On Sunday afternoon, Francesca and Autumn drove out for fast-food Mexican to take back to the Lucky Seven.
They talked while they ate, neither of them ever seeming to run out of things to say. And yet, there was so much unsaid.
Life was more than the two of them in this one room.
“We can’t do this forever,” Francesca told Autumn after the trash had been disposed of and she was, once again, lying back against her headboard. If nothing else, she was getting the rest everyone had been telling her she so desperately needed.
“Do what?”
“Just hang out here. In the first place, I have no desire to live in this room indefinitely.”
“So get a place.”
“I live in Sacramento.”
Unfolding her thin legs, Autumn stood, looked out the window. The only view was of a gravel parking lot and the gray brick wall of the building next door. “Why? It’s not like you have a place there. Or at least you didn’t.” She turned. “You said earlier that you put your things in storage when you went to Italy. Are they still there?”
Francesca nodded.
“So send for them.”
Watching her little sister as she moved restlessly around the room, Francesca wondered if Autumn’s shortsightedness was a condition of youth or if the girl’s refusal to face the future was based on something more. Something that prevented her from moving forward.
The same something that so often brought fear to her eyes?
“If I did, would you move in with me?”
Stopping in midpace, Autumn stared at the outer door. “I can’t. At least not for a while.”
Francesca sat forward, knees bent, hands resting helplessly on the bed between them. “Why not? I don’t get it, Autumn!”
“I’m obligated to pay rent for the next six months. I told you that.” The girl had moved to the closet, was speaking to the few pieces of clothing hanging there. To the shoes on the closet floor. Since Autumn’s advent into her life, Francesca had moved out of the duffel.
“I’ll pay the rent.” Francesca leaned forward, needing to see her sister’s face. “What’s it to the guy if you don’t actually live there?”
“I don’t know.” She caught the end of Autumn’s shrug. “He just doesn’t want the place vacant.”
“So we’ll sublet.”
“It’s not allowed.”
Francesca raised a hand, let it drop. “Autumn, people move. You can be financially obligated to a place, but they can’t keep you a prisoner there.”
The girl bent, picking up something from the closet floor. The homeless-girl tennis shoes? She’d asked Francesca about them once and Francesca had promised to show them to her.
“Let’s go out,” Autumn said. “Take a walk in the desert.”
“It’s awfully hot.”
Autumn stood, an object in her hand as she turned. “I know, but we could take some pictures. One of my best memories of us is the times you took me out to photograph stuff.”
The girl approached the bed, and Francesca’s gaze fell to her hands. And the camera resting there.
Her throat closed on the words she’d been about to say. She watched almost in slow motion, as Autumn’s tutored fingers removed the lens cap, slipping it into the back pocket of her shorts, and raised the camera to her face. Finger on the shutter mechanism, she said, “Smile.”
“No!” Francesca couldn’t move. She just sat there, the blood draining from her face and neck, leaving her cold. “Don’t! No pictures. Put it down. Put it away.”
“Cesca?” Autumn moved the camera to one side as she looked over. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just put it away.”
The girl dropped her arm, lowering the camera to her side. “I won’t hurt anything. You know that. You’re the one who taught me—”
“Put it away. We can’t take any chances.”
She was light-headed. Dizzy. Couldn’t think clearly.
Just… “Put it away. It has to be put away. That’s all.”
“Okay…” She heard Autumn’s voice, knew her sister was still talking, knew, in one part of her mind, that she wanted to respond, that she had to pull herself together. She was the strong one and she absolutely would not, could not, lose control in front of her sister.
In front of anyone.
She was okay. Fine. Life went on. As long as that camera was in her duffel bag with the others. Safe. Hidden away. Where she never had to look at it. Touch it. Think about what lay inside.
“Cesca?” The dipping of the bed was her first indication that Autumn had returned. Her thin fingers ran along Francesca’s cheek and, in a distant way, felt comforting. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said again. She blinked, then focused on her sister’s sweet and concerned blue eyes. “Really.” She looked away and quickly back, lifting a hand to smooth the bangs from the girl’s forehead. “I’m fine. I’m just funny about my cameras. You know that.”
“I know you always trusted me with them.”
She had. From the very first. Because an expensive camera had been far less valuable than the building of Autumn’s self-worth. Now Autumn’s hands, in her line of vision as she gazed down at the bedspread, were empty. The camera was gone.
Back where it belonged. Put away in the past. She was safe. Could breathe. She’d survived. Again.
“Cesca? What happened?”
She grabbed the girl’s hand, squeezed. “Nothing, honey. I’m just tired. Out of sorts from this weird lifestyle, you know? I’m used to being so busy, and lately all I do is lie around and wait for the hour or two every day when I can see you.”
“It was more than that.” The determination in Autumn’s voice was reminiscent of old. “What is it? You don’t trust me enough to tell me?”
It wasn’t that. Oh, God, it wasn’t her little sister she didn’t trust.
“You wanted me spill my guts, and I did,” the girl added. “I told you all about Matteo.”
That was different. So very different. Autumn’s problems could still be solved.
Autumn stood. “If you can’t tell me, then you might as well take me home and just forget this whole thing. ’Cause if you don’t trust me, I can’t trust you.”
For such a juvenile attempt at blackmail, it was powerful.
She glanced up at her sister, hearing far more than Autumn had said. Here she was, preaching to her sister about getting secrets out in the open, leaving the past behind, while she was burying herself in it.
That knowledge did nothing to ease the constriction in her chest. The panic running through her.
“What do you want to know?” she whispered.
Autumn sat close enough to touch her, although she didn’t. “Why did my having the camera upset you so much?”
An easy question. One she could answer. She was feeling stronger already.
“You didn’t have anything to do with it. I’d have reacted that way no matter who brought it out.”
“Why are they all packed away like that?”
“I’m on sabbatical.”
“You’re always taking pictures, Cesca, whether you’re working or not.”
Francesca could barely withstand the pressure of Autumn’s earnest blue stare. It took most of her concentration not to look away.
“People get burned out.”
“People, maybe, but not you.” Autumn’s words were soft. And sure.
“There’s film in that camera.”
There, the facts were out.
“I know you’ve got three pictures left.”
“Yes.” About that. She’d taken twenty-one. Over the space of two days. When she’d known she was leaving Italy. Before she’d packed…
Thoughts beyond that were blurred. Confusing.
“So? You generally have film in your cameras.”
Autumn held her stomach. Was the girl going to be sick again? Over this?
“There are…pictures…there,” she managed, squinting against the pain in her head.
Precious pictures. They were the only ones she had left.
Deeply wrenching pictures. Visions of smiles that could only bring more heartache and pain.
“I don’t understand.” Autumn frowned. “If they mean so much to you, why not finish off the roll and get them developed? Or just expose the rest of the roll? You’ve done that more times than I can count.”
Autumn knew her so well. She’d forgotten how good that felt. To be known. Instead of alone.
“I…I, uh…” She couldn’t look away from the concern in her sister’s eyes. Yet seeing the love there, the innocence, was breaking her. With her lips clasped firmly together, holding back the emotion that was consuming her, she felt her eyes tearing up. Big drops welled—and spilled over, one after another, to trace a familiar path down her cheeks.
“Cesca?” Autumn moved closer. Francesca felt her there, taking her hands. She was so cold and the girl was so warm. “What is it? Tell me.”
“I…Gian…” Sobs tore through her, exploding so fiercely she couldn’t speak. Gian. Dear sweet baby boy. Where are you, my love? Are you happy? Can you feel how much your mama loves you?
“Shh.” Autumn rocked her. Francesca had no idea how her head had come to be on her sister’s shoulder. She just lay there, unable to move or even rouse herself, fading in and out of awareness. “It’s okay, Cesca. Whatever it is.”
A couple of times she drifted back enough to be conscious of Autumn and tried to speak. And each time, as she searched for words, she’d fade out again, into the pain that had consumed her in Italy. And in Sacramento. It had been two months and still the anguish was so intense she couldn’t face it, couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe.
Eventually, physically drained, she quieted. And recognized the moment. She’d experienced it a few times now. It always came after a particularly bad bout. She’d be okay for a moment. Peaceful from exhaustion and the sheer inability to feel, or to know. Or even care.
“Who’s Gian?” Autumn’s soft words broke through the moment.
Tears started to fall again, slowly, barely there. “My son.”
Luke wasn’t positive that she’d be home. But he thought she might be and was willing to risk it. He could call, of course. But if she was there, back from taking Autumn home by her three o’clock deadline, his first conversation with her after last night could be just the two of them together. Alone. In a bedroom.
Shedding the jacket of his suit as he turned the last corner and pulled into the lot, Luke thought briefly of what he had to tell her. The card-counter had met with the man at the elevator again an hour ago. It could mean nothing. But Luke knew better than that. The instincts that led him today had seen him achieve recognition time and again in the Marine Corps.
Francesca’s Grand Cherokee was in her spot. He wasn’t really surprised. It was that kind of day.
He had to knock twice. Kind of odd considering how small the room was. Unless she was on the phone. Or in the bathroom. Or asleep in the bed…
They’d had a very late night.
“Cesca’s not—oh.” Autumn stood at the door, guarding the entrance, obviously not sure what to do with him.
He wasn’t sure what to do with her, either.
“Is Francesca here?”
“Um, yeah, but…”
Girl talk. He understood. Half turning, he started to tell Autumn to have Francesca call him when she was free, but before he could say anything, a disturbing sound came from inside the room. And then came again.
“Is she crying?”
Autumn nodded. “She’s really upset—”
Without another thought, Luke pushed by the girl and strode in to find Francesca huddled in a fetal position in the middle of her bed, crying softly.
“I didn’t mean to upset her so much,” Autumn said, looking down at her.
“How long has she been like this?”
“Not long. A few minutes, maybe. She keeps saying she’s fine.”
One look at the huddled mass told Luke that wasn’t the case.
He tried to talk to her, asked a couple of easy questions. It was as though she didn’t even hear him. When he sat beside her, she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were open but unfocused.
Luke couldn’t let her go through this—whatever it was—alone. This wasn’t like the emotional distress endured by his mother, someone who suffered from a psychiatric condition, and would suffer until the day she died, no matter what anyone did. This was raw pain.
And, maybe because of his mother, Luke knew instinctively what to do.
Picking her up, he put her on her feet. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said. “Get her outside. She needs to see life around her. To reconnect.”
If that didn’t work, didn’t bring her out of her stupor, she needed a doctor.
“I don’t…” The protest was feeble.
“What happened?” Luke asked Autumn, keeping his voice even, calm, reassuring. Something at which he’d had years of practice. A lifetime of practice.
Glancing from Francesca, half-limp against him, up at Luke, Autumn shook her head, the worried frown still wrinkling her forehead.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it,” she said.
“Oh, I think we should.” He started to walk and relaxed just a little when Francesca’s legs moved automatically in stride with his.
She was going to be fine. “Can you get the door?”
Autumn hurried in front of them, pulling open the door.
“You have a key?”
The girl nodded, walking stiffly beside them as they started down the walk. She looked scared to death.
“Why don’t you take her hand?” he suggested. “I’ll keep an arm around her and we’ll leave her to do the rest.”
He knew Francesca was listening and trusted her to rise to the occasion. His trust was not misplaced. Although her movements were detached, her expression empty, she walked.
“Okay, one of you tell me what’s going on.” He looked at Autumn.
“I got out her camera and she flipped.”
“I…didn’t.” Francesca stumbled, but righted herself. “I’m fine…I really…am.”
He believed her. She was fine. Just in need of some tender care and a bridge back from whatever hell she’d fallen into.
A memory of some abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her stepfather? He’d almost cried aloud when he’d first seen the scars last night. And had wanted to break every bone in the bastard’s body.
What possessed a man to treat a young girl that way? What part of his humanness was missing that permitted such atrocity?
“She has a son!”
Autumn’s words nearly stopped him in his tracks. She couldn’t have a child. Autumn must have misunderstood.
Francesca didn’t want children.
“No, she doesn’t,” he told the girl.
“Yes, she does!” Autumn’s expression held a warning as her gaze moved meaningfully to the bent head of her older sister. “She said so, right before she got like this. I think something bad must have happened to him.”
It was a lot for him to take in. Francesca a mother. Without her baby.
And then it hit him.
Maybe she’d been like many single women, finding herself in trouble. Alone. Had she given the child away? And was regretting that? Had Luke’s recent confidence about his own son set off some emotional minefield?
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Autumn shook her head again. “We didn’t get that far.”
He stopped a block short of the busy Strip. “Francesca?” He had to call her name three times.
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.”
She turned her head, but it took a couple of seconds for her sight to focus on him. “Where is your son?”
“Dead.”
Luke’s heart dropped. Autumn started to cry. And Francesca just walked on. Alone. Suffering with an anguish he could sense was there but couldn’t really even imagine.
“He was only two months old.”
They were back in his office just before dusk on Sunday evening, after a long walk during which they’d spoken only of the sights, sounds and smells around them. At one point they’d stopped for something to eat. Not that any of them had much of an appetite. And then, after leaving Autumn close to her apartment, he’d brought Francesca back to the Bonaparte, to spend an hour or two at the nickel slots. She’d won thirty dollars.
“What happened?” It felt cruel, making her talk, but they both knew that she had to release the feelings inside her.
She shook her head, laid it against his shoulder. Her short-sleeved blue shirt and denim shorts were in sharp contrast to the dress she’d had on the night before. They were a whole lot more real—indicative of her real life.
“I was right there in the room with him….”
Her voice was a thin rendition of its normal self, her exhaustion more emotional than physical.
“He was in the hospital?” Had the child taken ill suddenly or was it something he’d been born with? Either way would be hell.
“No.” She wasn’t really with him. He understood that. And had to rein in his impatience. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. Starting, for instance, with who—and where—the child’s father was.
“I was in Italy—that’s where he was born.” Her voice sounded faraway. The heaviness of her head against his collarbone revealed how little of her own weight she was supporting.
“We were at my grandmother’s—my father’s mother…staying with her.”
There was so much about her he didn’t know. And wanted to know. Lacing his fingers through hers, he held their hands together against his thigh.
“I was in our room packing.” Her mind was obviously traveling again as she fell silent for a bit. “We were coming home to the States…. I’d received a commission….”
Luke waited. Wished there was some way he could ease this for her.
“He was right there…in his b-bassinet…”
The skin on his face tightened.
“I didn’t even know….”
Damn. This was worse than he’d expected. At least with illness there was warning.
“I was standing there…packing…while he was dying from sudden infant death syndro—” The end of the word was lost as her breath caught on a painful sob. “I…I…” She was gasping.
“Shh. Catch your breath. I’m right here.”
Ten minutes passed. And then another five. He wasn’t sure she was still awake. Hoped she’d found a respite in the peacefulness of sleep. But he didn’t think so. Her breathing was too uneven.
“I zipped up the duffels, turned and slid my hands under his little body and he was limp…and…and…his color was…horrible…and he didn’t move.”
He couldn’t even imagine it.
“Where was his father?” he finally asked.
“Nowhere. I never told him I was pregnant.”
“The man doesn’t know he had a son?”
She shook her head, every movement lethargic. “It was Antonio. And he’s married to a disabled woman. We only slept together that one weekend.”
As if that said it all. The man should’ve been there. Had the right to be there. Or to rot in hell for knowing and not being there.
“Was there an autopsy?” he asked quietly.
Her nod was a clumsy jerk of her head.
“How long ago did this happen?” How long had she been carrying that camera around with its pictures of her son?
“Two and a half months.”
Two and a half months? He’d been thinking years. A couple of them, at least. Hell, it had taken him six months to even begin to get over the shock of his father’s death.
Two and a half months and here she’d been, tackling the streets of Las Vegas all alone.