Blessed are the Meek
Page 27
I put both hands up to cover my eyes. I feel the weight of Donovan’s arm slung across my shoulders.
“Two men. It’s a mortal sin. I don’t know how I’m going to live with this.” My voice is thick with tears.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“That doesn’t help. I can’t take it back, Donovan. I’ll have to live with it forever. With myself. I’ve done the worst thing you can do to another person. How can I possibly ever consider myself a ‘good’ person again?”
Now, I’m flat-out crying. He takes me in his arms and lets me cry until the front of his shirt is soaked. When I finally pull back and look up at his face, I see the pain in his eyes. He knows how I feel. He understands.
He purses his lips grimly. “Let’s stop and talk to Father Liam tonight,” he says. “He’s counseled me about these things before.”
I would like to see Father Liam, but I doubt he can tell me anything that will help me feel better about what I’ve done. Tomorrow, I’ll have to come back to the police station and deal with the shooting. San Francisco detectives, not that jerk Sullivan, but another pair, briefly questioned me at Hill 88 before the ambulance came. I promised to visit the station for additional questioning.
Scenes from the bunker flash through my mind. I flash back to the image of Donovan crouching and whispering into Emerson’s ear.
“Sean,” his name feels weird on my lips but I go on, “What did you say to Emerson?”
Donovan shrugs. “There wasn’t much I could say . . . he was going fast. I just said I forgive him.”
The mercy of these words makes tears spring to my eyes.
Donovan’s phone rings right when the nurse arrives. He steps into the hall to take his call. The nurse says the doctor will be in with my results in a moment, then leaves. I waste no time yanking my IV out, ripping off my hospital gown, and scrambling into my regular clothes. I’m lacing up my sneakers in a chair by the bed when the doctor walks in. Crap. I wasn’t fast enough. I give him my sweetest smile.
“Can I go home now?”
The doctor eyes my uneaten lunch tray. “I’ll release you, but you have to promise me you’re going to try to eat better.”
I look at him in confusion. “Huh?”
“I want you to start with crackers and try to keep them down. Once you do that, see if you can stomach more substantial food. Maybe some toast will work. This shouldn’t last more than three months. Most women start to feel better around then. And stay hydrated. Lots of water and juices.”
What the hell is he talking about? “I don’t understand?”
At that moment, an image of my birth-control-pill container flashes into my mind, right when the doctor says:
“Ms. Giovanni, you’re pregnant.”
Chapter 59
THE ENTIRE CEMETERY, nestled in the rolling, green, Livermore hills, is bathed in a surreal glow from the sunset, brushing the Virgin Mary and angel statues with peach, pink, and orange strokes. Standing at the grave today, my mother and I have no words. Instead, we wrap our arms around each other’s waists and look down at the headstones, which are side by side.
LOVING FATHER AND HUSBAND GIACOMO DOMENICO GIOVANNI, 1941–1977
ADORED DAUGHTER AND SISTER, CATERINA MARIA-THERESE GIOVANNI, 1970–1977
I silently say a prayer for my sister and father. My mother fishes a small rosary out of her bag. I know she’s going to be a while. I tell her I’m going for a walk, and I’ll meet her back at the car.
I haven’t told my mother I’m pregnant. I’m having the baby but want to wait until I’m further along to share the news. Donovan is bursting with excitement, but he understands why I want to wait to share our news. We got pregnant right before Donovan was arrested, so I’m only a few weeks along and want to wait just a little bit longer before I tell everyone. I hate being so cautious, so wary. But it’s because I’m afraid. The thought of losing this little life inside me is already devastating. What it would do to my mother, I don’t know, but ever since Caterina’s death, I’ve vowed to protect her from as much pain as I could.
I came early to the cemetery, before my mother, and told Caterina everything. Sitting with my back leaning against the headstone, I confessed that she was the reason I’ve been terrified to have a baby. How could I ever love another child as much as I loved my sister? How could I go through the pain of loving someone that much again? And then losing them? What if I loved my baby more than Caterina? What if that love took the place of the love I felt for my sister? My serene, meek, and loving sister, who only wanted to make other people happy—the last person on the planet who deserved the hand of fate she was dealt.
I spilled it all out to the cold gray headstone. And when I was done, and the tears had dried, I felt that subtle shift in the world. It would be okay. It was almost as if Caterina has given me her blessing.
Giving one last glance at Caterina’s gravestone, I hug my mother and head toward a hilly area, making the sign of the cross as I pass Baby Land, with its bears and balloons atop tiny graves. Alone now, there is no longer even the threat of tears. Instead, I feel full of light and joy. I surprise myself and start singing The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”
The air is crisp, and my voice carries across the empty graveyard. I sing as loud as I can. I can’t stop myself. If a deranged man held a gun to my forehead and told me to stop singing, I don’t think I could. A car passes, and the driver, an elderly man who has his window down, does a double take, looking at me like I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. I keep singing.
I decide to walk the perimeter of the cemetery and loop around back to my mother. I head over to the chain-link fence and tromp through an area the lawn mower has neglected. It is dotted with tall dandelions, and for some reason, it feels good to have left the manicured lawn and tidy sidewalks.
As I walk and sing, something happens.
With every step I take, I trigger a mini explosion of small butterflies that take flight from the overgrown grass and flutter before me and around me. Orange and black monarchs, small white ones, and larger buttercup yellow ones tipped with a black stripe. They all dance around me. I laugh with delight.
As I walk, more butterflies take to the air in my path. And so, I continue on, laughing, singing, and walking with the butterflies.
Acknowledgments
On the day my rock star agent Stacey Glick offered to represent me, I asked her if she had an editor in mind for my book, Blessed are the Dead.
She did.
The editor she had in mind was terrific to work with, very smart, and extremely skilled at what she did.
As things turned out, that editor, Emily Krump, was the one who ended up buying Blessed are the Dead and this book, the second in my Gabriella Giovanni series.
I could not be more thrilled. I’m very grateful to have both these smart, super cool, talented women in my corner.
So first off, I want to express my heartfelt thanks to Stacey and Emily!
Stacey is a superstar agent. Emily is the kind of editor every writer dreams of having—I don’t think there was even one small suggestion she made that I didn’t absolutely love.
Danielle Bartlett and Dana Trombley, at HarperCollins, are wonderful and I want to thank them for their expertise and help on the marketing end of things.
Writing groups are invaluable and I was lucky enough to be involved in two of them while I wrote this book—my first writing group, Mickie Turk, Laurie Walker, Alex Kent, Susan Hastings, and Carolyn Ore—all took a peek at Blessed are the Meek. After that, the members of Supergroup: Jana Hiller, Kate Schultz, Sean Beggs, Sarah Hanley, Coralee Grebe, and Kaethe Schwehn, all gave me extremely valuable input in to how to make this novel shine before I passed it on to Emily. In addition, Sarah Henning and Sam Bohrman both provided keen insight that helped get the novel in shape for publication.
/> Thanks to Lynn Cronquist for clearing up some cop procedural questions and just being overall super cool.
The L.A. band Wood & Smoke has been a source of endless inspiration to me since the late 1980s. Lead singers/songwriters Gary Williams and Lance Whitson are two of the most talented musicians I know. Their song, “Annalisa,” inspired my character’s name.
And last, but not least, I want to thank my fourth-grade teacher at Ponderosa Elementary School, Mrs. Ward, who encouraged me to pursue my dream of writing a book one day.
About the Author
KRISTI BELCAMINO is a writer, photographer, and artist. In her former life as a newspaper crime reporter in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca, watched autopsies, and interviewed serial killers. She is now a journalist based in Minneapolis, and the Gabriella Giovanni mysteries are her first books.
Friend Kristi at www.facebook.com/kristibelcaminowriter or follow her on Twitter @KristiBelcamino.
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By Kristi Belcamino
Blessed are the Dead
Blessed are the Meek
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BLESSED ARE THE MEEK. Copyright © 2014 by Kristi Belcamino. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780062338921
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062338938
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