Haven sat down in the doorway and leaned against the wall in the shadows, watching him play in a trance. She was mesmerized hearing so much emotion pouring from his fingertips. It was the same tune in a continuous loop—as soon as it would wind down, he’d start it up again.
She recognized it. Though different in tone, the notes louder and fluid on the piano, it was the same one he strummed on his guitar at night.
Her eyelids grew heavy as she listened, but she fought sleep, captivated by the music. She eventually lost the battle, and the next thing she knew she was being jolted around. Her eyes snapped open, startled when her gaze fell on Carmine. They were on the second floor, and she was cradled in his arms. She gave him an apologetic look, hoping he wasn’t upset she’d spied on him, but he merely smiled. “We have beds, tesoro. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
20
Haven stood in the doorway of Carmine’s bedroom, exhausted from broken sleep and wanting nothing more than to take a nap, but much more pressing things needed to be dealt with.
Scanning the mess, Haven contemplated where to start.
“Look, I have no idea what you’ll find,” Carmine said. “I’m gonna apologize in advance for it all, so I don’t have to keep saying it as we go.”
He walked over to his dirty clothes and tossed them in his hamper as Haven tentatively navigated her way through the room. “Don’t you want to separate them?” she asked.
He froze, holding a pair of pants. “Separate them how?”
“A pile of whites and a pile of colors will work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mock-saluted her. Her smile disintegrated, and he sighed at her fallen expression. “I’m kidding. I can handle separating clothes . . . just forgot I was supposed to.”
He dug the clothes back out of the hamper and made two piles as Haven picked up his schoolbooks. She set them on his desk and shifted the stacks of paper around to organize a bit.
“So, uh . . .” Carmine held up a white shirt with navy blue stripes. “Would you consider this a color or a white?”
“Color,” she said, looking at the piles. “That white shirt with the green design is a color too.”
Carmine picked up the shirt and tossed it on the other pile. “How can you tell?”
“The tag says not to use any bleach.”
“You read my tags?” His voice was serious, like they were discussing something scandalous.
She smiled. “Yes, I read them when I do your laundry.”
“And you remember that?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me to read the tags.”
Haven held back her laughter, knowing it would only make his irritation worse. When Carmine finished separating the clothes, she took the hamper of whites downstairs to start a load. She pulled out a few things that were obviously not bleachable and set them aside to wash with the next load, not wanting to make it a big deal.
She dragged the empty hamper up to Carmine’s room and found him sprawled out on his stomach on the bed. She stared at his back, mesmerized by his sculpted muscles and the way his tattoos stood out prominently on his skin. He shifted around to look at her and smiled lazily. “I forfeit. This shit’s hard.”
All he’d done was sort clothes, and he’d done a pretty bad job of it, at that. “It’s easy to me.”
He rolled his eyes as she gathered the second load of laundry.
He put a few CDs away as she stripped his bed.
He took a break. She fetched fresh linens.
He put on some music. She made his bed.
He plopped down at his desk as she walked around the room, grabbing random things and putting them where she assumed they went. Carmine watched her closely, the attention making her hyperaware of every movement. She didn’t mind that he wasn’t much help, considering she’d do a better job on her own, but his gaze made her nervous. Occasionally, he’d grind his teeth, trying to contain his irritation when she touched certain things.
The floor was cleared before long, all except for the edge of a book sticking out from under his bed. She got on her knees, surprised by how cluttered it was under there. She pulled out books and magazines, as well as some movies. A few shoeboxes were stored under there, but she didn’t touch them. She put the comforter back down and glanced at her pile, gasping when she saw the naked woman on the front of one of the DVD cases. She covered it up, but she wasn’t quick enough—Carmine had already spotted it.
“Knew you’d find the porn.” He laughed, grabbing it. “Wanna watch it?”
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. She vehemently shook her head, and he tossed the DVD into a drawer in his desk as she picked up a packet of pictures. Carmine pointed toward a drawer to show her where they went. “You can look at them if you want. I’m pretty sure everyone has clothes on, but no promises.”
He winked playfully as she pulled out the pictures. She flipped through them and smiled at the familiar faces, surprised to see Nicholas in a few of them. They all looked young and happy, but in most of them something was off about Carmine. His eyes were dull, the spark she was used to missing. He’d clearly been broken back then, the pictures telling a story no words could do justice.
She opened the drawer he had said they went in and froze. Sitting on top of everything was a tiny doll made out of tan string, no more than a few inches tall. It had short hair made from yarn, felt clothes glued to the body of what was clearly a little boy. She wondered why Carmine would have such a thing as she picked up the tiny doll, careful not to harm it.
Her chest ached as she gazed at it, remembering a time long ago when she had seen a similar one. She had been young, five or six years old, as she ran through the yard of the Antonelli ranch. Her bare feet kicked up dust as her laughter rang out, loud and blissful like the faint church bells they could hear on Sunday mornings. The tiny doll was clutched tightly in her hand, the long brown yarn flowing in the wind as Haven raced to the stables.
“Mama!” she yelled. “Look, Mama!”
Her mama sighed as she turned around, her face soaked with sweat. “I’m busy, Haven.”
“Look, Mama,” she said again, stopping outside the stall her mama stood in with the horse. Haven held up the doll, laughing wholeheartedly. She had never felt so overjoyed in her life. “It’s me!”
Her mama’s eyes widened with panic at the sight of the toy. “Where did you get that? You have to give it back.”
“No, Mama.”
Her mama stepped out of the stall and tried to take the doll. “Give it to me. You know better.”
“No.”
“Haven Isadora, give it to me right now!”
She held it behind her, shaking her head wildly. She wasn’t overjoyed anymore. Now she was heated. She had never had a toy before, and no one was taking this one from her—not even her mama. “No, it’s mine! Mine! She gave it to me! Not you!”
“Who gave it to you?”
“My angel, Mama. She gave me a present!”
Her angel. Haven had dreamed of her for years, the beautiful woman in white that glowed under the hot desert sun. She strained to conjure up the image of her again when a throat cleared nearby, ripping Haven from her thoughts. She glanced up, seeing Carmine right beside her.
She set the doll down and shut the drawer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your stuff.”
He was quiet as her nervousness grew. She chewed on her bottom lip, afraid of his reaction. His hand shot out toward her abruptly. She flinched, but he merely brushed his fingertips across her mouth, pulling her lip from between her teeth.
“You’re gonna make yourself bleed if you keep that shit up,” he said as he reopened the drawer. “My mom used to make these dolls for the kids who came to the center she worked at. Most of them moved around a lot, so they didn’t have a lot. She said the dolls were easy to keep up with since they’re small.”
Easy to hide, too. Haven had kept the doll concealed for years without her master knowing.
“She always thought personal was best.”
“She’s right,” Haven said. “It is.”
He sighed, gazing at the little doll. “A few months ago, I would’ve disagreed with that.”
“And now?”
He closed the drawer again. “Everything’s different now.”
21
Haven lay across her bed, clutching a pencil as she sketched on the top paper of a pile in front of her. She paused, surveying the gray lines, before balling it up and tossing it on the floor.
She had been at it for hours, the floor littered with balls of white paper. She felt guilty for wasting so much. Paper was made out of wood, and although there wasn’t a lack of trees in Durante, they weren’t to be taken for granted. Trees lived and breathed, enduring so much and still surviving, growing stronger and bigger no matter the conditions.
Was it silly to think so highly of nature?
She put the pencil aside and gathered up the crumpled pieces of paper, tossing them into the trash can before heading downstairs. It was a Friday in the middle of December, Carmine’s last day of school before winter break. Christmas was fast approaching, and all Haven could think about was her mama in Blackburn. She remembered the look in her eyes as she would sit in the stables and gaze at the ranch decorated in lights, wishing she were a part of something bigger. She would never admit it, but at Christmas, her mama didn’t want to be on the outside looking in.
Haven knew the feeling well, and now she was torn—sad for not being with her mama but excited about finally being a part of it all.
The DeMarcos didn’t decorate much, except for a flimsy fake tree put together out of a box, but Haven helped Carmine string on the lights. A few colored ornaments had been added in the days that followed, and Tess hung mistletoe in the doorway.
Dr. DeMarco’s presence had been scarce during the past weeks. Most nights he didn’t come home until after the sun had risen and only stuck around long enough to shower and change clothes. Haven didn’t ask any questions, but she found it odd he left her on her own so much.
Did he finally believe she wouldn’t try to run again?
She still cooked every night, even though Dr. DeMarco usually wasn’t around for it, and she started eating at the table with the family. The nights Dr. DeMarco came home he never acknowledged her. She would occasionally catch him giving her uncomfortable looks, like he was preparing for something to happen that never did.
Haven had grabbed a soda from the kitchen and taken a sip when a car pulled up outside. The familiar Mercedes parked near the porch, and Dr. DeMarco headed straight into the house. His voice filtered inside as he stepped into the foyer, his phone to his ear. He shrugged off his coat, and his eyes fell upon her. His gaze lingered there as he ended the call.
“Can you go to my office? I’ll be up in a moment.”
He posed it as a question, but it wasn’t negotiable. She nervously made her way to his office and sat in the chair across from his desk. The room was silent, except for the ticking clock on the wall behind her, and it seemed like forever before she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Her heart beat erratically as he neared, and she held her breath instinctively when Dr. DeMarco stepped inside.
