Page 2 of Kept

“Well, that is why they call it tragic.”

He clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Well, in regard to the fundraiser after the performance tomorrow, Mr. LeBlanc is requesting a private autograph signing.”

Sighing, I turn to face him. “Excuse me?”

Chandler looks down and suddenly becomes extremely interested in picking a nonexistent speck of lint off of his dress shirt. “You know he’s one of the biggest donors to the school.”

“I’m aware.”

“Sarah, he was discussing a sponsorship program for some of the principal dancers, and so?—”

“And you’d like to use us to milk him for as much money as possible?”

“Sarah, as you know in this economy, with interest in the performing arts decreasing, funding is becoming increasingly difficult.”

I sigh. He’s not wrong, unfortunately.

Chandler stops fussing over his shirt and looks at me. “He would like to sponsor you. Not directly of course, but through the company.”

I start to open my mouth to retort, but he waves a hand to quiet me.

“It’s not uncommon for patrons to sponsor dancers, and you know that. For Christ’s sake, many companies have sections to solicit sponsorships for dancers on their websites.”

I try to resist the urge to gag, thinking about the sleazy LeBlanc and numerous sexual innuendos that he slips into every conversation. “He is aware that he’s sponsoring a dancer, right? Not purchasing one?”

Chandler huffs as if this is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

Whatever. It’s not you he accidentally cops a feel on every chance he gets.

“Ah!” He catches sight of an attractive middle-aged couple, the woman obviously quite pregnant. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown are here. I’ve been meaning to speak with them.”

He slinks away, off to secure more donations for the company. While I certainly understand the concept, LeBlanc makes my skin crawl.

Robert calls my name and waves me over for cast photos. One of his better ideas, Chandler has set up to print them on site for autographs. After another hour of socializing, I’m slipping into my sneakers and street clothes for the trek to the subway station.

CHAPTER 2

Ten years ago

Sicily

Vincent

“Come noi li rimettiamo ai nostri debitori,

E non ci indurre in tentazione,

Ma liberaci dal male.

Amen.”

The priest makes the sign of the cross, and we all follow suit. It’s rained nonstop since we landed in Italy two days ago, which all things considered is a perfect fit for the occasion. A small canopy covers the priest and the casket, while the mourners all hold various black umbrellas.

With the exception of the color scheme, the assembly isn’t terribly unlike our wedding. It rained then too. The seating is morbidly similar too, a narrow aisle separating my family from hers.

The priest continues on, this time in Latin. The prayers and the constant patter of rain against the umbrellas weave into a melancholy background while I search the faces of the crowd. My brothers are here with me. Our father is too, though aside from his irritation as to its impact on the business, he hasn’t been overwhelmed with grief over the death of his daughter-in-law and infant grandson.

Fucking bastard.

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