The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [197]
It was only then, only in the screaming silence of the empty Sant’Agata dei Goti church, that Nico lowered his head toward the confessional.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—”
“Let’s go, Nico—make it quick!” the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath shouted.
Glancing over his shoulder, Nico looked past the industrial beige carpet, the cheap oak lectern, and the dozen or so metal folding chairs that made up the small chapel on the fourth floor of St. Elizabeths’ John Howard Pavilion, and focused hard on the two orderlies who waited for him back by the only door to the room. It’d been nearly two weeks since they found him in Wisconsin. But thanks to a new lawyer, for the first time in years, he finally had chapel privileges.
Without a word, Nico turned back toward the wooden cross attached to the otherwise bare front wall of the room. Within seconds, the carpet, the lectern, and the folding chairs once again disappeared and were replaced by the mosaic floor, the ancient pews, and the mahogany confessional. Just like the ones in the pamphlet that his counselor gave him.
“. . . it’s been far too long since my last confession.”
He took a deep breath of the rose candles—the sweet smell that was always on his mom—and shut both eyes. The rest came easy.
God provided an ending. And brought him back home for a new beginning.
Epilogue
The biggest wounds in life are all self-inflicted.
—President Bill Clinton
Palm Beach, Florida
Just yourself?” the waitress asks, approaching my table in the corner of the café’s small outdoor patio.
“Actually, I’ve got one more coming,” I tell her as she puts a water glass on my place mat to keep the wind from blowing it away. We’re at least two blocks from the ocean, but thanks to the narrowness of the street, it always packs a nice breeze.
“Anything else to drink besides w—?” She freezes as I look up. It’s the first time she sees my face. To her credit, she recovers quickly, faking a smile—but the damage is already—
“Wait . . . you’re that guy,” she says, suddenly excited.
“Excuse me?”
“Y’know, with the thing . . . with the President . . . that was you, wasn’t it?”
I cock my head, offering the slightest nod.
Studying me for a moment, she cracks a tiny smile, tucks a strand of straight black hair behind her ear, and calmly heads back to the kitchen.
“Holy salami, what was that?” a familiar voice asks from the sidewalk. On my left, Rogo rushes up to the low wrought-iron railing that surrounds the outdoor patio.
“Rogo, don’t hop the—”
Before I say it, he throws a leg onto the railing, boosts himself over, and plops into the seat across from me.
“Can’t you use the door like the rest of the bipeds?” I ask him.
“No, no, no—no changing the channel. What was that rendezvous with the waitress?”
“Rendezvous?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Ethel—I saw it—the longing glance . . . the hair tuck . . . the little finger-phone where she held her thumb to her ear and whispered Call me into her pinkie.”
“There was no finger-phone.”
“She recognized you, didn’t she?”
“Can you please stop?”
“Where’d she see you, 60 Minutes? That’s the one, isn’t it? The girls love the Morley Safer.”
“Rogo . . .”
“Don’t fight with me, Wes—it’s an unarguable fact: A waitress can make the dining experience or ruin it. Read the signal. She’s trying to make it. Make it. Maaaake iiiiiit,” he whispers, rolling his eyes upward as he reaches over and steals a sip of my water. Noticing the menu in front of him, he adds, “They got fajitas here?”
“It’s a panini place.”
“Panini?”
“Y’know, with the bread and the—”
“I’m sorry, do you have a cramp in your ovaries?”
When I don’t laugh, he twirls the straw in the water, never taking his eyes off me. Right there, I know what he’s really after. “It’s okay, Rogo. You don’t have to use every conversation to try and cheer me up.”
“I’m not trying to cheer you up,” he insists. He twirls the straw again as the waitress returns with another place mat and some silverware.