“I have a plan,” she says, and the way she says it is the way she saidI’m dangerousa few hours ago at an altar. “To destroy the men who hurt you.”
That pulls me up on one elbow. “Tell me.”
She reaches to the nightstand and takes up her rosary. It’s the one she carried when she thought the rest of her life would look like early mornings and prayer and work that didn’t require a ledger. The beads are worn smooth in one place where a thumb has lived. The crucifix is simple, honest.
“We use this,” she says and sets it in my palm.
16
CATERINA
The ocean here looks Photoshopped.That particular unreal blue that makes you blink, then believe anyway.
I’m on a lounge chair in a white bikini I would not have bought two months ago, legs stretched long, a salt-wet paperback face-down on my stomach. The umbrella throws a stripe of shade across my thighs; the rest of me is warm and lazy.
My drink has a paper umbrella, which is ridiculous, and a slice of pineapple, which is perfect.
Cayce stands calf-deep in the shallows, sunglasses on, watching me instead of the horizon like I’m the view he flew a thousand miles for. He’s shirtless—broad shoulders, the kind of back that makes the sun try harder. He wants me relaxed and is doing the thing he does where he manufactures the environment like a gentleman dictator: beach cabana, private strip of sand, security far enough away to pretend they’re locals with better posture.
He comes back holding out my glass after a refill. “Hydrate,” he says, and there’s a smile tipped under it even if no one else can see.
“I am,” I say, taking a sugared sip. “This one’s called a Bahama Mama. You’re obligated to respect it.”
“I’m filled with respect,” he says. He settles on the end of my chair, warm knee against my calf. “Turn over.”
“Bossy.”
“Married.” He lifts the sunscreen by its neck, and I roll onto my stomach because I’m not stupid. His hands are thorough in a way that should be illegal on public beaches. He does my shoulders, the slope of my back, the sides, the long sweep of my thighs with faux professional indifference that is absolutely pretend. When he’s done, he caps the bottle and leans down, mouth close to my ear.
“Perfect,” he says.
“Flattery on vacation hours,” I murmur, eyes closed. “I could get used to this.”
“You are going to,” he says. A beat, then quieter, “Tell me about the rosary.”
My eyes open. The umbrella ticks in the wind—plastic clicking on the bamboo pole. He’s looking at me, not past me. Not discounting. Asking.
“You really want to talk about plans while I’m in a bikini?”
“I want to talk about them while you’re safe,” he says. “And relaxed enough to tell me the parts you’d try to smooth over if we were at home.”
I roll back, sit, tuck my legs under me, and balance the sweating glass against my knee. “Okay.”
He shifts to face me. No phone, no list, no interrupting. Just attention like a steady light.
“My father will never believe it,” I say. “Not the way you tell it. He can imagine bad men doing bad things. He cannot imagine his brother doing them, or helping men who did. He’s…a romantic, where family is concerned. He holds the idea thatfamily is good in his head and refuses to swallow the possibility that someone might be otherwise.”
Cayce nods once. “He’s also a father.”
“He is,” I say. “And he lost his wife in a church protecting a Sunday school class. Including me. He needs to believe the people he still has are good. Or he’ll break.”
“You’re trying to prevent a war and a heartbreak,” he says, like he’s marking the corners of the plan.
“Yes,” I admit. “I don’t want a war if we can help it. I know we can’t always help it. But if I can take away the excuses first, I will.”
“How,” he prompts.
“On record,” I say. “Get my uncle to talk. Not a confession in a booth with a priest. Not something that can be called gossip. Tape. A voice he can’t walk back. I want him on the wire admitting what he took and from who, or who he placed, or which room he sat in. He loves the theater of piety; he believes in the protection of performance. I want to use that.”
