In Jessica’s mind, it all went back to the first week of junior year. For ten years, she and her twin had shared everything. Birthdays. Bedrooms. Their crazy-ass mother still bought them matching clothing, and everyone expected them to like the same things.
But they didn’t. Sarah liked punk rock, leather and boys. Jessica liked pop, pink and girls.
She still remembered the first time she realized that she wasn’t like other girls. Alexandra, Sarah and Jessica were at the beach, five, maybe six years before. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, the sun shining down on them. They were still close then.
At one point, a crowd of high school boys marched along the beach in front of them. Sarah had leaned close and whispered something, blushing.
Jessica didn’t feel whatever it was Sarah did. But two months later, she was invited to a party at Liese Hamilton’s house. Six girls attended the party, and Jessica stayed over. They sat up talking half the night, and at one point she found herself focusing on Liese’s eyes. Pretty eyes. They were sitting close to each other, really close, and Jessica wanted to kiss her very badly.
Jessica didn’t think about it again for a long time.
It was funny, really. It’s not like being a lesbian was anything that horrible. She lived in San Francisco, after all. This was the twenty-first century.
At the same time, in recent years, she’d spent more and more time in church with her mother. She’d hear the words spoken at school, at church, in her life. It wasn’t the big things. Everybody knew the Catholic church didn’t approve of homosexuality. Everybody knew that only certain states allowed gay marriage. Those things mattered, but only in an abstract way.
What mattered to Jessica were the small things. Her mother would give friendly advice. When you find the man you love, don’t let anything get in the way, Jessica. Because, to her mother, it could be nothing but a man. After all, Adelina Thompson’s life had revolved around her husband’s for more than thirty years. Jessica’s friends would say Oh, that was gay. In a thousand small and large ways, they’d express their disdain of all things gay and lesbian.
Freshman and sophomore year in high school, she began to feel more and more isolated. More and more unsure of herself. More and more afraid to tell anyone who she was.
And then it happened. One evening during the summer before junior year of high school, Jessica was standing in line for tea at the Purple Kow when she saw a willowy, blonde girl in a blue dress that matched hers. Her hair was flowing, shoulder length and a deep shade of indigo. And her intense blue eyes tracked Jessica as she got in line.
“I’m Jessica Thompson.”
“Chrysanthemum Allen.”
Seriously? Jessica thought.
They both ordered German Lite Cheese Cake and iced milk tea, and Jessica laughed at the coincidence. They sat down at the bus stop and began to talk as the cars drove by.
Chrys was seventeen and was starting her senior year. She wore contrast as armor. Indigo hair and conservative dresses. Beautiful lace ruffled tops with pajama bottoms. When she talked about music and math her eyes glowed. Spoken word poetry excited her. The written word not so much—she’d barely passed English her junior year.
A week later, they climbed out Jessica’s window and lay on the roof of the back porch, looking up at the stars.
“Sometimes when I look at the stars,” Chrys said, “I think everything’s actually going to be okay.”
“What do you mean?” Jessica had asked.
Chrys clammed up. She always did. She was sexy and alluring. She was maddening. She rarely revealed weakness or concern, and then when she did, it was indirect.
“I know I’m not good at talking about myself,” she said, more than once. “But I love you.”
And she did. Jessica loved Chrys, Chrys loved Jessica, and that was okay. But sometimes it was so frustrating. Chrys was so needy sometimes.
Two days before Thanksgiving, Chrys showed up at her door. Tears were running down her face, and she said, “I was going to text you, but I couldn’t do it.”
“What?”
Chrys looked pale and sad as she said, “Break up with you.”
Jessica backed into the front door of her house, stunned. “What? Why?”
“I love you, Jessica. But I can’t.”
“I don’t understand…”
“You don’t have to.” Chrys leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, then ran.
Jessica texted her, over and over again. Finally, Sarah shouted, “What is wrong with you?” and Jessica screamed, “Leave me alone!”
The next two days were excruciating. Alexandra and Carrie came home for Thanksgiving, then Crank and Julia, and on Thanksgiving night Dylan Paris showed up by surprise and proposed to Alexandra.
It was a giant, chaotic mess. The whole family hugging each other, Alexandra bursting into tears, her mother crying and her father acting as if he cared. The dinner, after the chaos was over, had a slightly frantic air; as if the gossamer threads of joy and love were so fleeting that it would take nothing but a slight wind to blow them away.
After everyone settled down again, Jessica’s mom, the insensitive witch, said to her, “You know, one day you’ll meet a man who loves you like Dylan loves Alexandra.”
For the first time in her life, Jessica cursed at her mother. “Go to hell,” she said, bursting into tears, then she ran upstairs and locked her room. She sent the first of what would be dozens of text messages to Chrys then, asking her how she could be so heartless.
A week later, Chrys had shown back up on her doorstep, begging forgiveness.
Telling Sister Kiara about it now was like the wind coming in off the bay blowing the fog away. “The thing is, I really loved her,” Jessica said. “I really loved her.”
Sister Kiara leaned back in her chair. They were sitting in the small common dining area of the retreat, and Kiara had a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. “Loved? Past tense?”
Jessica’s face twisted in pain. Then she whispered, “I’ll always love her. But she’s dead.”
2. Adelina. February 11, 1984
The dining room was set with eight places. Fine china, set off with crystal wine glasses and candlesticks. A sumptuous white tablecloth, and a four course meal centered on roast duck in plum sauce. Adelina Thompson hated her husband. But she would play his game. She had children to protect. She had a little brother to protect.
Julia was down for the night, in the room furthest from the dining room and accompanied by her nanny. Two hired cooks assisted in the kitchen, and two servers helped in the dining room. But this was Adelina’s production.
At five minutes before seven, Richard walked into the dining room. His eyes scanned the perfectly set table.
“Where is the wine?”
The server brought him the bottle, a 1976 Cos Pithos Cerasuolo di Vittoria. A very dry wine, detailed, with a brace of acidity, it was perfect for roast duck.
His eyes darted to hers, eyebrows raised. “You chose this?”
Adelina nodded, giving nothing in her expression.
“I approve.” No smile accompanied the bare accolade.
She didn’t allow herself to feel any pleasure or pride from his approval. She despised him.
A knock on the door. “That will be our first guests,” he said.
She felt a brush of contempt for him. Why he felt the need to state the obvious she didn’t understand. But something was different about him. In the three weeks since he’d returned from Pakistan, it was clear that he was different. Just an edge of worry. Something had happened there, something that frightened him, and shook his confidence. He’d spent long nights in his study, virtually ignoring her—a relief from his constant physical demands the first months of their marriage.
She turned and walked out of the dining room. She had no desire to speak with him. He followed her all the same, and when she opened the door, he put a hand at the small of her back, making her skin crawl. She smiled at him. After
all, they were a happy couple.
At the door stood a remarkably tall man with pale blue eyes in the dress blue uniform of the Marine Corps. At his side, a woman perhaps ten years his junior.
“Come in, come in,” Richard said, a patently false smile on his face. “Colonel Rainsley, this is my wife, Adelina.”
Rainsley took her hand in his. Warm, but not sweaty. No brute force. His eyes met hers directly and she felt a shiver. “Adelina. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Chuck Rainsley, and this is my wife Brianna.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, sir,” Adelina said. Her English had improved dramatically, thanks to a year of lessons in San Francisco. “Can I get you a drink?”
Brianna preferred white wine, and Colonel Rainsley asked for a bourbon and Coke. Adelina walked to the kitchen and issued the instructions, then returned to the living room. Colonel Rainsley and his wife were seated already. Adelina said, “Your drinks will be up in just a moment.”
Rainsley said, “Adelina, Richard tells me you met when he was posted in Madrid?”
Adelina plastered a smile on her face, hiding the thumping she felt in her chest. “That’s right. He stopped in one day at my father’s shop—Papa was a florist—and one thing led to another.”
“You’re quite the catch,” Rainsley said.
Adelina felt her face heat up.
“The moment I saw Adelina the first time, I knew I wanted to marry her.”
She wanted to scream when she heard Richard’s words. Misery competed with rage as she kept a smile clamped on her face. Her chest hurt and she wanted to turn her eyes to the Marine Colonel and say, rescue me.
But there would be no rescue. How could there be? Instead, she turned her attention to the Colonel and his wife.
“And where did you two meet?”
Rainsley looked at his wife, adoration clearly on his features. “Ahh, well, the Marine Corps sent me to graduate school at Fletcher in ‘75.”
Adelina raised an eyebrow. Richard had gone to the Fletcher School, though a different year.
“Anyway, we met there. Brianna was majoring in music at Tufts.”
Adelina flushed with pleasure. “Music major? What was your focus?”
“Viola,” Brianna said. “I’ve taught elementary school music.”
“I played with the National Youth Orchestra in Madrid,” Adelina said.
Brianna’s eyes widened. “Oh, that must have been amazing.”
The two women began to chat about music. For the first time in nearly three years, Adelina found herself discussing something with animation and excitement.
“Tell me more about the Youth Orchestra?”
With pleasure, Adelina began to describe the nearly daily rehearsals in Madrid. The performances at the Auditorio Nacional de Música, and her preparations to audition for the National Orchestra.
Wistfully, she said, “If I’d made it to the audition, I’d have been the youngest violinist in Spanish history to make it into the National Orchestra.
“Really?” Brianna said. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
“You must have been really good, why didn’t you go through the auditions?”
Adelina froze, her heart suddenly pounding. Richard’s eyes had darted to her, for just a second, then back to the Colonel. He was listening. And he’d warned her. More than once. She had a carefully reconstructed history, which started with an earlier birthdate.
“Oh,” she said, trying to cover with a lie. “My father passed away, and my um, mom, wanted me to come back to Calella…”
She trailed off, and Brianna said, “Oh, I’m so sorry about your father. I—weren’t you working at your father’s shop when you met Richard?”
A knock on the door startled Adelina. “Excuse me,” she said, standing up and walking quickly to the door.
Two men stood there. The first—short, balding, with a ruddy, freckled complexion, wore a rumpled suit. Next to him stood a much taller and younger man with dark hair and green eyes. The tall man wore an impeccably tailored suit.
“Welcome…” Adelina said, trailing off.
Richard came up behind her, gripping her upper arm in his hand. Tightly. Too tightly, it hurt.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Come in.” He released the pressure on her arm quickly. It had merely been a reminder. To watch herself.
Thompson presented the two men. “Adelina, Colonel and Mrs. Rainsley, may I present Prince George-Phillip, the Duke of Kent. Prince George-Phillip is with the British Foreign Service. And also this is Leslie Collins. He’s a good friend of mine who did some accounting work for the US Embassy in Islamabad when I was there.”
Colonel Rainsley and his wife stood.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” the Colonel said, shaking George-Phillip’s hand. Adelina watched as the two of them shook hands, each taking the measure of the other and liking what they saw. George-Phillip was clearly young, in his early twenties, but he had the confidence and bearing of a much older man.
George-Phillip turned to Adelina, his eyes widening a bit. He took her hand and bent over it with a quick kiss. “A pleasure, madam.” Colonel Rainsley frowned at the gesture, then frowned even more when George-Phillip turned toward Brianna Rainsley and did the same.
Before they were able to ask for drinks or anyone returned to their seat, the doorbell rang. A moment later, the final guests were admitted. Richard introduced them.
“May I present Prince Roshan al Saud? And his wife Myriam?”
Prince Roshan was in his early thirties. He wore a conservative grey suit with a muted green tie. His wife, Myriam, wore a smart looking red dress.
“If you would like, we can all move to the dining room,” Adelina said.
Five minutes later, the assembled company had taken their seats. Richard sat at the head of the table, of course, and Adelina at the foot. To Richard’s right, Prince Roshan. Prince George-Phillip was to Adelina’s right. Roshan had been seated in the place of honor by Richard primarily by virtue of his proximity to the throne of his country: Roshan was the Saudi Arabian king’s son. George-Phillip was a cousin—and a fairly distant one at that—to England’s Queen Elizabeth.
To Adelina’s left sat Colonel Rainsley, and Leslie Collins was to Richard’s left. The two wives, Myriam and Brianna, were in the middle of the table.
Moments after they were seated, a server poured wine around the table.
“Prince Roshan,” Adelina said, “would you prefer water or soda in respect to your faith?”
“Wine, please, madam. I am, of course, devout to Mohammed’s teachings, but I also live in the modern world.” He paused for a moment, and said, “Water for Myriam, though.”
“Of course,” Adelina replied as smoothly as possible. Roshan was a pig just like her husband. The drinks were poured as Collins, Roshan and Richard began to discuss political developments in Soviet occupied Afghanistan.
“I’m afraid I’m somewhat at a loss with regards to the minutiae of Afghanistan,” Prince George-Phillip said in an aside to Adelina.
“You’re very young for a Foreign Service officer,” she replied. “And a Duke at that.”
George-Phillip shrugged, a self-deprecating motion. “I achieved my seat through no skills of my own, of course—my father was killed in a car accident when I was seventeen.”
“My condolences,” Colonel Rainsley said. “Do you plan to continue his work?”
George-Phillip scoffed. “As head of his private club? Hardly. I have two more years to my Foreign Service commitment, then it’s Sandhurst for me.” Sandhurst was the Royal Military College.
Rainsley said, “Are you considering the military as a career?”
“I am, Colonel.”
“You could do worse.”
“I believe you’re correct. Plus—let me be frank—my father did nothing to bring honor to our family or country. I feel it’s my role to do my part.”
At the other end of the table, the three men, Richard, Colli
ns and Prince Roshan, were speaking in low voices. Collins said something that caused the other two men to chuckle.
Adelina turned to Rainsley. “Richard tells me you are considering a run for the Senate, Colonel?”
“Not considering, ma’am. I’ve made the decision.”
“Please, call me Adelina.”
“With pleasure. I’m Chuck.” He smiled at her. Across the table and in the middle, Brianna Rainsley frowned at her husband.
“What are you plans for the Senate?” George-Phillip asked.
“I’ll tell you. I watched my men get butchered in Beirut six months ago, and there was nothing I could do about it, because of bullheaded, incompetent orders engineered directly out of the White House. I plan to make that my first priority.”
As he spoke the words, Rainsley’s eyes were bright. He was a man on a mission.
Adelina said, “I think that’s admirable.”
“Not admirable, Adelina, just my duty as an officer to take care of my men.”
George-Phillip leaned forward and said, “Would that all officers felt the same, Colonel.” Then he did something odd. At the opposite end of the table, Leslie Collins said in a low tone the name of a place—Wakan or Wack Hand or something like that, his voice at a low drone. George-Phillip stiffened just a little at the word, and his eyes narrowed slightly.
Adelina tilted her head. Something was going on there, but she didn’t know what. She wondered if it was something she could use against her husband.
3. Jessica. April 30
“The thing was, Chrysanthemum was a basket case. We would date a month, and she’d break it off. No explanation. She’d make crazy demands. I had to show my love by skipping a class. Or kissing her in front of the Cathedral. Or… just… crazy stuff. She needed help.”
Sister Kiara said, “Why do you think that was?”
Jessica shrugged. “Drugs. She was abused. Broken home. Who the hell knows?”
Kiara shook her head. “How did she die, Jessica?”
“Last June and July she’d gone off the edge. Really crazy stuff, and in July I broke up with her. I just couldn’t take it any more, you know? I loved her, but…love can only go so far. Love can’t make someone not crazy.” Jessica sighed and leaned forward, resting her head on her hands.