Page 21 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

I’m not sure how much longer I can get away with this. I take another sip of sparkling wine, staring out over the beautiful city, the sparkling water of the River Tiber peacefully flowing below. The breeze flutters my curls and the hem of my colorful dress.

I told Cleopatra I needed to go to Rome so I could scope out the perfect bachelorette party spot.

A place where we can wine and dine her Bachman friends, celebrate her upcoming nuptials while hopefully loosening some tongues and learning some Bachman ceremony secrets so Cleopatra isn’t a bundle of nerves and can enjoy her wedding day.

I lied.

Well, not entirely.

I will scope out party venues. After this last glass of wine.

The truth is, I ran away.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Telling Cleopatra about Sissi was more cleansing than I anticipated. And more painful as well. I talked to Dame. We’re friends now. It’s fine. But I can’t see him stroll by and not think of Reign.

It’s weird, I know.

I fight back tears when I think about him. The strength of our connection is another thing that doesn’t quite add up. I mean, by polite society’s standards, I barely know the man. Yet, I feel like he’s filling in a missing piece somehow.

My phone rings. It’s Cleopatra. I clear my throat and put on a bright voice. “Hey, babe. I was just thinking about you. There are some killer bars here we could?—”

She cuts me off, the severity of her tone instantly sobering me.

She says, “You have to come back. Now. Something terrible has happened. There’s been an attack on their Village in New York. It’s gone. All of it. Nothing but ashes.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask.

“They all made it out safely.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks to a man named Reign.”

A man named Reign.

We never did get to that conversation about my older man sexcapades. She has no idea I know him. And now, he’s a hero.

My throat is tight. So tight. My mouth is dry. Sawdust and sandpaper. “I’ll be on the next flight.”

“We already have a car on the way. It’ll be there soon. Wait in the lobby. They’ll come get you as soon as we’re there.”

“Thanks, Cleopatra. I’ll be there as soon as possible. I’ll help in any way I can.”

I hang up, knowing better than to selfishly ask if that man named Reign, the one who saved everyone, is coming here.

It’s enough to know he’s okay.

Cleopatra is waiting for me on the tarmac when I return. I hold her and she cries. I can’t fully understand the enormity of what they’ve lost but I can feel it as she trembles in my arms.

We stay up too late and get up too early, ready to lend a hand wherever we can.

I focus on others yet I can’t stop my stomach from flip-flopping in wonder.

Will he come here?

I’m in one of my silk robes, cream with red and peach roses—vintage—fashioned over a red tank with a plunging neckline, something dramatic and impractical. Did I wear this to catch his eye? Like a damn bird, fanning its wings for a mate.

I’m an idiot for dressing up for a man whom I may not even see, one whom I crossed an ocean to avoid, when there’s so much heartache.

I’ll be honest, I was so confused when I woke up this morning that I didn’t know what to do other than try to look nice and put on some lipstick.

But there’s no smile on my hot pink lips. I feel terrible for what Cleopatra’s New York Bachmans have been through. And nerves churn selfishly in my stomach, wondering if he’s coming here. And if he is here, how will I be received?

I don’t know if we will be okay. Or, if there even is a ‘we’ at all.

“I still can’t believe it’s gone,” Cleopatra’s quiet voice brings me back to what’s important.

I put a loving arm around her. “I’m so sorry. This must be a shock. For all of you.”

Emilia, walking just ahead, slows her pace so we fall in step. Her golden curls are pinned up messily, her expression softer than usual. “I know,” she murmurs. “Feels like losing a whole lifetime. And all our history,” she chokes back a cry.

Cleopatra nods, lips pressed tight. “I keep thinking it’s a bad dream. I’ll wake up, Blaze will tell us it was all a bad dream, that the Village is still there. That the shops on Bachman Avenue still exist.”

“It’s more than buildings,” Emilia adds. “It was safety. Memory. Home. History.”

“And now?” Cleo looks around. “Now it’s merely ash.” She stops abruptly. “Oh my God. The rooftop bar! That’s where half of our family got married. Gone.”

I pull her along. “Come on. The others will be waiting. They’re going to need your strength.”

“Speaking of weddings, Cleo,” Emilia slows her pace to walk beside Cleopatra. “Liam and I were talking late into the night when we got the news. The Estate needs to offer those from the Village hope. Something that reminds people we’re still standing.”

Liam and Emilia are the king and queen of this place, and like the president and first lady, they reside in a large white house.

Cleopatra arches a curious brow at Emilia. “Like what?”

“A wedding.” Emilia’s voice is soft but certain. “Move it up. Let’s not wait. Give them something beautiful to look forward to. To celebrate. To hold onto. A wedding is always so inspiring.”

Seems like the wrong time to guilt the bride into rushing her wedding, which, I can say very nicely if she needs me to, but I bite my tongue and wait for Cleopatra’s reaction.

Cleopatra pauses. Her eyes search Emilia’s face, the glimmer of emotion flickering behind her lashes. “That would be wonderful. The sooner the better.”

“Thank you.” Emilia gives her a grateful smile. “I think it’s what everyone needs.”

Cleopatra shoots me a secret look. We never got the Beauties to spill their secrets about the ceremony.

“We can get it ready as soon as you’d like, friend.”

We round the corner, coming off the path past a thick wall of trees. The tarmac is a way off but now in view. Our conversation dies.

The massive concrete oval is lined with jets, their humming cutting through the otherwise quiet field, as a few wait their turn to disembark.

Bachmans are arriving in waves. Some have come here.

Others went to the Parrish, the family's private island in Greece.

A few of the younger men are bloodied, others shaken, all displaced.

Scattered, like sparks from the fire that chased them.

Still, they’re beautiful people, somehow managing to look like the set of a movie, a war zone in pressed suits and ashy florals.

Children look bewildered or unaffected, a few playing tag through the fields.

Mothers cling to the youngest ones. Men speak in hushed, clipped tones on phones that never stop ringing.

What was I thinking? Looking my best? Today is not about my discomfort or my need. I need to be in sneakers and jeans, ready to lend a hand.

Feeling utterly foolish, I rub the back of my hand over my mouth, rubbing off the garish lipstick.

Seeing their battered family members, Emilia and Cleopatra break into a run. I follow behind. A teen girl in a tattered ash-streaked T-shirt is up ahead, walking toward a white medical tent alone.

I shrug out of the robe, offering it to her as she walks by. “Here. You look like you could use something fresh.”

She stops, staring at the robe in my hand. “You sure? This is gorgeous!”

“Yeah. Let me help you.” I hold it open for her.

“Thanks.” She slips her slim arms into the sleeves. She smooths her hand over the silk. Despite what she’s been through, she cocks a resilient brow, “Vintage?”

“Oscar De La Renta,” I confirm. “Keep it. It looks better on you.”

People hug each other like the survivors they are. Some laugh through tears. Others collapse into each other’s arms, their relief tangible. Emilia runs for a group of women who hold their arms out to her, calling her name.

Cleopatra goes off to a group of men, Blaze among them.

And me?

I stand at the edge of it all, watching like I’m behind glass.

Everyone has someone. They share history.

That’s what I want.

Again. Selfish. What is wrong with me?

A girl runs past me, calling out for her older brother. Another stops to hug a friend, both of them sobbing. The ache in my chest expands. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to quiet it. They barely escaped with their lives.

Homes, their heirlooms, their memories—all ashes.

I look around for something to do, to help with. I see a woman with pale skin and long, dark hair handing out bottles of water from a cooler. A line is forming beside her.

I jog over, kneeling in the grass beside her. “Can I help?”

“Sure.” She smiles at me, and her Snow-White-like beauty strikes me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dame crossing the field.

I pass out water bottles, smiling and offering a kind word when I can.

My busy mind still tries to understand what I’m feeling.

It’s an ache for something. Not desire. I don’t want him.

Not that way. I catch a glimpse of him as he wraps his arms around a bloodied brother in a tight embrace.

A few kiddos shyly approach me, and I invite them over, saying, “Come sit with me,” while I pat the soft grass as an invitation.

I offer water, and soon, a small group forms, sharing drinks and chatting while their parents sort things out.

Some older kids are eager to help. I assign them to distribute bottles from the coolers.

The next jet to unload pulls up further on the tarmac. The jet slows. Stops.

I focus on my work, helping a girl bring up a fresh cooler with more water. Still, one eye keeps glancing at that jet. Waiting for the door to open.

Emilia approaches. “Ophelia, is it okay if I steal Seraphina from you?”

“Sure!” She turns to me. “Thanks for the help. It was nice to meet you.”

“No problem. And you, too.” I stand, pulling my sunglasses down from my hair and over my eyes as I join Emilia.

I scan the tarmac. The door opens. The stairs lower.

I look away, staring at the grass as I follow beside Emilia.

We approach a long row of white folding tables that have been set up with computers, a Beauty behind each laptop, entering names from the line of waiting adults.

I focus on Emila’s voice, listening intently as she instructs me on my tasks.

“You’re so good with the little ones. Do you think you could entertain some of the younger kids so their parents can be placed? I think if the kids were entertained, it’d be easier for them to tell us their needs and for us to find the appropriate shared home for them.”

Soon, I’m leading a game of ‘duck, duck, goose.’ A little girl in a tearstained dress and wilting pigtails sits in my lap, sucking her thumb for comfort. Her other pudgy little hand clutches a yellow teddy, its fur flat in places from love. “Can I fix your hair?” I ask softly.

Staring at the game ahead, she contemplates. Finally, I get a tiny nod of permission. Gently, I redo her pigtails so they sit neatly on the top of her head.

Sissy may not be here, but I feel her presence in this field, from the adorable laughing toddlers she once was to the older teens she’d be today.

And there he is.

Reign.

Ruling over me from across the field.

He steps out of the plane like his own version of Casablanca. He’s disheveled. Bruised. His arm is in a makeshift sling, shirt open at the collar, a white bandage peeking beneath it.

His eyes scan the crowd.

Is he looking for me?

His gaze travels along the field, passing me, then back and missing me again.

I want to run to him. Wrap my arms around his neck. Touch every inch of him, ask him if he’s okay, if the bruises and cuts are as painful as they look.

A squabble breaks out amongst the kids. Someone’s been picked to be the goose one too many times. It’s not fair, their little voices tell me. “New game!” I call out. “Have you guys ever heard of toilet tag?” As I assumed, the title alone makes them giggle, gaining their interest.

I explain the simple game, “If you get tagged you freeze in place. Hold out your hand as a flusher and if someone pushes it down, you’re freed!” I choose three taggers and count down to start.

Then, Tabitha steps out from behind him. She takes his good arm in hers, squeezing it tightly. “Dad,” I see her say.

No. No way.

My heart plummets in my chest.

I didn’t know Reign was Tabitha’s father. I knew he was a Bachman, but there are oodles of those gorgeous men in this city.

Why did I have to find healing in the one that shares DNA with the girl I used to sing into hairbrushes with, dancing around in our underwear, belting out disco tunes?

She always argued for pop music. I always won.

Rested and hydrated, the little girl in my lap hops up to join the game, and my eyes go right back to him. A magnet. He’s clear across the field, but I feel his energy as if he’s right here beside me.

He’s looking right at me.

My stomach wrenches. I imagine how my best friend since sixth grade will feel when I have to eventually confess to having dirty, nasty, filthy…delicious—my heart beats faster, my skin heating, a tingling taking over my entire body—sex with my best friend’s father.

She loops her arm in his, beaming at him.