Love Thy Sister (Mina's Adventures Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  How could she find Patrick? He probably thought she stood him up. Why did it have to be Thanksgiving weekend, with everything closed for four long days? Stupid pilgrims.

  Wait—Thanksgiving was strictly an American holiday, not celebrated in Europe. She could call the company’s central offices in France. Except she didn’t know which city they were headquartered in. What kind of blind fool was she? First Paola and now Patrick. How could she be so uninformed about the people closest to her?

  She tried Paris first. All the international circuits were busy. Sitting on her bed, her toes tapping the floor, she played a waiting game, staring at the phone in her hand. It took her three calls to get through.

  The operator spoke very little English, and must have eaten a stale croissant for breakfast, judging by her tone. “Non, Mademoiselle, Gourmandises Internationalles is not listed in Paris, so sorry.” She pronounced `sorry’ the way the French say cheri—heavy on the R. She disconnected before Mina could ask for another city.

  Mina rocked back on the bed and closed her eyes, trying to recall anything that would give her a clue.

  She remembered one afternoon on the beach, lying languid, Patrick by her side. Her mind had drifted, content, until her peace had been interrupted by a growl. She’d jumped; her eyes flung open, and met her lover’s teasing glare. “Have I frightened you?” he’d asked.

  She’d nodded. He’d laughed, pushed her back onto the towel, and begun to cover her bare skin with love bites, all the while pretending to growl.

  “Patrick, Patrick,” she’d giggled, “You sound like a lion.”

  “Un lion, oui, my little lamb. I was born a lion in a city of lions.” He’d roared and she’d let out a squeal.

  Later—much later—he had explained his riddle. Born under the sign of Leo, in the city of...”

  She dialed the phone. Paola would flip when the phone bill arrived.

  Oh God. Mina put the receiver down. Paola would never get upset with her again, about phones or anything else. Tears welled in her eyes. She let the wave of grief pass before picking up the phone and redialing.

  A different operator this time. Within thirty seconds, Mina had the number of the headquarters in Lyon.

  A woman’s voice, pleasant and melodious, answered on the third ring. “Les Gourmandises Internationalles,Bonjour.”

  “Hello, my name is Mina—”

  “L’Amerique?Attendez, s’il vous plait.”

  Mina waited. After two clicks, a man came on the line. Very British. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m a friend of Patrick’s. Patrick Dubois. We were to meet in New York, but I missed my flight. Can you tell me how to contact him?”

  Pause. “A friend?”

  “Yes.” Mina sensed a sudden coldness on the other end of the line. “Can you give me the name of the hotel he’s staying at in New York?”

  “Madame,” he said, “There must be a misunderstanding. Monsieur Dubois is in London. Are you a business associate?” Heavy on the sarcasm.

  Mina’s impatience grew. “I’m a friend, I told you. I need to get in touch with him. He was expecting me in New York.”

  “Give me your number and I will have Madame Dubois contact you. Collect.”

  Patrick’s mother? Maybe that’s why he was in London. Mina gave him the number and hung up the phone.

  After twenty minutes of waiting, the call finally came. She picked it up on the first ring. “Yes? Hello?”

  The call wasn’t collect, but the caller was French. She spoke with a heavy accent—like Patrick’s, but more of a roll on the R’s.

  “Excusez moi, you are Patrick’s, um, amie? Oui? Je comprend pas New York, mon mari is in London.”

  Mina’s heart stopped. Mon mari? “Madame Dubois?”

  “Oui?”

  “Excuse me, but are you Patrick’s mother?” She waited; dogs were barking in the background. A short laugh came from the receiver she was holding.

  “Mother? Oh non, non. Je suis sa femme. His, um, qu’est que vous dites, wife.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Not a ripple disturbed the dark water. Mina let her bare toe brush the surface then watched the circles spread, multiply, and chase themselves, only to die one by one to the outmost border of the concrete. A chill gripped her and she quickly backed away from the edge of the pool without letting go of the tall glass just re-filled with brandy. “Never, never, bring glass into the pool area.” Paola’s words played in her mind.

  In spite of the alcohol burning inside, her small body shivered in the oversized sweatshirt, Paola. Could she simply slide into the water, close her eyes, and go to sleep? Oh, if only it could be that simple.

  Clouds in the night sky parted to reveal a faint moon ray. It played on the few ripples still looping in the pool. The water cast its spell and Mina had no will to fight it. This was worse than when her parents had died. She remembered her awakening in the hospital room, surrounded by familiar faces. People she had known from childhood. People she loved, and who loved her. They held her in their arms and told her about the car accident, her parent’s death, and the miracle of her survival. Maybe because she was numbed by painkillers, or because she was only sixteen, back then Mina had known she would make it through.

  And of course, then there was Paola waiting for her in a new country—America. A country Mina knew only from postcards and movies. A country for the hope-fueled, the dream-chaser. Her kind of country. That was yesterday. All was different now. No friendly faces, no loving arms. Paola was dead, and Patrick—waves of nausea twisted her stomach.

  If she closed her eyes, would it stop? Her eyelids felt so heavy; Mina let them drift down. She swayed, her head spinning, falling, falling. Instinct steered her hands, outstretched, searching for something to grab, to break her fall. And her hand met the warmth of a human touch. She cried, to the hand touching her, to the indifference of the silent sky. She cried to the dreams and the hopes that spread, multiplied and died, one by one, in this orphaned house, in this perfect country. The brandy glass shattered on the pool deck.

  She wanted to run, she wanted to fight, but before she could do anything at all, two arms encircled her and Brian lifted her up, whispered in her ear, “It’s all right. It’s me.”

  “No, no, put me down.”

  “You’ll cut your feet. Let me carry you inside.”

  “Lasciami, put me down. I mean it. Brian, I’m going to be sick.”

  He let her down by the patio door and held her forehead while she vomited violently. He was talking to her, but she couldn’t understand, couldn’t think. Stench of regurgitated brandy permeated the air.

  She didn’t want to open her eyes, ever again. Gasping for breath, she fought away Brian’s helping hands. Just that much movement gave her another attack of nausea, forcing her to her knees, landing on her own vomit.

  Without warning, the automatically timed floodlights went on and lit the place bright as daytime. No shadows to hide her shame. Only the distant buzzing of the freeway disturbed the silence. Mina buried her face in her hands, but Brian picked her up and carried her upstairs. She gave up resisting and closed her eyes. Now she only wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

  Maybe this was how Paola felt—alone, helpless, desperate. She didn’t even argue when Brian removed her sweatshirt. Water from the showerhead warmed and soothed her skin. Brian gently sponged her off, washed her hair.

  He wore a light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. As he leaned in to rinse her hair, drops spattered his shirt, formed growing spots until she could see his tanned skin through the wet fabric. Her head rested on his shoulder as he turned the shower off and began toweling her dry.

  She must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew, she was in bed. Heaves wracked her body. “Brian,” she choked.

  “It’s okay, I’m here.”

  Beads of cold sweat covered her forehead, and her wet hair dampened the pillow. Brian put his hand over her brow. “I know it’s horrib
le, but they’re just dry heaves,” he said. “There’s nothing more in your stomach to come up. I’m going to get you some orange juice.”

  “No. I can’t drink it.”

  He smoothed a wet strand of hair from her forehead. “Just wait. It’ll taste better than you think.” Leaning over, he kissed her forehead and, without listening to her protests, went downstairs.

  The taste of bile lingered in her mouth. If only she could brush her teeth, maybe she’d feel better. She lifted her head, but the spinning increased, and so did the nausea. No way.

  Thank God Brian had turned off the lamp. The only light came from the open door. When he reappeared in the doorway with the orange juice, his body cast a shadow, a reassuring shadow.

  “Take small sips.” Cradling her head, he brought the drink to her dry lips. To her surprise, it did taste good.

  After taking a couple of sips, Mina lay back down, “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Shhh, get some sleep, and then we’ll talk. I’ll sit right over there,” he said, pointing to a chair by the window. He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her forehead again. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave. Get some rest now.”

  She felt so tired, but every time she closed her eyes the spinning started. Hot tears formed under her eyelids, and she opened them to find Brian watching her. “I can’t sleep, I’m too sick.”

  He came and knelt by her side. “Here, try holding my hand,” he said

  She grasped his hand with both of hers, closed her eyes again. It wasn’t good, but it was better than before. His fingers lightly stroked her temples. Resting her cheek on his hand, she finally fell asleep.

  Voices woke her, angry voices from Paola’s room. Mina listened fearfully; the thumping of her heart constricted her throat. She recognized Brian’s, and then Michael’s voice.

  “It isn’t only wrong, it’s illegal,” Brian said.

  “Why don’t you go back to what you were doing,” Michael said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Fucking my wife’s sister.”

  Mina heard something—or someone—crash to the floor. She jumped out of bed, but had to grab the bedpost to steady herself. The spinning was still there, but not quite as strong. It took her another second to realize she was naked.

  The floor of her room was bare and the only article of clothing in sight was Brian’s sport coat, so she put it on and walked to the door, one hand against the wall to help herself, each step an exertion.

  The two men struggled on the floor of Paola’s bedroom, their arms flailing. Mina got a look at Michael’s crimson face when his back slammed against the side of the bed.

  Brian drew his fist back for another blow.

  “Stop it!” she cried, then put a hand to her forehead to stop the reverberation through her head that threatened to make her sick again.

  As if she had pushed a pause button, they froze, both of them breathing heavily. Michael glared at her, his eyes traveling from her painted toes to the tweed coat that rode about halfway up her thighs. A smirk appeared on his face. “What’s the matter, couldn’t find your panties in a hurry?”

  Brian’s fist landed on his lips.

  “Are you two crazy? What is your problem?”

  “I caught him stealing.” Brian got up, took a step back.

  “This is my house, you son of a bitch.” Michael wiped a streak of blood from his lips.

  Brian took a step toward him. “Shut up, Davies.”

  Afraid he’d hit Michael again, Mina grabbed his arm. Her coat fell open. She let go of him and pulled the lapels together, blood rushing to her cheeks. “Stop this nonsense, both of you.”

  Getting up, Michael ran shaky fingers through his sparse hair.

  “What are you doing here?” Mina asked.

  “He was taking your sister’s jewelry.”

  Michael laughed, his lips distorted by the swelling. “May I remind you that her sister happened to be my wife? That jewelry is mine now—I paid for most of it, anyway. And if you’re a fortune hunter, you’re wasting your time.” He hooked his thumb at Mina. “She’s not getting a penny.”

  Next to Brian, Mina felt tension roll off him in a palpable wave. Once again, carefully this time, she took his arm. “Don’t.”

  “Miguel?” a woman’s voice called from downstairs.

  The anger rising in Mina, cleared the nausea, the spinning, everything. “You bastard! How dare you, in my sister’s house?” Moving so quickly Michael didn’t even have time to duck, she slapped his face.

  She ran out onto the landing and leaned over the banister. Before looking, she knew who stood below.

  Sarah Fernandez. Their eyes met and Sarah bowed her head, hiding under her mass of cotton-candy hair. “Get out of my sister’s house,” Mina said.

  Michael passed Mina on his way down, moving briskly, without looking back. At the last step, he stopped and said to Mina: “This is my house now. I want you out by Monday.” Grabbing Sarah by the arm, he pulled her toward the garage. At the doorway to the kitchen he turned, and said, “By the way, Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Mina heard the door slam behind them, felt Brian’s arm come around her shoulders. They stood for a moment, looking down on the imposing entry hall and the magnificent chandelier. Tears rolled from her eyes.

  Without a word, Brian turned her towards him and hugged her tightly.

  “Thanksgiving,” she mumbled against his shirt. “What should I give thanks for? Being the surviving family member, again?” She stepped back, wiped her eyes. “Listen to me, now I’m blaming God. Where was I when my sister needed me? Poor Paola. She used to tell me: `Have a child, plant a tree, write a book, and you will live forever.’ Well, she never had a child, someone else planted her trees, and she didn’t write a book.”

  Brian tried to hold her again, but she pushed him back. His gaze on her face was troubled. “Why don’t you get some clothes on and we’ll drive to my house for dinner,” he said.

  “Thanks, its sweet of you to offer, but no.”

  “Mina, you can’t stay here by yourself. And you should eat something.”

  “What time is it?”

  He checked his watch. “Five minutes to eleven.”

  For the first time, the sun shining through the beveled windows made an impression. “In the morning? I must have slept a long time,” she said.

  “Not really, it was almost dawn when you fell asleep.”

  She rubbed her face. God, he had seen her naked, and without her mascara. “How long have you been here?”

  “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll sit down and decide what we’re going to do. Unless you’d rather wear my coat.” His hand stroked the collar and he smiled.

  Blushing, she moved away. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time, I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Wait! Where are my clothes?”

  “Oh, I forgot. They’re in the dryer. But I unpacked your suitcase and hung the stuff up in the closet.”

  “Great.” The closet—no wonder she couldn’t find them. Returning to her bedroom, she found the jeans and black top she’d worn to the airport the day before draped over a chair, neatly folded. How’d she miss them? She flung Brian’s jacket on the bed, put them on and went downstairs.

  Brian sat quietly on the bottom stair. She sat next to him, drawing her knees to her chest, her elbow brushing against his.

  “Adams asked me to check on you last night,” he said. “Your phone was out of order so he became concerned. I knocked, then tried the doors. They were locked, but the side gate to the backyard wasn’t. That’s where I found you, in the dark.” He stared straight ahead, and Mina took a long look at his profile. He was so—nice. She didn’t usually look for that in a man. Resting her head on his shoulder, she felt the warmth of his body, the almost imperceptible movement of every breath. She closed her eyes.

  “Mina?”

  “Hmmm?” So tired. She could fall asleep, just like this.


  “About last night. I wasn’t sure—I’m sorry that I, I—I hope you don’t think that—”

  Mina’s eyes were open now.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’m really sorry that I, uh...”

  “Brian, look. It’s embarrassing for both of us. I got sick all over myself, and you cleaned up the whole mess. You were great, really great. I’m the one who’s sorry. Although,” she grinned, glad he couldn’t see her face, “you did see me naked.”

  She felt his shoulder shake with laughter. “Vomit versus nudity? I think I got the raw end of that deal.”

  Sitting up straight, she raised her fist to punch him. “I hope that was a pun.”

  He didn’t draw back like she’d expected him to. Near him like this, his blue eyes gave a feeling of space—like the ocean, like the sky—waiting for her. For a split second her heart froze, and then began to pound.

  He leaned forward. The slower he moved, the faster her heart beat. “There’s no Margo this time,” he whispered, and kissed her.

  It wasn’t like a first kiss. His lips lingered over hers, slow, as if he’d kissed her a thousand times.

  Sliding one hand up her back, he entwined his fingers in her hair.

  Mina wanted his touch anywhere, everywhere. When they finally broke the kiss, she rested her head on his chest, her ear snug against the beat of his heart. “I shouldn’t feel like this.”

  Leaning back against the wall, he pulled her closer. “Don’t feel guilty, not about this. Paola wouldn’t have minded.”

  Not minded? Paola would have been ecstatic. She never could stand Patrick. In fact, if she’d known the truth, Paola would have killed him.

  That’s why her suicide made no sense. It made Mina furious when Paola glossed over or even hid things from her, all in the name of protection. So why would Paola kill herself, something she could never shield Mina from?

  “How long will the police hold Paola’s...” she couldn’t say suicide “letter?”

  Brian stiffened. “Oh no. You’re going to kill me.”