One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(88)

Delphine breaks at that moment, crying in her hands, and I whisk her to sit in the first pew, leaving a palm on her back as her body shakes with her cries.

A few beats pass before whispered apologies are amplified by the hands covering her face, and I’m just able to make them out. “Je suis désolé, je suis désolé, Dominic,” she gasps, before lifting red rimmed eyes to mine. “Truly, sorry for the way I treated you.” Tears of regret roll down her face. “I was so horrible to you both in the beginning.”

“You can still beat it,” I tell her.

“Maybe, but this apology is long overdue,” she sniffs. “It is one of my biggest regrets.”

“You were young, heartbroken, and penniless, and don’t forget I know what got you to the place you were in. This life hasn’t given either of us very many breaks. In that we are alike.”

“You were just a little boy . . . you shouldn’t have had to suffer for it. I was selfish,” she admits hoarsely. “I’ve been selfish for a very long time.”

“You were, but I forgave you a while ago.”

“You did not,” she dismisses.

“Okay,” I grin. “I’ve been trying.”

“I will understand if you don’t,” she stares back at the view. “I do not deserve it.”

“Maybe . . . but you could have abandoned us, which could have separated us. I keep that in mind when memories of you piss me off.”

She grins. “You grew into a good man, Dominic. I do not take any credit for that. Though I should warn you again that we are very much alike.”

“Think so?”

“Sadly, I know so,” she turns back to take in the last of the setting sun. “Do not let your heart harden you like mine did. I’ve lost too much because I could not forgive.”

“I’ll do my best.”

We watch the last of the sun sink before we stand, and she turns to me. “Thank you for that story.”

“There are hundreds, if not thousands like it, all claiming that there’s something waiting. For every person fiercely claiming there’s a deity, there’s another hell-bent on proving nothing exists. At the end of the day, both are so bloated with ego, so firm in their beliefs that neither can prove it. It’s the world’s best-kept secret, one that none of us become privy to until we become a part of it. But there’s got to be some truth to some of those stories, right?”

She nods.

“So, try not to worry too much,” I nudge her shoulder, and she gives me a rare, full smile.

After a silent but peaceful drive home, I lead her into the house to get her settled, my chest aching a little at her admissions and the isolation she’s endured for so long. We dwelled in the same state of desperation, both recluses for fucking years, never mending the bridge even as we both suffered the same type of existence. She wasted half her life as an alcoholic recluse to heartbreak because every single man in her life had failed her—robbed her of security at every turn. It started with her father and ended with her husband and every man between those two. Despite her admirable resilience up until her husband left her, that final blow had her withdrawing, drinking her secrets silent with her daily bottle until her existence was nothing but background to others who were living.

The idea that we are a lot alike in some of those respects starts to instill a sort of fear in me.

The minute we step into the house, the scent of lemon and other household chemicals hit hard, jarring me. Clicking on the light, I spot a notice on top of an empty plant stand for a recent extermination. Glancing around, I see that the house is spotless—the shelves are dusted. Walking into the kitchen, I open the cupboard and see the dishes have been washed and neatly stacked. Glancing over at Delphine as she settles in her recliner, she answers my unspoken question without so much as looking at me. “She didn’t want you to know, but now you do.”

Cecelia.

Instantly, the liquid passing through the beat in my chest solidifies her name inside before passing through to the other.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

I can’t even imagine the reception she was met by when she showed up.

Chest aching with the need to get to her, panic briefly seizes me. “Fuck, did she—”

“No,” she squelches that fear, reading my thought. “His room is still locked.”

When she finally looks at me, I see that same guilt I saw the night Cecelia knelt at her feet begin to seep into her expression.

“What?” I ask, walking over to where she sits and crossing my arms. “We’ve been sharing bluntly all night, Tatie. Why stop now?”

“I’ve wronged her,” she whispers low, gaze distant, “in the past.”

“Wronged Cecelia?”

She nods, her eyes watering.

Fuck.

“It’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever done.” Her eyes gloss with memory. “When I,” she shakes her head as a sharp pang of protectiveness thrums through me.

“Tell me,” I demand.

“It was a long time ago,” she assures.

“I’m listening.”

“When I worked at the plant. I told you . . . I was close to her mother, Diane, for a short time.”

I nod.