The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (2 page)

T
he pen slipped from María’s frail, rigid fingers. She winced and flexed them backwards and forwards, attempting to stimulate blood flow. She could barely see the ink-spotted pages or steady her hand long enough to write the words on them, the last of a million words now written. She removed her reading glasses and stared at the leather-bound journal sitting on her lap. She sighed and coughed, wheezing as she did so. No matter what, her final days and last ounce of strength would be dedicated to finishing what she had begun a lifetime ago… . Nothing would stop her. No one would deter her, trick her, or mislead her—no one. She had lain awake at night, unable to sleep because she couldn’t bring herself to do what she thought she must do in order to keep La Glorieta safe and her family in ignorance—ignorant of the past and of all the hidden secrets that remained there.

Her shaky, withered hands drew across the leather-bound journal again, and she frowned, deepening the wrinkle tracks around her eyes and mouth. She had lied to her family—to all of them—and she could not tell them the truth now. For years, secrets had lain dormant inside the journals’ pages, buried in an old wooden trunk. Dust had gathered, and the trunk’s wood, sheltered from light of day and prying eyes in the corner of the old basement, had splintered. Yet the trunk looked exactly the same, she thought, staring at it. It had been brought to her room that morning and now sat in the corner under the window waiting, just as she was, for the key to turn in the lock, the dusty lid to be opened, and for its journals inside to be read one last time… She would listen to her mother’s words, her own words, hear her thoughts, and relive the past once more. In that past, she would finally find peace.

She craned her neck, turning it slowly on the pillow towards the portrait hanging on the wall next to the bed. The subject was her mother, Celia Merrill, and she met her gaze with a wistful smile. Pale turquoise eyes the shade of a summer sky were surrounded by thick dark lashes, curled up to touch her eyebrows. With porcelain skin and perfect features, her heart-shaped face was framed with luminous hair the colour of sun-kissed corn. Against the charcoal-grey background, she had a ghostly and mystical appearance and an air of fragility that had followed her through life. But it was the smile—pensive, sensual, and content—that always drew María’s eyes. A love story shone from the oils on the canvas. It was a great love, and no photograph could ever capture an image so well or be so completely honest.

Celia Merrill had been the first to put pen to paper, and her first journal had been completed long before any of her children were born. She had been faithful and true to her life’s diary, and although her early years remained, for the most part, a mystery to María, Celia had left nothing out in her later years. Her love, hatred, fear, and passion screamed loudly from every page written, but every now and again, even those emotions had been replaced by a dreary silence of complete despair and, at times, defeat.

María picked up the pen again, squinted, and placed the reading glasses firmly on the bridge of her nose. Her hand shook with the weight of the pen, and she used her other hand to steady it. “Just a few more words and it will be finished,” she whispered determinedly.

My
life
has
been
filled
with
love,
with
sadness,
with
joy
and
adventures
that
would
tire
even
the
most
energetic
of
people.
I
have
never
lied
in
these
journals,
although
on
occasion
I
wanted
to.
I
have,
however,
hidden
some
truths,
omitted
to
mention
certain
details,
and
for
this
I
am
truly
sorry;
for
these
are
the
dark
secrets
that
still
haunt
me
and
which
will
now
come
to
light
for
one
person,
for
I
shall
tell
only
one.

My
mother
told
me
once
that
her
greatest
joy
came
only
after
she
had
learned
to
forgive.
I
have
lived
through
war,
death,
and
sorrow,
but
my
failure
to
forgive
has
kept
me
prisoner
for
so
long
now
that
hatred
has
become
my
old
friend,
a
faithful
ally
always
on
hand.
I
do
forgive
those
who
have
sinned
against
me.
I
forgive
those
long
dead
who
went
to
their
graves
knowing
that
their
despicable
acts
would
belong
to
them
for
eternity 
. 
.
 
.
but
there
is
no
forgiveness
for
those
who
hurt
my
family.
I
hope
to
see
you
in
heaven
or
in
hell,
for
I
am
not
finished
with
you
yet
 
.
 
.
 
.

I
yearn
to
go
now
to
my
sister,
Marta,
to
Mama
and
Papa,
to
the
boys,
and
to
my
darling
Carlos.
I
leave
behind
a
family
brimming
with
wealth
and
pride
of
material
achievements.
May
they
be
happy
and
never
endure
hardship,
sorrow,
or
hatred.

I
ask
now
for
my
family’s
forgiveness.
I
will
leave
all
this
behind,
and
everything
I
have
ever
fought
for
will
pass
into
the
clumsy
and
indifferent
hands
of
my
children.
Soon
they
will
come
and
coddle
me,
fawn
all
over
me,
and
worry
about
their
inheritance
more
than
the
fact
that
I
am
dying!
My
daughter
and
daughters-in-law
will
unsubtly
eye
my
jewellery
box,
make
secret
plans
with
military
precision
on
how
to
get
my
best
diamond
pieces,
and
debate
about
just
how
much
money
they
will
get
from
me
when
I
am
gone.
Only
one
will
want
nothing,
will
take
nothing,
yet
she
will
get
everything,
my
most
treasured
possession:
my
memories!

She shifted nervously in the bed and thought again about what she was going to do. Could she really go through with it? She asked herself for the tenth time that day. She stared at a photograph by the bed and watched her granddaughter Lucia’s kind eyes staring back at her. They were Marta’s eyes and Marta’s face, her twin sister, dead for so long now. Marta was the key to everything. She was the reason that María had to stay alive long enough to finish the job and the reason that she did not care if her family hated her for what she was about to do. She was doing this for Marta, and that was all that mattered!

A tear slipped from her eye, and she wiped it away angrily. There was no time for crying or silly self-pity. She had to concentrate on the matter at hand—on whether Lucia could be trusted.

María looked again at the trunk sitting by the window. The journals had been her responsibility for far too long. She had protected their secrets, secrets that at one time could have destroyed her family, secrets that could still hurt those she loved. They would be Lucia’s burden now, one she would carry for the rest of her life. But would Lucia agree? María wondered again. After reading them, would she keep their secrets from the others forever? After all, she was asking the girl to lie to the entire family and, more importantly, to stand against every one of them.

Her children lived their lives blind to the suffering that had furnished them with wealth and power. They had barely come near her in the last ten years, each of them happy for nurses and doctors they had never even met to take care of her. For years, María had blamed herself for their cold and selfish behaviour, for their disinterest in La Glorieta and the nursing home she had built with her own hands. She had thought recently that maybe if she had told them the truth about everything, they would have loved her more, understood her more, and loved La Glorieta as she did, but the truth would have hurt them and disgusted them; it still would.

Her daughter and sons had no interest in the past, only in the amount of money they would get after she died. They thought she didn’t know what they were planning to do after they buried her. Their desire to sell La Glorieta and the entire estate had been in the planning stages for months, maybe even years. She had seen strangers looking around, masquerading as patients’ family members, but María knew that they were prospective buyers.

Lucia, her oldest grandchild, was the executor of her will and was one of the best lawyers she had ever known. All her family had to agree to sell La Glorieta, but Lucia would have the final say, and she, María, would have to persuade her to say no. When Lucia read the journals, she would understand everything: what the house meant to her, what it had meant to her generation, and why it housed the old and dying today.

Tears coursed down María’s cheeks, and this time she didn’t stop them. The war, the killings, and the shame of it all could never become known. Her entire life had been about saving La Glorieta and the family—she could not go to her family in the afterlife having failed. Failure was not an option now. La Glorieta would stand another hundred years, and her children would heal their wounded pride.

Lucia was due to arrive any minute now. She would read Celia’s words and her words, and she would listen and agree…

Part One