by Janet Pywell
‘He was never really mine,’ I reply truthfully.
‘We were going to go to Florence,’ she says. ‘We were going to start a new life there. He always wanted to live amongst the artists. Did you know that?’
‘No, I did not,’ I lie.
She gives a small laugh. ‘We were very excited. He believed that he could revive his career and have a prestigious art studio, and that he would become famous. He was a dreamer.’
‘He was an artist. Like us.’
We sit in silence for a while, both of us lost in our thoughts, but comfortable with each other. Then Glorietta leans forward. ‘You have the Madonna charm in your hand.’
‘Thank you. It was a thoughtful gift. She knows and understands me. She is giving me strength.’
‘Cesare says you are getting stronger and that you will be able to leave here in a few days. Just because we were once rivals in the past doesn’t mean that we cannot be friends in the future. Please come and stay at my villa to recuperate and get strong.’
‘I will need to be strong for what lies ahead.’
‘Your career is not over. You will become a world famous opera coach.’ She clasps my hand holding the Madonna. ‘She will help you.’
‘I hope so. For she knows the true meaning of loss. She understands pain and the sadness of giving up her son. Just as I do.’
‘You have a son?’ Her voice is barely a whisper.
‘I have never told a living soul. It has been my secret.’
The letter I wrote to Michael thirty years ago and the details of my affair only underlined my concern that Karl Blakey would uncover the real truth. I had a much deeper secret. One that I had kept hidden for all these years. One I had sacrificed for my career.
‘I have an adopted son.’ I speak slowly and deliberately. ‘Michael was my husband’s father, and the father of my son. He told me it was the right thing to do. He said that my career would never take off and I would never survive the scandal. He said my blossoming career would be ruined and that I could not expect adoration, fame and success from the public, once they realised the true parentage of my child.’
‘When was this?’
‘Twenty-eight years ago.’
She brings her hand to her mouth. ‘And, you have kept this a secret all this time?’
‘I had to. For Michael’s sake. He said to me. You can never return to Ireland with our son. You cannot keep the baby of your husband’s father. He told me it would ruin my reputation and my career and I believed him.’
‘Madre mio.’
‘Michael was the only man I have ever loved,’ I say.
‘But he is the man who stole the Golden Icon in the war, no?’
‘You know?’
‘Cesare and Santiago have told me everything.’
‘Michael always argued that lies and deceit were better than truth and honesty. He said that the truth would hurt more and that we must protect his family too; Seán my husband and his brother William.
‘He believed that neither I, nor our son, would survive the scandal. I refused an abortion and insisted on having my baby even though I could not keep him.’ I move my shoulder and I am filled with pain across my chest. ‘He was wrapped in a beige blanket. I only saw black hair plastered to his head, his eyes were closed but I heard his defiant squeal as he was carried from me. I never even held my child nor looked into his eyes.’
‘Oh Josephine, you poor girl,’ she says, forgetting I am almost ten years her senior.
My leg has cramp and my ribs ache. I pull the sheet around my chin and continue my story.
‘Michael convinced me that I was doing the right thing. After doing the wrong thing for so long, he said, it was to make amends for our sin. My child would make others happy. Michael arranged the adoption. All I did was sign the papers. I didn’t look at them. I didn’t read them. I wasn’t even aware what I was doing. I was too distraught. I was ill.’
I cough. My body is wracked with pain and my grief is tearing at my soul. Glorietta holds the glass and the water is cool against my lips. Her wrist smells faintly of a familiar scent. She places the glass back on the cabinet and I continue speaking.
‘In my mind I have always called him Michael after his father. I think about him every day, what he looks like, where he is, what he does. And in all my darkest days I have always known I sacrificed him for my career. It was the price I paid for my wickedness. I always loved my child but I never forgave his father. I betrayed my own son. It was a high price to pay for Michael’s love.’
‘The ultimate price,’ she says.
‘I lost them both.’
‘Then you must go and find him,’ she whispers.
Our eyes meet in the glimmer of light that comes from the corridor and the half open door.
‘Get well, Josephine and go and find your son.’
‘He will be a twenty-eight year old man.’
‘It is time for you to make amends. You have lost too much in your life, Josephine. You must go and find forgiveness with the one man whom you think you betrayed, neglected and abandoned, but, more importantly, you must make peace with yourself.
‘Do you not remember the note you sent to me with the flowers to congratulate me when I won the role of Tosca?
Every man’s life is a fairy-tale written by God’s fingers.
'So, go and write your fairy-tale, and as Hans Cristian Anderson said, let God’s fingers help you.’ Her eyes are bright, shining with tears and filled with optimism.
‘Oh, Gloreitta, you are right. I will never sing again but I will find my son. I will beg his forgiveness and if he will have me, I will repay him with my love. It is all I have left.’
‘It is all he will want.’ She holds my hand as a mother and daughter would do. We sit for a while with the Madonna wrapped between our joined fingers and my eyes close.
‘Vai con dio,’ she says, and she tiptoes quietly from the room.
I am asleep. Perhaps I am dreaming. I think I hear soft footsteps and then warm, salty breath on my cheeks but I don’t stir. I am thinking of my son and the man I once loved. I imagine the family life we may have had, watching our beautiful boy grow with the passing seasons, year after year, united in love and happiness.
When I wake I reach out for my water and find an envelope propped against my glass. It had not been there before I closed my eyes so I look around the room but there is no one and the chair beside my bed is empty.
I tilt the envelope slowly toward the ray of light shining from the corridor and slide my fingers inside.
The card is embossed with a red velvet rose and the words:
Get Well Soon.
Inside is a neat, handwritten message:
Look forward to discussing our unfinished business.
My love as always,
Karl Blakey x
THE END
Afterword
Janet Pywell’s books:
Culture Crime Series:
Golden Icon - The Prequel
Masterpiece - book 1
Book of Hours - book 2
Stolen Script - book 3
Other Books by Janet Pywell:
Red Shoes and Other Short Stories
Bedtime Reads
Ellie Bravo
For more information visit:
website: www.janetpywell.com
blog: janetpywellauthor.wordpress.com
MASTERPIECE:
Book one in the Culture Crime Series features unconventional heroine Mikky dos Santos, a protagonist who is brilliant, idiosyncratic and who does not always do the right thing.
Mikky is planning the heist of her life but when opera diva Josephine Lavelle appears on the scene her plans start to unravel.
An investigative journalist is intent on uncovering Josephine’s secret but Mikky faces a far greater threat from an unexpected source.
She stands to lose everything, including her life…
How far will she go to pursue her dream?
W
ith a background in travel and a love of and fascination for other cultures Janet Pywell creates a strong sense of time and place, taking the reader from London (England) to Dresden (Germany) and to Mallorca (Spain).
Expertly researched, each book in the series gives a harrowing glimpse into the hidden world of violence, greed and jealousy within the arts.
About the Author
Hello,
I was Director of a marketing company and I worked in the travel and tourism industry for over thirty years before writing full-time.
I am currently writing my first Culture Crime Series.
Having published two books of short stories and a romance, I am now working on a variety of writing projects including a comedy script, drama for theatre and a film script.
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