Page 25 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Nine
Anthony
There are two good ways to go when I want to stop thinking. One: drink until I pass out. Two: exert myself until I’m too tired to think.
Option One is out of the question. It makes me lose control, and the hangovers aren’t pleasant. Besides, I’m here to see if I can mend my fences with Mom, not to embarrass her by getting roaring drunk before six p.m.
So it’s option two, another round of physical exertion. Thankfully, there’s a perfect place for that—a boxing gym over in the next parish. It’s a utilitarian space with harsh fluorescent lighting, punching bags, a couple of rings and a locker room that smells faintly of old sweat and liniment. There are only three concrete slab showers, but they’re clean. Dalton, the owner, might not spend money on frills, but he takes pride in his business. And he was nice as hell to me—patient, too—when I first came here as a wide-eyed ten-year-old, trying to learn how to throw a decent punch.
After taping up my hands and donning some gloves, I work a heavy bag until my shoulders burn and air is sawing in and out of my lungs. Despite the cold air blasting, sweat is pouring down my body in rivulets. When I can’t lift my arms anymore, I let myself collapse, legs stretched out on the cool concrete floor.
But no matter how exhausted my body is, my mind keeps bringing Ivy up. Troublemaker. Bad-boy rep. She’s acting as though I’m some misguided idiot, trying too hard to look cool.
Although I hate that she’s so deluded, I’m glad she doesn’t know the truth. That way, she won’t recoil in horror every time she sees me. She seems too honest and guileless to hide her true reaction if she knew.
“Need some help getting up?” Dalton has a permanent squint, like Dirty Harry eyeing a scumbag.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Glad to hear it. I had that extra-soft cement laid in there just for you.”
Good old Dalton. I heave myself up and trudge over to the shower. The workout took the sharpest edge off my sexual frustration and restlessness. Now I need to stop thinking about Ivy and focus on the dinner to come. There’s a chance it might result in Mother softening toward me, realizing maybe I should be forgiven after all these years. Katherine’s death hurt her to the point that Father had to send me away, hoping my absence could help her recover. I guess it did…somewhat. It’s a special kind of hell, trying to go on while knowing you’re the reason your perfect family fell apart.
On my way home, I pick up a large bouquet of pristine white orchids. Then I change into a black suit with a tie and a crisp white dress shirt—de rigueur for one of Mother’s formal dinners. My hands shake a little as I knot the tie. She taught me how when I was eight.
“Every little gentleman should know how to tie a perfect Windsor knot,” she said, her voice warm, her smile so radiant it felt like the whole world was awash with love. “Let me help you.” Her slim fingers moved, showing me how to loop, pull and tug until the knot was done perfectly.
“Like this?” I said, showing her.
“Yes! My, what a smart, clever boy you are!” She cradled my face in her palms, kissed my forehead and rubbed her nose against mine, making me laugh.
Her cheeks used to glow with health and joy. Now, having seen her, it strikes me that she’s pale, rarely smiles, and even when she does, the smiles never reach her eyes. Father said Mother needs to forgive me in order to heal, and I suspect he’s correct. He usually is about Mother. And I want her to be able to feel the joy and happiness she used to. I want both of us to be light and happy and free from the painful past.
I time things so I arrive exactly two minutes before six. My parents enter the formal dining room together at precisely six. Father’s in a suit, and Mother is in a sleeveless floor-length wrap dress in deep royal blue. Her hand rests in the crook of his elbow, sapphires and pearls around her neck and wrist.
“Mother,” I say, my mouth dry. I search her face for any sign of the panicked anger and accusation from yesterday.
“Tony,” she says, looking at me. Her expression is blank.
Well, blank is better than yesterday—a vast improvement, I tell myself. Hopefully by the end of the dinner, she’ll warm up to me a bit more. Even hold my face between her hands and forgive me.
“For you.” I hand her the flowers, praying they help bridge the distance between us.
A faint smile ghosts her lips. “Thank you.”
The fist around my heart eases a little. This has to be a good sign.
I start to step forward to give her a kiss on cheek, but Harry and Ivy’s arrival distracts Mother, who turns away to greet them. Father gives me a fractional nod over her shoulder, and I nod back, my belly full of nervous hope.
Dinner starts as soon as we’re seated. I’m sitting on my father’s right, while the seat next to Mother stays empty.
Harry taps an index finger on the table. “Is Edgar coming?”
“He called. Going to be a few minutes late,” Father says.
“Must be busy at work,” Ivy says.
She looks so innocent and beautiful in her lace dress, not to mention entirely too composed as she glances in my direction. It’s as though the kiss never happened…and she never moaned my name with a voice thick with need.
