Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

Besides, the bridge was right. It was clean. For a moment, for one long moment, it would feel like flying.

He balanced himself a moment and prayed. He wanted God to understand. He knew that God didn’t like people to make a choice to die. He wanted them to wait until He was ready.

Well, Joey couldn’t wait, and he hoped God and everyone else would understand.

He thought of Dr. Court and was sorry that she was going to be disappointed. Joey knew his mother would be upset, but she had Donald and the new baby. It wouldn’t take her long to see that it was all for the best. And his father. His father would just get drunk again.

Joey kept his eyes open. He wanted to see the trees rush up at him. He took a long breath, held it, and dove.

“Miss bette has outdone herself again.” Tess sampled the rich dark meat her grandfather had carved. “Everything’s spectacular, as always.”

“Nothing the woman likes better than to fuss with a meal.” The senator added steaming gravy to a mound of creamy white potatoes. “I’ve been barred from my own kitchen for two days.”

“Did she catch you sneaking in for samples again?”

“Threatened to make me peel potatoes.” He swallowed a healthy forkful, then grinned. “Miss Bette has never subscribed to the notion that a man’s home is his castle. Have some more dressing, Detective. It’s not every day a man gets to indulge himself.”

“Thanks.” Because the senator held the bowl over his plate, Ben had little choice but to take it. He’d already had two helpings, but it was difficult to resist the senator’s cheerful insistence. After an hour in the company of Senator Writemore, Ben had discovered the old man was vibrant, both in looks and speech. His opinions were hard as granite, his patience slim, and his heart undeniably lay in his granddaughter’s hands.

What relieved Ben was that after that hour he wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he’d been prepared to be.

Initially the house had made him uneasy. From the outside it had merely been quietly elegant, distinguished. Inside it had been like a trip around the world in a first-class cabin. Turkish rugs faded just enough to show their age and durability, were spread over black-and-white checkerboard tile on the hall floor. An ebony cabinet, high as a man’s shoulders and magnificently painted with peacocks, stood under a long curve of stairs.

In the parlor, where a silent Oriental had served before-dinner drinks, two Louis Quinze chairs flanked a long rococo table. A cabinet fronted with etched glass held a treasure trove. Venetian glass almost thin enough to read through was stained with color. A glass bird caught and reflected the light from the fire. Guarding the white marble hearth was a porcelain elephant the size of a terrier.

It was a room that reflected the senator’s background and, Ben realized, Tess’s. Comfortable wealth, a knowledge of art and style. She’d sat on the dark green brocade of the sofa in a pale lavender dress that had made her skin glow. The pearl choker lay against her throat, its glinting center stone pulsing with light and the heat from her body.

To Ben she’d never looked more beautiful.

There was a fire in the dining room as well. This one had been banked to simmer and pop through the meal. Light came from the prisms of the tiered chandelier above the table. Wedgwood plates, delicately tinted, Georgian silver, heavy and gleaming, Baccarat crystal waiting to be filled with cool white wine and sparkling water, Irish linen soft enough to sleep on. Bowls and platters were heaped. Oysters Rockefeller, roast turkey, buttered asparagus, fresh crescent rolls, and more; their scents mixed into a delightful potpourri with candles and flowers.

As the senator carved the turkey, Ben had thought back on the Thanksgivings he’d experienced as a child.

Because they had always eaten at midday rather than evening, he’d woken to the enticing smells of roasting fowl, sage, cinnamon, and the sausage his mother had browned and crumbled into the stuffing. The television had stayed on through the Macy’s parade and football. It was one of the few days of the year when he or his brother hadn’t been drafted to set the table. That was his mother’s pleasure.

She’d take out her best dishes, the ones used only when his Aunt Jo visited from Chicago or his father’s boss came to dinner. The flatware hadn’t been sterling, but a more ornate stainless. She’d always taken pride in arranging the napkins into triangles. Then his father’s sister would arrive with her husband and brood of three in tow. The house would be full of noise, arguments, and the scent of his mother’s honey bread.

Grace would be said while Ben ignored his cousin Marcie, who became more disagreeable every year, and who, for reasons of her own, his mother would insist on seating next to him.

Bless us O Lord with these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christourlordamen.

The last of the prayer always ran together as greed became overwhelming. The minute the Sign of the Cross was completed, hands began to reach out for whatever was closest.

There had never been a silent Oriental seeing the glasses were full of pouilly-fuisse‘.

“I’m glad you could join us tonight, Detective.” Writemore helped himself to another serving of asparagus. “I often feel guilty about keeping Tess all to myself over the holidays.”

“I appreciate the invitation. Otherwise I’d probably be eating a taco in front of the television.”

“A profession like yours doesn’t leave time for many quiet meals, I’d imagine. I’m told you’re a rare breed, Detective, being dedicated.” When Ben only lifted a brow, the senator gave him a bland smile and gestured with his wineglass. “The mayor’s been keeping me informed on the ins and outs of your case, as my granddaughter’s involved.”

“What Grandpa means is that he gossips with the mayor.”

“That too,” Writemore agreed easily. “Apparently you didn’t approve of Tess being brought in to consult.”

Blunt, Ben decided, is best met with blunt. “I still don’t.”

“Try some of these pear preserves on that roll.” Genially, the senator passed the dish. “Miss Bette puts them up herself. Do you mind if I ask if you disapproved of consulting with a psychiatrist or of consulting with Tess.”

“Grandpa, I don’t think Thanksgiving dinner is an appropriate place for a grilling.”

“Nonsense, I’m not grilling the boy, just trying to see where he stands.”

Taking his time, Ben spread the preserves on the bread. “I didn’t see the point in a psychiatric profile that involved more time and paperwork. I prefer basic police work, interviews, legwork, logic.” He glanced over at Tess, and saw her studying her wine. “As far as law enforcement is concerned, it doesn’t matter to me if he’s psychotic or just mean. This dressing’s incredible.”

“Yes, Miss Bette has quite a hand.” As if to corroborate, Writemore took another forkful. “I’m inclined to see your opinion, Detective, without wholly agreeing. That’s what we in politics call diplomatic bullshit.”

“We call it the same thing in law enforcement.”

“Then we understand each other. You see, I’m of the opinion that it’s always wise to understand your opponent’s mind.”

“Insofar as it helps you stay a step ahead of him.” Ben turned his attention to Writemore. The senator sat at the table’s head in a black suit and stiff white shirt. The dark tie was held in place by a single unadorned diamond. His hands were big and rough looking against the elegant crystal. It surprised Ben to note that his own grandfather’s hands, the old butcher’s hands, had been much the same-worked, thick at the knuckle, wide backed. He wore a plain gold band on his left hand, the sign of a commitment to the wife who had died more than thirty years before.