Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) (15 page)

Alexandre brushes the back of his hand along my cheek. “Thank you, Pearl, for letting me forget about my quandary for a while.”

I kiss his hand. “I know. Sex and sleep are the only two temporary cures.”

“Every time I wake up, I’m okay for a few split seconds, and then I remember the mess I’m in.”

“
We’re
in,” I correct. “We’re in this
together.
”

“I wish you weren’t involved in this fiasco. My mind spins in circles all day long; I just can’t come up with a solution. Laura’s threat could cause havoc. My uncle, my father’s brother – if he got wind of this…he’s never believed my father just disappeared; he’s always been suspicious. If he knew about this, he’d be down on my mother like a ton of bricks.”

I feel so bad for Alexandre – the searing regret he must feel at not having destroyed the evidence when he had the chance. “It’s in a safe deposit box in the bank, right?” I ask.

“That’s what Laura says.”

“We have two options: to steal it back or to
make
her give it up.” I take a long swig of apple juice.

“She won’t, there’s no way. Even if, hypothetically, I gave her everything she wanted, she’d still protect herself; still wrap up her blackmail like a neat burrito.”

“Then we must steal the evidence. Well, not
steal
. It doesn’t belong to her in the first place.”

“It’s in a vault in the bank. I may have a bit of money and can pull some strings but I’m not Tom Cruise in
Mission Impossible.
Nor can I pay anyone to do it for me. The job’s too…too bloody difficult.”

“Not do a robbery in that way, silly.”

He stares at me and shakes his head. “No way, Pearl. Don’t even think about it. I already said I didn’t want you to get involved.”

“I’m already involved. Look, Laura and I don’t look that unalike. Well, she’s taller and skinnier than I am but we’re both blonde, both have blue eyes.”

“What about I.D?”

“Steal her passport, or we can make a duplicate.”

“You’ve been watching too many thrillers.”

“Alexandre, you’re ridiculously wealthy; now’s the time to really
use
some of your money, your clout; pull some of your weight. I’m sure you can work something out – you have all kinds of people on your payroll.”

His crooked smile makes the dimple in his cheek stand out more than usual. “
Now
look who sounds like Michael Corleone.”

I reply seriously, “We have to
do
something. She’s going to want an answer sooner or later, you can’t stall her forever.”

He sighs and stretches his long legs out. He’s half dressed but his feet are bare. I never tire of looking at those elegant feet. He leans his head against the headboard of the bed and mumbles in a tired voice, “But I don’t want to see her again.”

“You’ll have to. At least to get your hands on her passport. Or do you have a connection at the British Embassy?”

“I don’t work for the MI5, Pearl.”

I take another long swig of juice. Thinking about all this is making me thirsty. “Then you need to swipe her passport and find out which bank holds the evidence. Then find the safe deposit box key.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And then you’ll go personally to the bank masquerading as her?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of. If I get arrested, though, you’ll need to find me the best attorney in the world. O.J. Simpson’s lawyer would be perfect,” I joke.

He shakes his head. “It’s too risky.”

Another idea flashes into my brain. “Laura hacked our phones, you need to hack hers; get all the info you can – keep us abreast of what’s going on.”

“That part will be a piece of cake.” He squeezes my wrist as if he’s afraid I’ll run off and do something crazy without him by his side. “Pearl, I don’t want you to put yourself in the middle of this. You’re pregnant, this is insane – there has to be a better way. In fact,
no
– there’s no chance I’ll let you do something so crazy.”

“Then hire someone. Hire an actress to be Laura for an hour or so.” I bite into another mouthful of croissant.

“If the impersonator got caught she’d let the cat out of the bag, though.”

“That’s why we’d need to keep who we are a secret – not show our faces. Pay the actress in cash. Half up front, half later.”

He chuckles. “This is beginning to sound like some crazy suspense movie. Worse, a Woody Allen film that could go laughably wrong.”

I don’t say anything but in my mind I think,
what Alexandre’s mom did was pretty nutty.
Not the killing part, so much. I can see how that could happen in a state of black desperation, fearing for your life - but not getting rid of every scrap of evidence? Not such a bright move.

As if Alexandre can read my mind he says, “I know it seems as if my mother did something really dumb but for her it was a reminder that my father was dead and gone, that he couldn’t hurt her anymore.”

I bite my lip. “I understand,” but I think to myself secretly,
what a nut-job family I’m marrying into. And, worse, what a mad person I must be, myself, to identify with a murderess as much as I do.

“Tell me about your father,” I probe – a question I have been trying to ask for ages without any definitive answers.

“I think you can read between the lines.”

“Alexandre, I am going to be your
wife.
I need you to open up to me, to share your pain and your past. I shared mine with you.”

“True,” he admits. He takes a deep breath as if he needs an extra dose of oxygen to remember the worst. “The scariest thing about my father was that he wasn’t always a monster.”

“I figured, or your mother wouldn’t have stayed with him so long.”

“They had a connection – very physical. He was extremely handsome. She was sort of… hooked on him.”

I don’t respond but I can imagine. After all, Alexandre is his son.

“He was witty, charming, very charismatic. Clever, too. He could walk into a room and everyone would pay attention. People wanted to please him, be loved by him.”

“But he was violent.”

“Not at first. They had several happy years. He was Bipolar, you know, what they used to refer to as ‘manic-depressive.’ Everyone is affected differently. Some Bipolar people lead almost normal lives and are pussycats; never show an aggressive side at all. Others…well. When my father was nice he was great, very loving. But when he was in a manic state, he became a complete monster.”

“A real Jekyll and Hyde?”

“He was violent and very sexual if he drank. Drinking sent him over the edge.”

“And that’s when he sexually abused Sophie?”

“Yes.”

“And you, too?”

Alexandre lowers his head and nods. Pain is wavering between us, filling the room. “That’s when Sophie knew she had to take me away. She could deal with him – but when he started on me, she lost it. That’s why she stabbed him in the groin. She was outraged that he could sink so low.”

I lay my hand on his. “It must have been hell for you, I’m so sorry.”

“I blanked it out mostly. The same thing happened to me as to you…just blacked my mind from the whole ordeal.”

But I know what he is telling me is not completely true. Muscles have memories. When we first started spending nights together, when Alexandre was fast asleep, I would cuddle into him in the spoon position, me behind. A couple of times he woke in a panic, elbows and knees crashing everywhere, flailing his legs and arms about. Someone edged up behind him still means only one thing: sexual abuse. My heart aches for him so badly. What happened to me was horrific but at least it wasn’t
betrayal
of the first degree.

“Didn’t your mother realize what was going on?” I ask, tears pooling my eyes.

“She was in total denial.”

“Does that make you angry?”

His face is impassive, although his calm demeanor doesn’t fool me for a second. “I was too young at the time to be angry. But Sophie still feels bitter towards her. She has tried; gone through God knows how much amount of therapy, but Sophie will never be able to
truly
forgive her. That’s why I’ve never let on to her about the murder. I couldn’t trust her a hundred percent.”

“Just awful to have that treachery come from your own father. I can’t even imagine.” I bring Alexandre’s hand up to my face and rest my lips on his long fingers.

He frowns and says, “Have you noticed that whenever they deal with incestual abuse in films or novels they always have a
step
-father or
step
-brother? Never blood parents or blood siblings. Why? Because it’s such a taboo topic that nobody wants to talk about it, let alone believe it. It’s such a shameful subject. I’ve felt shame all my life. Illogical but that’s how it is for victims, I don’t need to tell you that.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

“But you know what, Pearl? I’m not the only one. Believe it or not, there are lots of us out there. More than anyone would dare to imagine. Fathers fucking their daughters and sons, brothers, uncles, even mothers doing it to their sons. And within wealthy, privileged families, too – this disease isn’t a class, race or monetary issue. It’s happening all over the world even in nice, tidy, middle class households.”

I know that he’s right, although it seems impossible to accept, but it’s a vicious, insidious truth eating into society, ruining many people’s lives - sometimes forever.

“Why wasn’t your father on medication? Lithium or something?” My question seems redundant, ridiculous, but Alexandre is discussing this, finally. He is trusting me with his dark, buried secrets and opening up. I know how painful that is.

“Oh, he
was
on medication at the beginning, but pride got the better of him. He felt he didn’t need it, that he could fix himself. Of course, he couldn’t. When he came out of the manic episodes he could never explain why he’d done what he did, and he’d always feel guilty, sad and remorseful. My mother always used to end up forgiving him.”

A spike of fury stabs me in the heart. How could she do that? Forgive such a monster? But I remain calm. Alexandre loves his mom, however sick she makes me feel. I ask simply, “So what tipped her scales, finally?”

“The violence. He was raping her, repeatedly. His condition got worse and worse. He was beating her up, continually. Broken ribs. Nose. You name it. That’s when she decided to leave. She tried, once, but she ended up in hospital. He said if she tried again, he’d kill her next time. And us, if he found us – we were in hiding by that point. That’s when my mother hatched the plan to get rid of him, once and for all. But deep down inside? She’s still in love with him, even now. The good side of him. She kept the teeth and stuff to remind her that he was dead but she also has photos of their happy times in a secret box in the attic. She sneaks up there, sometimes, when my step-father’s out of the house, or she pretends she’s spring cleaning.”

“Pretty screwed up, huh?”

“You bet.”

As much as I hate her for what she did to Alexandre by not protecting him, I do identify with Alexandre’s mother. Falling in love with someone you think is the perfect man and then he turns? That must be hard. What would I do if Alexandre suddenly changed his colors? Women all over the world face this predicament, especially if they have kids. It’s easy to spot an abusive man as an onlooker, but when he is living with you every day and you love him? Not so much.

I look at my fiancé and wonder. What would I do? Because the truth is, Alexandre’s dominance turns me on. It’s only in small ways that he demonstrates it and he has never, ever made me feel scared of him physically, but I do enjoy being beneath him (no pun intended). I know it’s crazy but being submissive makes me feel sexier and relieved that I don’t have to make all the decisions – he can take command. But it also causes me to feel frustrated with myself, as if I’m putting the clock back on women’s rights by a hundred years.

We sit there in silence. I know this must be the first time he has really opened up to someone about his past. He’s been carrying this all on his own shoulders. No wonder he has been so protective of Sophie. She’s the only one who has been through hell and back with him. She truly
knows
him. I think of how understanding he was about what happened to me, horrified that I’d even considered that it had been my fault.

I get the feeling that he is all talked out. He’s revealed so much about himself, laying his wounds open to the elements. It’s time to change the subject. I slip my hand under his T-shirt, maneuver myself so my head is on his stomach, look up at him and say in a soft, seductive voice, “I had an erotic dream about you when I was in Hawaii.”

He narrows his green eyes that seem to be twinkling with amusement. “Oh yeah, you mentioned you had a little secret. Tell me about it.”

“I dreamed that you were spanking me.”

He gives me a wry, wolfish smile. “And?”

“I woke up the next morning, soaked between my legs, nursing a post-orgasm after-glow. After-shock, more like. Pretty high on the Richter scale, it was. The truth is, what you did in the dream really turned me on.”

He licks his lips. He’s the wolf and I’m Red Riding Hood. “Is this an invitation?”

“I’m curious,” I whisper stroking his navel.

“You girls have been reading too many erotic novels. You think you want it but, in reality, it would freak you out.”

“I might. I might love it. I did in my dream.”

“Because it was a fantasy, baby. Some women fantasize about being raped but would be horrified if it happened in real life. I don’t need to tell
you
that, of all people.”

“I enjoyed my little adventure with Alessandra, though.”

“Because she’s a woman. You knew you were equals in strength. Neither was the
dominante
.”

“Oh, I don’t know, she wielded that little whip with
panache
and relish,” I joke, remembering that mad evening of lesbian bondage as if it only happened yesterday, although I realize now that she really did take advantage of me. She sensed that I was weak and vulnerable and honed in on me.