Chapter 1  

Camille.

Two weeks ago, my world tilted. And not in a fun, day at the theme park, tilt o’ whirl kind of way. But rather in a stomach plummeting, bowels going cold and loose, blood draining from my face kind of way. 

The day began like any other Saturday. My weekend alarm’s peaceful, meditative sounds pulled me out of an X-rated dream about James Marin.   Such wet dreams had become par for the course since he began frequenting the bar I work at a few weeks ago. Fine as fuck and privileged as hell, he carried it all with a self-deprecating shrug that said, yeah, I know I’m intensely rich, but I’m still a good dude. The stormy grey looks he’d been sending my way since I first saw him said he’d happily blow my back out if I let him. The way he prowled through my bar, loose-hipped and athletic, made me think he could back up the promise in his eyes. So yeah, waking up with my hand clasped between my thighs was not what tilted my world.  

It was the part that happened after I had stretched, slipped out of bed to have a hot shower, dressed, and headed upstairs to share breakfast with my grandmother, Bibi.  

Saturday morning breakfast was a tradition we’ve held pretty firm since my mother, her daughter-in-law, died. I love my mornings with Bibi. She is my rock and my best friend. I am forever grateful to her. My dad, you see, is a weak-willed man who not only allows himself to be batted about by the circumstances of life but wakes up every morning determined to pursue the specific set of decisions most likely to leave his family destitute.   And my mom was the woman who enabled him. It was Bibi who provided some stability through it all. Bibi encouraged me to go to college and study the art that feeds my soul. She’s the one who helps me keep my dreams alive.

But two weeks ago, I found Bibi crying at the kitchen table instead of pouring water over tea to sip while I plowed through a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice. Her back was to me, so she didn’t hear me approach. I’m not sure she would have noticed even if she had been facing me. Her head was bowed, which, in and of itself, was enough to cause me concern. Unless Bibi was praying to her Father God, she always held her head high and proud. Combined with her trembling shoulders, that sent me around to kneel in front of her.

“Bibi?”  She didn’t look at me, only at the paper on the table before her. She kept smoothing her hand over it. “Bibi, what is it?”  I squeezed her knee a bit. That brief squeeze caught her attention. Warm brown eyes turned my way. They were wet. And her face, barely lined despite her seventy-plus years, was slack. It was scary. I was scared.

“Bibi, please tell me what’s happening. Do you need something? What’s going on?”  I reached for the paper that she was covering on the table. Apparently, that movement was exactly what she needed to break her from her stupor. One hand landed firmly on the paper, blocking me from taking it.

The other hand covered the one I had placed on her knee. “Mila.”  She shook herself and patted my hand. Her voice was artificially perky. “Good morning, love,”  she straightened a bit, clearly attempting to pull herself together. “I’m fine. Just an old woman thinking about old woman things.”

“That’s bullshit, Bibi.”  She chuckled at my effort to shock her into revealing more. 

“Watch your mouth, little girl. You ain’t all that grown.”  She gathered herself and the paper, which she folded and stuffed back into the envelope that was also lying on the table. She slipped it all into the pocket of her robe and pushed her chair away from me and the table.  

“I’m grown enough to know when you’re not telling me something. Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying, Mila.”  There was a little snap in her voice now. “Leave it. I’ve said I’m fine.”

“Mmmm.”  My response was noncommittal. I wasn’t leaving anything, but I’d give her a minute. It was clear that something had really upset her, and if she needed a bit to settle, I would give her that. The last thing Bibi ever wanted was for anyone to think she couldn’t manage herself. “I hear you.”  

I rose and rounded the small four-top that served as our kitchen breakfast table. I crossed the linoleum floor, barely registering the faded yellow and grey pattern on the worn surface. I grabbed a small pot from the corner cabinet and the oatmeal from over the stove. I was already plotting how to get my hands on that piece of paper in her pocket while I placed the pot on the eye and turned the gas on. Anything that made my grandma cry was some bullshit. And I wanted to know what it was.