Page 47 of Soul Mates: Hercules Valentine and I
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the neighborhood. Being here reminds me of the night with Paisley Grove. I’ve often fought the urge to find out where she is and seek some advice from her. If anyone can stop our sinking ship from taking on more water, it’s Paisley.
The doors to the tomb Achilles directed me to are propped open. It’s always extra chilly where dead people lie. With my hands stuffed in my coat pockets to warm them, I stop to read the gold plate above the entrance:An honorable and decent man rests in this tomb.I wonder who this honorable and decent man is and why Achilles is here.
I’m gripped by the hum of silence when I step inside. It’s rarely completely quiet in this city. The glass sconces attached to the walls fill the tomb with orangish light. A large stone sarcophagus rests in the middle of the room. It smells like someone’s been burning incense. At first, I think I arrived earlier than Achilles until he rises from a bench at the top of the stone coffin.
I throw up my hands. “What the hell, Achilles?”
“Watch your mouth in here,” he scolds.
I shrug indifferently. “What for?”
He slides a hand across the top of the stone coffin. “Because Thomas Ralph Valentine never used profanity a day in his life.” He snorts as if he knows he just spoke BS. “At least, that’s what they say.”
My mouth is caught open as every thought or emotion that hampered me a second ago disintegrates. I’m looking around the room with new eyes. “This ishistomb?”
“The man himself.”
“Is this the first time you’ve visited?”
Achilles focuses on a stick of incense placed inside of a golden cup attached to the coffin. “No.”
I’m shocked. I never took Achilles for the type to light incense at a dead ancestor’s coffin. The practice seems religious, and he’s far from that.
“And you come here often?” I ask. He studies me, and I wipe the cynical smirk off my mouth. “What?” I know that look he's giving me all too well.
“I need you to be the hero of your tiff with Orion.”
My head flinches back. “What do you mean by me being a hero?”
Once again, he studies me silently. Maybe he sees that I know exactly what he means, but everything within me repels that notion.Orion’s older. Why doesn’t he assume the role of the hero?
Suddenly, Achilles slides his palm across the top of the casket with care. “I’ve done a lot of reading up on our great-great-great-great grandfather.”
I gulp as I turn rigid. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thomas’s weakness was he believed people’s basic human instincts could be controlled by moral codes. He was wrong.”
I’m unable to take my eyes off the affectionate way Achilles pets the stone. It’s as if he knew the man personally. For some odd reason, it makes me uncomfortable.
I circle my shoulders, releasing the stiffness, as I try to think of the right words. “I didn’t know Thomas Ralph Valentine was buried in the city. I thought he was a Quaker or pilgrim or Shaker who lived and died in Maine.” That’s all I can come up with.
Achilles stops rubbing the stone. “That’s the misconception about Thomas. He wasn’t a deeply religious man. His beliefs were indicative of the time period he lived in. People say he was a hypocrite. But he couldn’t be one, because he made no vow to any man or to God. He simply believed the morality clauses he put on the trust would make his heirs better stewards of his possessions.”
I snort sarcastically. “Well, that didn’t happen.”
“No. It didn’t. Those clauses brought out the worst in us.”
“So, what does this have to do with me and Orion?”
Achilles takes me by the shoulders. I’m staring into my brother’s sharp eyes, which are as gray as steel. “There could only be one reason why Thomas put those stipulations on his trust. He wanted to control us from his tomb. But human instinct can’t be controlled, at least not for long.”
When he pauses, I swallow, moistening my dry throat.
“I learned something recently about rites of passage. Dad wasn't into that sort of …” He glances at the casket. “Stuff. He’s not weak, though. He made a decision that we should respect. The expectations that were put on him, he chose not to put on us.”
He’s right. Our mother is the tyrant who made sure we secured and kept a healthy portion of the Valentine trust. And she’s the Valentine by marriage. But thinking about how my father left the heavy lifting to her and us makes anger spread through me like molten lava.
I snarl. “He’d rather live on a tropical island, sunbathing and drinking blue martinis.”
