Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,495

“I am yours to command.”

“Good.” She leaned forward, grabbing his silk bow tie. “Because my command is pleasure. And I think I’d like it now.”

He pushed her hair behind her shoulders and brought his lips to her ear.

“Then come.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

August 2011

Cambridge, Massachusetts

When Julia and Gabriel returned home the last week in August, they arrived to find a plethora of unopened mail. Gabriel gazed at the envelopes that Rebecca had stacked neatly on his desk and decided he’d forgo opening them in order to unpack instead.

While he was in the bedroom, Julia remained in the study. She glanced at the open door apprehensively before quietly moving to close it.

She knew that what she was going to do would be a violation of Gabriel’s trust. But, she reasoned, her actions were justified by his silence and his continued reticence to disclose what was troubling him. She’d hoped he would talk to her while they were in Florence. But he hadn’t.

Simply put, she was afraid and she was having difficulty coping with the fear.

There was a drawer in his desk that he never opened. She was vaguely aware of it, although she’d never had the nerve to look through its contents.

Gabriel had caught her opening it one day while she was in search of some printer paper, and he’d closed it under her hand, saying there were memories in that space that he did not wish to relive. Then he’d distracted her by pulling her onto his lap on the red velvet chair and making love to her.

Julia hadn’t touched the drawer since. But today, frustrated and concerned, she sat behind his desk, examining its contents. If Gabriel would not give her answers, perhaps his collection of memories would.

The Botticelli illustrations, which he’d kept in a locked wooden box in that same drawer, were no longer there, displayed as they were now in the Uffizi. Julia quickly and quietly retrieved the first item, holding it in her hand.

It was his grandfather’s pocket watch. He’d worn it on occasion, back in Toronto, but since they’d moved to Cambridge it had remained in the drawer. The watch was made of gold and attached to a long chain that had a fish-shaped fob on it. She opened it carefully and read the inscription:

To William,

My beloved husband

Love, Jean

She closed the watch, placing it on top of the desk.

The next item she retrieved was an old cast-iron train engine that had clearly seen better days. She imagined Gabriel as a little boy, clutching his train, perhaps demanding that he take it with him when he and his mother left New York.

Her insides twisted.

She placed the train on the desk and returned her attention to the drawer.

There was a wooden box, which she opened. In it, she found a string of large South Sea pearls and a ring with diamonds set into the band. Julia picked up the ring to look for an inscription, but there wasn’t one. She saw two silver bracelets and a necklace, all of which were marked from Tiffany.

The jewelry had to have been his mother’s. But she wondered about its source. Gabriel had told her several times of the poverty they’d lived in. How could someone who was so poor have such expensive jewelry? And why didn’t his mother sell the jewelry when money grew short?

Julia shook her head. Gabriel’s childhood was tragic, to be sure, but so was his mother’s life.

She closed the box and turned her attention to the photographs, which had been sorted into envelopes. She leafed through them quickly, finding pictures of Gabriel and his mother, and a few snapshots of a man and a woman who must have been Gabriel’s parents. Surprisingly, however, there were no photos of Gabriel’s parents together.

Like Gabriel, his mother had dark hair, but her eyes were dark too, against pale, milky skin. She was fine featured and very beautiful.

In contrast, Gabriel’s father was gray haired with piercing sapphire eyes. He was attractive for an older man, but there was an overall harshness to his expression that Julia didn’t like. In the pictures, he rarely smiled.

At the back of the drawer, underneath a worn teddy bear, was a diary. Julia opened it and looked at the flyleaf.

This is the Property

of

Suzanne Elizabeth Emerson.

On impulse, she opened it to a random page. Her eyes alighted on the sentence written at the very top:

I’m pregnant.

Owen wants me to have an abortion.

He gave me money and said that he’d make the appointment.

He said that if I did this for