Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“He ain’t acting like a baby. He’s in shock or having some reaction. Me don’t know why,” Wilma said, now rubbing the young man’s back. Slowly, Junior’s eyes returned from whatever far off place they’d gone.

He squeezed Wilma’s hand, then stood and approached the bedside.

“Papa, I’m sorry about that. I dropped that glass.”

“Junior, that boarding school made you soft. What were you doing sitting there and rocking back and forth?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Junior looked at his phone. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go. I’ll clean the glass.”

“No you will not. Wilma, get to cleaning that glass.”

Wilma, who had been trying to revive Hillary, rose and pivoted. “You a rude man.”

“Because I asked you to do your job, I’m rude?”

“No, you rude because you rude. You talk down. Mrs. Francine, does not talk down.”

With that, Wilma left the room. Hillary groaned. Junior helped her into a chair.

“Auntie, are you okay?”

“What happened?” she asked, shaking her head.

“You fainted again,” Herbie spat. “You need to get hold of yourself.”

Junior, sensing the rising tension, excused himself and rushed downstairs. Wilma had the broom and dustpan in hand, but Junior would hear none of it.

“I got it, Wilma. My mess.”

She patted him on the cheek, “You a good boy. Not like them. You are lucky to be away, you know that?”

“Why’s that?”

“You don’t have to live every second in a house fill wid all these secrets and lies.”

Chapter 25

The box office at The Reichhold Center for the Arts sold Junior and me two tickets to Yarey’s show. They were good seats and not expensive, which made me think that perhaps Gilroy was right, this was not a way for Yarey to make a living. But, he was wrong in that without arts, many people felt lost, and that feeling could be as bad as poverty.

Junior and I milled about, admiring the romantic feel of the amphitheater. The evening was surprisingly cool and a light breeze tickled my skin. Junior had been late so I’d brought his food in a to-go bag that we took in the cab he showed up in. It filled the car with the enticing smell of fried fish and fries. On the way, I glimpsed Patrick Roberts’ law office and thought about Roger and Elias again. Father and son. Dead and alive.

Before things got even more strained between us I needed to call Elias. After shooting a quick hello-text to him, I turned back to Junior as he examined a message on his phone. Elias was right. Junior’s eerie stillness could be unnerving. At first, I chalked it up to his beyond-his-years maturity, but now it started to strike me as a primal freeze, as in fight, flight or freeze. Besides, when he argued with his family about getting into the business and his behavior around his father in particular, he didn’t strike me as all that mature. He was stuck in some emotional loop, probably caused by his father’s overbearing nature and lack of compassion.

“You believe he said that?”

He looked up. “Huh?”

“Gilroy. He said that. What’re you doing on your phone?”

“Nothing. Oh, right, Gilroy.” Junior pocketed the ticket he’d bought. “He used to be cooler, but something changed. The guy got more intense the last few years, you ask me. They used to be friendly, but Harold doesn’t like him anymore. It’s all business with him now.”

“All business. That’s accurate,” I said, rubbing my stubble.

“You know there’s an art exhibit down below?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked. “We can sit now and you can eat.”

“I want you to see this. I’m fine. I’ll eat during the show. Thanks for the food, but remember I’m vegetarian?”

“You from here and don’t eat fish? Really?”

“I’m allowed to eat whatever I wish, Boise. I’ll eat it since they’re already dead and battered, but I texted you what I wanted.”

“They didn’t have any beans and rice. I did what I could.”

Junior led me down to an art gallery on the lower level. We ambled through the African Art section, then circled back up in time to take our seats.

A tall woman with her hair wrapped in colorful dressings sat in front of me.

“I’m always the lucky short guy,” I grumbled.

The woman’s tiny daughter sat in front of Junior. He leaned over and whispered, “Bummer, dude.”

Using both hands, she adjusted the mass of fabric and hair. I wondered if carrying all that around on your head all day was healthy. Did she get headaches? My hair follicles ached at the end of the day from my hat, but it only weighed a few ounces.

I removed my hat to make it easier on whoever was behind me. Leaning toward Junior and scrunching down a bit gave me a better angle. He smelled faintly of weed.

“You smoking with Harold today?” I asked in a hushed tone.

He shook his head. Lying about something that small, especially when I’d seen them do it before also struck me as immature if not outright deceptive.

The show lasted about an hour and twenty minutes. The choir was fairly standard, but one singer who performed a solo had range, hitting some high notes with feeling. She was also physically stunning: Alicia Keys eyes, braided locks, a high forehead and shimmering skin.

After the show, my luck held as we found Yarey standing next to the solo-singing beauty in the stone courtyard, meeting and greeting the assembled masses as clouds slipped gently over the full moon. When the crowd died down, we made our way over to the pair.

Yarey hugged Junior and commented on how much he’d grown up since she last saw him.

“You never come by the distillery anymore. I thought it was your passion.”

“They shipped me off to boarding school,” he said with a shrug. “So much for passion.”

An awkward silence settled before Yarey turned to me. “You look familiar. Did we meet recently?”

“I was with your father today at the distillery.”

“Oh, right, the investigator.”

When she said this, Alicia Keys turned from speaking to an