunlight spilling over her, softening her, making her lacy white blouse glow like angel-garb.
She looked like an angel, Glory thought, struggling to control her fear. A dark-haired angel.
“Mama?” she said softly, her voice shaking.
Her mother looked up, and the celestial image evaporated. Her mother’s eyes had not lost their fevered light; her mouth was set in a tight, unforgiving line. Glory caught her breath and took an involuntary step back.
Hope made a sound of impatience. “What is it, Glory?”
Glory clasped her hands in front of her, so tightly her knuckles popped out white in relief. “May I…may I speak with you, please?”
Her mother hesitated a moment, then nodded and folded her paper. That done, she met her daughter’s eyes once more. “You may.”
“Mama,” she began, her voice quivering, “I wanted…I needed—” She cleared her throat. “Mama, I lied to you.”
Her mother arched her eyebrows but said nothing. Glory continued anyway. “I lied about Danny. It wasn’t…his idea to look at the books. It wasn’t his idea to look at…It was mine.”
Still her mother remained silent. One moment became several, and Glory swallowed hard, more afraid than she had ever been. Tears flooded Glory’s eyes. “I wanted you to know that it was my fault. All of it.”
“I see.”
Those two words held a world of disapproval and disappointment, and Glory hung her head. “I’m sorry, Mama. And I’m ashamed.”
Her mother brought her teacup to her lips and sipped. She then returned it to its delicate china saucer and patted her mouth with a napkin. “Is that all?”
“No.” Glory took a step into the room, a measure of her fear easing. Her mother was not flying into a rage. Her face was not contorting with fury, not transforming into that of a person she didn’t know but feared beyond measure. “I thought…I hoped that you might ask Mrs. Cooper back.”
Save for the way Hope tapped one fingernail against the teacup handle, she didn’t move. She seemed to not even breathe. Finally, she lifted her gaze to look thoughtfully at her daughter. “Why should I?”
“Because…because I lied.” Glory pressed a hand to her chest. “It wasn’t Danny’s fault. It wasn’t his grandmother’s. They shouldn’t be punished for my behavior. Please, Mama. I’m sorry and very ashamed. Please ask them back.”
Her mother stood and crossed to the window. For long moments she gazed out at the bright, hot day, then turned back to her daughter, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “It’s good that you’re ashamed of your behavior, you should be. It’s good that you’re sorry. But how do I know you really are?”
“I am, really!” Glory took several steps toward her mother, hope surging through her. “I promise I am. Please ask Mrs. Cooper back.”
“I may,” she said softly. “I just may.”
Glory brought her clasped hands to her heart. Her mother would ask Mrs. Cooper back. Danny would be her friend again. The rest of the staff would like her again. “Oh, Mama, thank you! Thank you so mu—”
“I’ll ask her back,” her mother interrupted. “If you can prove to me that you can be a good girl. If you can show me that you can be the kind of girl the Lord expects you to be.”
Glory burst into a smile. “I can, Mama! I’ll show you! Just you wait, I’ll be the best girl ever!”
Chapter 12
Hope knew of places in the French Quarter where she could get anything she needed, where she could fill any dark, uncontrollable desire that raged inside her. Many of these places were public and appeared to be nothing more than bars or shops or strip clubs. Most were frequented by wide-eyed tourists who never suspected what went on behind the public show.
Tonight, The Darkness had brought her to one of them.
Hope slipped through a rear door and headed down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls were damp; the air fecund. From between the hundred-year-old plaster walls she could hear the scurry of cockroaches. A place as old as the French Quarter harbored many creatures. Some of them human.
She had disguised herself, not that anyone from her circle would see her here. But she knew not to take chances. She had visited this place, and others like it, many times before.
With each step, The Darkness grew stronger inside her, beating…beating…building to a fever pitch. Building until all that was left of Hope St. Germaine was a throbbing shell. Inside her burned an inferno that needed to be quenched before it consumed her live.
She would hate herself tomorrow. As always, she would curse her mother, her past, all the Pierron women. She would punish herself; she would do penance.
But at least The Darkness would be sated. At least, for a while, it would slumber inside her. And maybe, this time it would slumber forever.
And she would finally be free.
She stopped before the door marked by the number three. She drew in a shuddering breath, the blood thrumming in her head, the call so loud it reverberated through her like tribal drums. She reached for the knob and the metal felt cold against her fevered skin. She twisted and pushed; the door eased open.
On the bed, naked, the man waited for her.
Chapter 13
Glory did as she promised her mother. Her every waking moment she devoted to being the good girl her mother wanted her to be. She walked instead of ran, prayed instead of sang; she neither laughed too much nor too loudly; she never complained, talked back or expressed a wish that ran counter to her mother’s.
The days became weeks. Still, her mother did not ask Mrs. Cooper or Danny back. Still, Glory sometimes awakened in the night to find her mother looking at her in that way.
At first Glory didn’t understand. Then she realized what her mother was up to: she planned Mrs. Cooper’s return to be a birthday surprise. So Glory waited eagerly for her eighth birthday to arrive. She counted the days, then the hours. She continued to be the best girl she could be.
Her birthday finally arrived. That morning, she raced down to breakfast, eager to welcome Mrs. Cooper back, eager to see her soft smile and kind blue eyes. Eager to ask about Danny.
Instead, she was greeted by grim Mrs. Greta Hillcrest, the new housekeeper.
Disappointment, so bitter she tasted it, welled up inside her. Turning, Glory ran to her bedroom and locked herself inside.
She threw herself on the bed and cried, cried until she had no more tears. She had been so certain her mother planned to surprise her; she had worked so hard to earn that surprise.
Now she knew the truth.
Her mother would never rehire Mrs. Cooper. Because no matter how hard Glory tried, no matter how much she wanted it, she would never be a good enough girl for her mother. She would never be able to make her happy or proud, she would never be the daughter her mother longed for.
Glory hugged herself hard. She didn’t understand what she had done, she didn’t know why she always fell short. But she did fall short. And she always would.
Her mother had known that. All along, Glory realized, suddenly angry. Even as she had been making the deal, she had known Glory wouldn’t please her. She’d never had any intention of rehiring Mrs. Cooper.
Anger took Glory’s breath. Her mother had lied. She had tried to trick Glory. All along, she had known that her daughter would never be a good enough girl to please her.
The anger built inside Glory; it stole her tears, her hurt and disappointment. And it brought her, oddly, a measure of peace.
Much later, Glory gazed at her birthday cake, at the eight flickering candles. Around her, the last chorus of “Happy Birthday” ended and the assembled group burst into applause. For as long as she could remember, every birthday she had wished for the same thing—that her mother would love her.
Not this year, Glory decided defiantly, chest aching with her unshed tears. She would never again waste one of her wishes on her mother.
Taking a deep breath, Glory blew out her candles.
Part 4 Family
Chapter 14
New Orleans 1980
He’d had it. Santos dug his duffel bag off the top shelf of the bedroom closet. He had taken all the paid-for caring, all the phony concern he was going to. He was out of here.
And this time the state wouldn’t find him. This time they wouldn’t be able to drag him back; they wouldn’t be able to force him into another foster home.
In the year and a quarter since his mother’s murder, the state had provided him with four foster families. Each family had been a learning experience. The first had taught him not to think—even for a minute—of them as a real family, as his family. He was nothing more than a job for them, a crusade, an income-earning cause.
The second family had taught him not to cry—no matter what was said or done to him, no matter how much he hurt. They taught him that his pain was a private thing, something that mattered only to him. He learned quickly that when he exposed his true feelings, he opened himself to ridicule.
The third family had taught him to expect nothing from other people, not even basic human decency. He had learned nothing from this, his fourth family, because he had no spot left that was vulnerable to such a lesson. He had no hopes, no illusions, no small, secret wishes of love from them. He had closed himself off from his foster family and everyone else, as well.
Consequently, he had been labeled difficult and uncommunicative by the families who had taken him in and by the social workers, his teachers and the school administrators.
Santos fisted his fingers. In a little over a year, he had suffered through the aftermath of his mother’s murder, he had lived with four different families in four different areas of the city and had attended four different schools. He had lost all his old friends and made no new ones. His whole life had changed. And yet, he was branded as difficult and sullen. It was just as his buddies had always said, the system sucked.
This time they wouldn’t find him.
Santos emptied his drawers and stuffed his meager belongings into his duffel. They wouldn’t find him because now he understood where he had gone wrong, the mistake he had made each time he’d run away.
He hadn’t run far enough.
He had to leave New Orleans. If he stayed, they would find him, they would drag him back, put him in another home. He couldn’t bear another “new” family. He couldn’t bear another school, new surroundings, new faces. Not ones that were forced on him. He was sixteen now, practically a man. He could make it on his own.
He had planned his escape carefully. He had saved—a dollar here, a dollar there—fifty-two dollars. He had studied a Louisiana map and decided on Baton Rouge as his destination. It was big enough to disappear in, it was a university town with a lot of kids and was close to New Orleans. A mere ninety or so miles.
Santos hadn’t forgotten his vow to find his mother’s killer. As soon as he was old enough to be beyond the state’s grasp, he would return to New Orleans and make good on that vow.
His mother.
A catch in his chest, he fished a small jewelry box out of the back of his desk drawer, leaving behind the school supplies he would have no need for now. He opened the box and drew out the earrings, made of colored glass beads.
Carefully, almost reverently, Santos trailed the earrings across his palm. Inexpensive, more than a little gaudy, his mother had loved these earrings. “Austrian crystal,” he could hear her telling him the day she had bought them. He remembered her laughing as she clipped them on. They had almost brushed her shoulders, they were so long. She’d called them shoulder dusters. With his mind’s eye, he could see her wearing them, see how they caught the light when she moved, sparkling like colored diamonds.
The memory was at once sweet and painful, and he laid the earrings back onto their bed of cotton, then tucked the box with the rest of his things into his duffel. He began to zip the bag, then thinking better of it, retrieved the box and slipped it into one of the front pockets of his jeans. The earrings would be safer there.
His mother had had nothing of monetary value, but these earrings meant more to him than a thousand real diamonds. He couldn’t bear to lose them.
He finished zipping his bag, then took one last glance around the room that had never felt like his. He had no regrets, he thought. Not about leaving this family without a goodbye, not about sneaking out in the middle of the night or about the twenty dollars he had borrowed from the coffee can in the pantry. This family would not be sorry he had gone, and as for the money, he would return it when he could.
