Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) (21 page)

Everybody was trying to make him drink. But he felt dazed and dislocated, and he let his mother lead him by the hand down to the kitchen.

She sat him at the table and then went to make the coffee. “I don’t know what’s going on, Nicky, and I’m not asking. But I have to say that this is not a world I know, where women are hurt like this. Where people aren’t safe in their own homes.”

“I know, Ma. We’re putting things back together.”

“Your father was shot on his own lawn. While he was walking Thelma and Louise. How is that business?”

At the mention of his mother’s two Yorkies—an apology gift from Nick’s father five or six years ago—Nick looked around. He’d told his mother to be prepared to stay with Ben and Angie for a few days. She should have brought the dogs with her. “Where are the dogs?”

She waved him off. “In their crates in the room I’m in. I gave them one of their travel pills—they get so yappy when people come and go, and I didn’t want them disturbing Bev.” She sighed heavily and shook her head. “What they did to that poor girl. I don’t understand anything anymore. I married your father forty-eight years ago, and I knew who he was. I knew a lot about him before I spoke a vow. But in all that time, his work never came into our home.”

“It did, Ma. You know it did.”

Again she waved him off. “That was—no. That was different. And it stopped. It all stopped. A long time ago. We don’t talk about that. And you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I know we shouldn’t be talking about this at all.” He had never known his mother to push back like this. She knew her role. She ruled her home, but she had no standing in business. But she was right—age-old barriers between home and business had been disintegrating for the past year and a half.

“You’re right. I’m sorry to speak out of place. But the girl upstairs—she’s been hurt twice in your business, and has it even been a month?”

“Not quite, no.”

“Are you going to let her go? Let her find a regular guy? A nice accountant? Or a teacher, maybe?”

Or a bookseller, maybe. “If she wants to go, I won’t stop her.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Are you asking if I’ll give her up for her own good? No.” He didn’t want to be without her, and he wasn’t that fucking noble.

His mother came to the table and caressed his cheek. “Then make her safe, Nicky.”

Before he could respond, or think how he should, Dr. Kerr came into the kitchen. Nick stood, pushing his mother gently aside. “Tell me, Dennis.”

Dennis nodded toward the table, and Nick sat again. As Dennis sat, he asked, “Could I get a cup of that espresso I smell, Betty?” Nick’s mother nodded and went to the machine.

“You want prognosis or details?”

“Both.”

“She’ll be out for a while; I gave her something to keep her peaceful through the night. Though she might seem awake at times and even talk or answer questions, she won’t remember. She’ll heal physically, though she’ll likely have some scarring. I can’t speak to how she’s going to do psychologically.” He accepted the little cup from Betty and took a sip. “These men are animals, Nick. The most severe damage, where most of the blood came from, is a long, deep laceration on the side of her right breast.”

He paused, and took another drink. And then another. He was stalling. “Out with it, Dennis.”

“I think they tried to cut it off.”

Nick leaned his head into his hand, propped on the table. “The fuck.” He was sickened and infuriated, but not actually surprised. It was the thing he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine. She’d been awake when he’d found her. Had she been awake through it all? His other hand curled into a shaking fist.

“From the wound, I’d say the knife wasn’t sharp enough. Or maybe they lost their stomach for it—though I doubt that. But I was able to close the wound. Other than a scar, I think that will heal well, as long as it gets good care. That’s her most physically serious injury.” He took a long breath and another sip.

When next he spoke, he eyed Nick warily, as if expecting him to take a shot at the messenger. But Nick, sure he knew the rest, stayed calm. “She was raped, roughly—though there’s not really another way to be raped than roughly. But they did damage. I closed three significant tears. Others will close on their own. Other than that, she’s strained her vocal chords, and she has a lot of bruising and a couple dozen small lacerations, especially on her legs. Some had glass in them. Her face is bruised, but the small lacerations there didn’t require stitches. No bones were broken. I’d say she probably has a mild concussion from the facial blows.”

He sighed and sat back. “All of that will heal. In a couple of weeks, she won’t look like someone who went through what she did. As for her mind, I don’t know. I think she’ll need some tender care for a while.” The sidelong look he gave Nick now implied his doubts that he was capable of tender care.

“I want to be with her.”

Dennis nodded. “Your aunt is cleaning her up and making her comfortable. I’m done for tonight. There are pills upstairs—antibiotics and pain control. The antibiotics need to be taken on a strict schedule. I wrote it down upstairs. The pain pills, she can have two every four hours as needed. She’ll need them regularly for at least a couple of days. Even if she says she doesn’t, she should take them.” He stood. “Thank you for the cup, Betty. I’m going to check in with Don Pagano, and then head home. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Nick stood and shook the doctor’s hand. “Thank you, Dennis.”

“Of course.” He left.

Betty picked up the cups and saucers. “Go on up. I’m going to wash up and see to the dogs. Then I think I’ll take some quiet time.”

He took the dishes from his mother’s hands and set them back on the table. Then he wrapped her up in his arms. “Thank you, Ma. I love you.”

“I love you, too. You’re my good boy.” She reached up and took his face in her hands, then pulled him down and kissed him on the lips. “You’re a good boy, Nicky. You are.” She slapped his cheek affectionately.

~oOo~

Aunt Angie was still fussing about the room, but now the lights were low, and Beverly was settled under the covers. His aunt came up and hugged Nick when he came into the room.

“I have a nightgown for her, but it’s just one of my old lady gowns, and I couldn’t figure out how to put it on her. So she’s not wearing anything under the covers. I hope that won’t upset her when she wakes.”

“If it does, I’ll help her get the gown on.” An old lady gown would probably be what she would want right now—though Aunt Angie was never anything less than glamorous, so he doubted her idea of an old lady gown was some flannel sack.

Angie leaned back and looked up at him, a skeptical lift to her eyebrow. “Or you call me or your mother to help her. Don’t push her, Nicky.” She stepped back and pointed to a fold of bright white cotton fabric. “It’s here.”

He crossed the room and pulled the floral armchair up to the bed. This room was done in blues and greens, and all the fabric was the same—the curtains, the bedding, even the upholstery of the armchair. All of it the same crème color with a pattern of small blue flowers on vines. An elegant septuagenarian’s idea of good taste.

His aunt left, pulling the door closed behind her, and Nick was left alone with Beverly in the dim room. Only a small lamp on the dresser, with a dark blue shade, offered any light.

He picked up her hot, limp hand, and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, closed, and opened again. “Nick.” She’d lost her voice entirely now; his name was nothing more than a breath.

“I’m here,
bella
. He put her hand to his face and kissed her palm. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled a little, then winced a little when the movement pulled her hurt lips. “You don’t have regrets. You said.”

“I regret this. Letting you get hurt.”

“It’s okay. I forgive you. I love you.”

Women had told him they loved him before. He had never returned the sentiment. He had been fond of the women he’d been with. He had enjoyed them. But he had avoided sentiment. Sentiment was messy. It was hot, and he strove always for cool. And with that thought, he understood that his uncle was right about Beverly. She had changed him. She had made him hot.

He loved her.

Still holding her hand, Nick laid his cheek on her palm. He wondered at the calm he felt at that simple, passive touch of her skin. “Ah,
bella. Sei il sole della mia vita.
Ti amo.
”

“Pretty words,” she breathed, and then she was asleep again.

He would say them in English when she would remember that they’d been said.

~ 14 ~

Bev lay on the sumptuous bed in the pretty room and stared out the window. The view looked out over the water from high on Greenback Hill, so lying here she could see only the sky—a solid blue made brilliant by the late-morning sun. The window was open, and pretty floral curtains billowed out and in with the swaying sea breeze.

She could hear the ocean moving onto the beach, the gentle, rolling hiss and rush of calm waves. At a distance, gulls cackled—probably congregating at the harbor, as they tended to do.

It was a perfect May day. The kind of day to enjoy yoga on the sand, or a swim in the pool, and then walk to work with the sun on her face. Her favorite kind of day. A day to promise that nothing bad ever lasted, that no trouble couldn’t be shrugged off and sent into the breeze to float away.

Bev turned away from the window and closed her eyes.

~oOo~

“
Bella
. Dr. Kerr is here.” Nick stood in the doorway, his hand on the knob. Bev had sent him away earlier in the day, when she’d woken to find him sleeping in the chair next to the bed. In the hours since, he’d come in to check on her, and to make her take her meds, but when he’d asked if she wanted to be alone, she’d nodded, and he’d gone.

It wasn’t that she was angry, or that she blamed him. She had no idea whether she was, or if she did. She didn’t have the energy to know. She didn’t have the energy to feel any kind of emotion at all. All of her energy went to the pain. Physical and mental, the pain consumed her and was too big to be contained in any one feeling. It was not anger, or sorrow, or fear, or even self-pity. It was just pain. And she wanted to be alone with it.

Maybe she would have an emotion again, but now, on this day after, the night before running behind her eyes on a loop—every second, everything that had happened, everything that had been done—all she could feel was pain.

She was saved from having to try to explain any of this by her ravaged throat. So she only nodded and turned away from the door. Back to the window. She closed her eyes.

She didn’t know who Dr. Kerr was, but when a nicely-dressed man with thin grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses came in behind Nick, Bev thought he seemed a little familiar. Though the diner was crystal clear, the rest of the night was either hazy or missing. She hadn’t known where she was when she’d woken this morning.

“Good morning, dear.” Dr. Kerr set an old-fashioned black medical bag on the dresser. Then he turned to Nick. “When did she last have pain relief?”

Nick checked his watch. “About three and a half hours.”

“That’s off schedule.”

“She was sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her. Is it a problem?”

Bev watched their exchange as if she were accidentally eavesdropping on strangers’ conversation. Dr. Kerr turned and considered her. “No, it’s fine.”

He hooked a stethoscope over his neck and walked to the bed. Nick crossed the room, apparently headed for the chair. Bev caught his eye and shook her head. He stopped.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She nodded. Something dark—pain, maybe, or anger—flashed through his eyes.

Dr. Kerr looked up at Nick and then back down at Bev. “Hmm. I’d like to ask Betty or Angie to sit with us, then. All right?”

With a detached understanding that the doctor didn’t want to be a man alone in a room with a rape victim, she nodded, and Nick left, leaving the door open.

A few minutes later, his mother, Betty, came in. “Hi, honey. I’ll sit right here with you. It’s going to be okay.”

Bev wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t anything.

“You’re not talking, dear. Does your throat hurt that badly?”

She nodded to answer the doctor’s question. Even swallowing required a moment to prepare for the pain. She couldn’t imagine trying to force the jagged serifs of words over her raw throat.

“Okay. Let’s check that first. Then I’ll check your vitals and your wounds. Then I’ll change your dressings and show you and Betty how to do it. I was hoping to time this so your meds were in full effect, but it seems that window is closing. I’ll try my hardest not to cause you more pain, though. I promise.” He smiled kindly and patted her hand.

Bev didn’t much care. Pain was all she had right now. What was a handful of rocks to a mountain?

The doctor checked her throat, her vitals, her wounds. The pain was hard and sharp, but she didn’t care. She lay there and let him to what he had to do. He was gentle, his hands steady and careful.

The worst was removing the dressing from her breast. The gauze stuck a little, pulling at the stitches beneath it, and the pain sent a powerful spike of a fresh memory into her head. Of all the terrible things that had happened, what they’d done with that knife—a pocketknife, with a bone handle—had been the worst thing.

She flinched at the pain in the memory more than the pain the doctor was causing her, but he apologized anyway. “I’m sorry, Bev. I’ll be quick. We’re almost done.”

When he was finished, and she was covered again, Dr. Kerr sat on the bed at her side. “Your throat is definitely strained. It’s good you’re not talking. I’d say give it another two days”—he looked at Betty as if gaining her agreement—“before you try to talk at all, and then two or three days after that before you try for any kind of volume. Even if the pain eases more quickly, don’t push it. Your vitals are good, and your wounds look good—no sign of infection. The swelling on your face is down, and the bruises will start to fade soon.” He put his hand over hers. “Nick told me you haven’t eaten yet. Is that because of your throat?”

Bev didn’t respond; she didn’t have an answer. It was because of her throat. It was because of her pain. It was because she didn’t care.

“You have to eat, dear. And drink. Lots of water. You need to stay hydrated and strong, so you can heal. But you should stick to cool liquids or melting foods like ice cream for a few days. I’ll talk to Angie before I go. I’d say for the next few days, you can have all the ice cream you want. I want you to take your pain meds with your lunch. Doctor’s orders. If the pills hurt to swallow, we’ll grind them up in jam. Agreed?”

She nodded. He packed up his bag and, with another pat of her hand and a promise to be back the next day, he left. Betty cleaned up the old dressings, sent her a kiss through the air and left, too, promising to bring her up a good lunch.

Bev closed her eyes.

~oOo~

When she woke the next morning, Nick was again sleeping in the chair at the side of the bed. She lay and watched him sleep.

He was dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt, and Bev realized how rarely he dressed so casually. Most often, he wore beautiful suits. When he was home and done for the day, he wore sweats or track pants. Occasionally, if he had no business for the day, he’d wear jeans, but she could count on one hand and have fingers left the number of times she’d seen him in a t-shirt like the one he wore now. She also realized that she had no idea what he’d worn the day before—maybe the same clothes. Probably.

Even in sleep, he looked intense. In her experience, most people appeared relaxed and peaceful in quiet sleep. But Nick did not, as if he slept at full attention. Even in sleep, he was controlled.

He was beautiful. He was dangerous. He’d come for her, and taken her out of that place, brought her here to this pretty little room where the ocean whispered and roared outside the window. Donnie had told her Nick would come for her, and he had. But those men had already finished and gone.

Donnie. Nick had told her that he and Bruce were alive, in the hospital. He hadn’t said more, and she hadn’t asked. She’d had neither the ability nor the energy to ask. But they were alive, and that was good. When she could feel again, she would feel glad they were alive.

Unable to put it off any longer, Bev eased the covers back and forced herself to sit on the side of the bed. As quietly as she could, she got to her feet and made her way to the little en suite bathroom. It hurt to stand; it hurt to walk. It hurt to do anything. She hadn’t been able to use the bathroom until the afternoon before, and it still wasn’t easy. It hurt more than anything. But now that it remembered how, her body wouldn’t be denied.

When she was finished, she washed her hands in the sink and then stared for a minute into the mirror. The woman who stared back at her was a victim, mowed down by trouble, crushed under its weight. She looked familiar.

Incongruously, the lights at the sides of the mirror caught the diamonds in her necklace and made it sparkle and flash. They hadn’t taken the necklace from her. They hadn’t been there to rob them. Not of things.

Nick had told her she was his sunshine. His light.

No. Not anymore. They’d left her her necklace, but they’d taken her sun.

When she opened the door, he was standing just outside. Startled, she jumped, and then winced as the pains throughout her body were agitated by the clench of muscle.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ll help you back to bed.”

He took her hand, but she pulled it away. He took it back and held on. “No. I won’t push you to be close, but I won’t let you push me away. I’ll help you back to bed. I’ll get you some breakfast—Aunt Angie was talking last night about some chocolate breakfast drink. You’ll take your pills. And then I’m going to talk to you, and you’re going to listen.”

For a moment, they just stood there, staring into each other’s eyes. Then Nick raised his hand and cupped her cheek. “Let me help you,
bella
.”

Bella
. It meant beautiful. But nothing was beautiful.

He pulled gently, and she let him lead her back to bed and help her back in.

~oOo~

When she was finished with the chocolate shake, Nick took the empty glass from her and set it on the dresser. Then he sat on the side of the bed. He took her hand, and Bev stared as his thumb lightly massaged the feathers tattooed on her wrist.

“You were fifteen when you made the scars here, right?”

Still staring at his thumb on her skin, feeling nothing, she nodded.

“Something happened when I was fifteen, too. I think the meaning of my ink started on that day, just like yours. I only told one person about that day. Brian. I told him because he was my best friend when it happened, and I needed him to help me make sense of it.”

Bev’s eyes shifted to Nick’s face. He was staring at his hand on her wrist. When he began speaking again, his gaze didn’t shift.

“I loved my father. I still love him. He loved his family. He wasn’t perfect, but most of the mistakes he made were normal mistakes. But he was a hothead, and he was a drunk. Until I was fifteen. After that, he and I were both different.”

He paused again, but his hands still caressed her.

“I came home from school one day. I went to a Catholic high school, the kind where boys wore uniforms with ties. My parents were fighting. That wasn’t unusual in those days—like I said, he was a hothead and a drunk. He had other women, too. That was something he did all his life, actually—kept a
comare
. But back in the day, he wasn’t discreet about it, and my mother didn’t like it in her face. So they fought. It was all just yelling. Every now and then, Ma would throw something against a wall. Not at my father. Just…an exclamation point. I was used to it. So I rolled my eyes and went into the kitchen, looking for something to eat.

“I was eating a peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich. I remember that because when I heard the crash, it was timed perfectly with a blob of jam falling onto my pants, and I laughed. And then the sounds coming from their bedroom were different. No more yelling. Thumping. And this strange sound I couldn’t place—like a jingle. I put my sandwich down and went upstairs. They were on the floor. My father was straddling my mother, beating her with the white phone that sat on her bedside table—do you remember those old ‘princess’ phones? It was red. With her blood. She was unconscious.”