Capturing Angels by V.C. Andrews

Capturing Angels by V.C. Andrews

Author:V.C. Andrews
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pocket Star
Published: 2012-08-07T00:00:00+00:00


11

A Cursory Prayer

John had set the table. He would often do that. He always did it better than I did, with the silverware, dishes and glasses geometrically perfectly placed, the napkins crisply folded, and the bottle of wine aerating in a carafe. Before Mary’s abduction, if she wasn’t with me wherever I had gone, she would help him. Everything she did had the same exactness and perfection. She was always looking for her father’s approval, no matter how small the task.

John could make the most mundane activities look like works of art, but he had that approach to whatever he did in his life.

“Ah, I wondered where you had gone and what we were going to have tonight,” he said when I pulled the chicken out of the grocery bag. “Perfect.”

It didn’t surprise me, of course, that he wouldn’t immediately bring up my angry reaction on the phone.

“I’ll warm it up,” I said, “and fix up some vegetables and sweet potatoes.”

“And I’ll do a salad,” he said. I saw that he had already begun.

We worked side by side. It was almost as it had been, a family symphony, the two of us in the kitchen with Mary quietly doing the little she could and looking very serious. Her face, which usually resembled mine, moved from my face to his whenever she concentrated on something intently. Out of habit, I glanced to my right and then to my left, looking to see what she was up to. John caught that and grimaced. Instantly, I replaced his disapproving face with Sam’s compassionate one, but my whole body tightened as if I, like Lot’s wife, had looked back on Sodom and turned into a pillar of salt.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I was worrying about you after that phone call.”

“How would I know that?”

“What?”

“That you were worried. Was it on the news I missed?”

“Very funny. So?”

“I’m okay,” I insisted.

He nodded and turned back to his salad preparation. “I understand you met the Los Angeles detective who was first on the case,” he said nonchalantly as he cut some carrots.

I paused, my heart beating faster. “How did you know that?”

“Right.” He raised his right forefinger. “How would I know that? You didn’t tell me. The detective certainly didn’t tell me. Ah, David Joseph, the FBI agent, told me.”

“You spoke to him?”

He turned to me, holding the glittering vegetable knife like a candle in the darkness. “I speak to him periodically, Grace. What do you think? He’s even stopped by my office a few times.”

“He has? When? You’ve never said anything about it to me.”

“They had nothing to tell us. What would I say? I didn’t want to get your hopes up and then have nothing concrete to tell you, did I?”

“Still, I would have liked to have known you were still on the investigation,” I said.

“Still? Of course, I would be. I’m just more realistic about it,” he added, turning back to the salad preparation.

“Realistic? Is that the way you categorize it?”

“Yes, realistic. Why should I bring more suffering into our home? That’s what false hope does.



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