Ashes on the Earth (Stones of Fire Book 1) Read online

  “Maybe when they got your information to pay your hospital bill they got those records too?”

  “Isn’t that a little creepy? Medical records are supposed to be confidential.”

  “True,” Mom agreed. “Are you going to accept them? I think you should. As a parent, I know I’d do anything I could for someone who saved my child’s life. Buying someone designer glasses—I’m sure they feel like it’s the least they could do. Still, they are very, very nice.”

  She was thinking the same thing I was: that this was something I’d never dreamed of owning. It was almost…too much.

  During my childhood, we’d never had money to speak of. Dad had spent his career in the military, part of it as a Religious Affairs Specialist, or Chaplain’s Assistant, meaning our family had moved from place to place, going where the Army ordered. Eventually, Mom had decided homeschooling us was a better option than constantly changing schools, so a dual income had gone out the window. Money was tight for a family of five. Nothing had changed since my father’s recent retirement, except that he now worked at a center for vets with PTSD and other issues. Mom continued to homeschool my younger brothers. There was no way my parents could have ever afforded anything with this particular designer’s label. There was no way I could afford it either, at least not for several years in the future when I had my nursing degree, a good job, and my student loans were paid off. Even then, I was too conservative by nature to blow money on something like this.

  “I guess I can try them on,” I said to please her.

  I wasn’t sure why I still felt funny about it. It was a nice gesture.

  And, I told myself, what is an expensive pair of glasses in comparison to their son’s life?

  Placing my old glasses with the cracked lens on the couch beside my leg, I retrieved the new ones from the case and slid them onto my nose, hooking them behind my ears. They fit very well. Were extremely comfortable. The prescription was definitely up to date. They were nice. Too nice. I felt awkward.

  “Aw you look so pretty,” said my mom, reaching up to brush stray wisps of hair out of my face. “You deserve this, Ellie. You really do.

  “Hey, go ahead and open the envelope next.”

  Quashing the weird feelings over the glasses, I laid aside the packaging and lifted the envelope. It was made of thick cream paper. My name, Miss Eleanor St. James, was printed in a rich black font across the front. Underneath was my address. In the upper left hand corner was the sender’s name and address.

  Mr. and Mrs. Sean Costas.

  “Those must be Jackson’s parents,” I told my mom. “I remember Amy mentioning the name Costas.”

  “Costas?” She took the envelope from me, examining it. “Do you know who that is?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Ellie,” Mom said, her reddish eyebrows pinching in a frown. “If it’s the same person—and I bet it is—he’s only one of the biggest businessmen in the whole Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. In the entire state of Texas. Maybe the biggest. He owns Costas Tower in downtown Fort Worth. Another in Dallas. No wonder he was able to get ahold of your glasses prescription.” She took in my wide eyes and gaping mouth. “You really didn’t know that?”

  “Well, I mean, the name sounded a bit familiar, and Amy was a nanny and mentioned a driver and everything, but I never thought to put two and two together.”

  “Wow. I just—wow. I can’t believe you saved the son of one of the richest men in Texas. Sending you expensive designer glasses probably really is the least he can do.” Mom handed back the envelope. “Better go ahead and see what’s in there.”

  I felt unaccountably nervous as I tugged at the flap, breaking the seal. The interior of the envelope was silver. I pulled out an embossed card, complete with a family crest or coat of arms at the bottom. With my mom leaning over my shoulder, I read,

  Miss Eleanor St. James,

  The honor of your presence is requested at a dinner at the home of Sean and Ciara Costas on Thursday, November 1, at 6:00 P.M. A car and driver will be dispatched to pick you up at 5:15 P.M. and will return you home.

  The address at the bottom, just above the family coat of arms, was some ritzy area of Fort Worth that people like me normally had no business visiting.

  “Dang.” I murmured aloud. I laid the invitation on my lap and turned to my mom. “I guess when Amy said her boss was going to treat me like family, she really meant it.”

  Mom shook her head, appearing worried. I was pretty sure I had a similar expression on my face. Looking at her was like looking in a mirror. People said we could almost pass for twins. It was from her I’d inherited my diminutive height, skinny build, pale complexion, and the light scattering of pale freckles across my nose and cheekbones. My hazel eyes, blonde hair, and darker eyebrows had come straight from my dad, though.

  “I don’t know about this, Ellie. I’m sure Mr. Costas means to be kind, but he does have a reputation.”

  “A reputation? For what? Rubbing elbows with the governor and president and hanging out at the swankiest golf clubs?”

  Mom didn’t crack a smile. “No, although he does all that too. He’s sort of got a reputation as a mafia don or mob boss.”

  I would have snickered at the terms except Mom was so utterly serious.

  “That—seems a little farfetched, Mom. Probably any rich businessman is going to be accused of shady business dealings.”

  “Well, some people think he’s a little shadier than most.”

  “If he’s breaking the law, then why isn’t he in trouble with the law?” I inquired mildly, refusing to make myself more nervous than I already was at the idea of meeting this man and his wife.

  “You know how people like that are. Money and connections can protect you from just about anything.”

  “Oh yes, I know all about that,” I joked, “and so do you. Honestly, Mom, I think you’ve been watching too many police dramas.”

  She didn’t deny it but she didn’t push the point, either. Instead, she said, “It’s way out of our family’s comfort zone. I don’t know what your dad will say about it. On the other hand, we’d look like massive jerks if you didn’t go, since they’re having you over to thank you.”

  “Yeah…all mafia and mob boss stuff aside, I guess you don’t really turn a man like Mr. Costas down,” I agreed.

  But as I gazed at the invitation in my lap, through the perfect lenses of the designer glasses they’d sent me, I wanted to. I felt anxious. Like Mom had said, this was way, way, way out of my comfort zone. Way out of my league.

  Chapter Three

  I felt even more out of my league a few days later sitting in the back of the car that was sent to pick me up. The sleek grey car—apparently some British sports car that made my twelve-year-old brother’s jaw drop—had pulled up in front of our house right on time. A tall Native American woman, maybe around forty, dressed in crisp black clothes had gotten out of the driver’s seat, came around and held the door for me.

  I’d felt incredibly awkward as I said goodbye to my family, who were all gathered behind me in the doorway, staring, then bypassed the driver, thanking her as I climbed into the car. Now, on my way to the Costas’ home, I sat in the backseat and fretted. My hair was already slipping out of its simple knot. My fine hair defied any kind of restraint, which was why I usually didn’t mess with it much. I rarely wore makeup, either, except a little mascara and eyeshadow. Mom and I had made a special trip to the drugstore on the corner to buy foundation and powder and blush and other stuff I couldn’t even name just for tonight.

  Afterward, we’d scoured both of our closets, searching for something, anything appropriate. Neither of us really knew what you were supposed to wear to an event like this, because neither of us had ever been to an event like this. Finally, Mom suggested an ivory silk blouse from her closet paired with a simple black pencil skirt from mine. I’d buckled on my nicest pair of black heels, and we’d figured out jewelry. I hoped I looked presentable. I certainly looke
d Sunday morning church presentable, but what was that compared to dinner at the home of a man who owned freaking towers in downtown Fort Worth and Dallas?

  To keep myself from fretting over my appearance, since there was nothing I could do about it now, I pulled the invitation from my purse and studied it in the dim light. The driver didn’t seem inclined to talk, other than asking me how I was doing this evening when I’d first entered the car.

  “Fine, how are you?” I’d responded.

  “I’m well, thank you for asking.”

  “I-I’m Ellie,” I’d said next, then felt foolish. Of course she knew who I was, since she’d been sent to fetch me.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Ellie.”

  She hadn’t offered her name. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to talk to me. Was I supposed to talk to her? Since I didn’t know how any of this worked, I’d fallen silent and sat there fidgeting, hoping I wasn’t sweating too much and that my deodorant would hold up.

  I rubbed my thumb restlessly along the embossed frame bordering the invitation.

  Miss Eleanor St. James.

  It sounded so pretentious, almost like I belonged in the world of the Costas family. I’d never figured out why my parents stuck me with a name like Eleanor when I already had a pompous surname like St. James. I greatly preferred Ellie. It was so much easier.

  I re-read the invitation, then skipped down to the bottom, to the family seal, or coat of arms. I’d always found coats of arms interesting, and was curious about both the blended coat of arms and the Costas’s name. I’d googled the family after the invitation arrived, reading up on various charitable events and appearances, meetings with the governor, with senators and congressmen and women, not to mention golf with the president. A little about the different businesses Mr. Costas was involved with, which were too many for me to keep track of.

  I didn’t find much to verify Mom’s warnings of the mafia or the mob, except Costas was a name of Greek origin, but both Mr. Costas and his wife had Irish first names—Sean, Ciara. Their coat of arms had a red shield, divided into four quarters. One quarter was a bull, one a mermaid figure, one some sort of stone-looking tablets, shaped like the Ten Commandments tablets in the old movie, and the last a quiver with a clutch of weapons: a spear, a rifle, a sword, arrows…

  None of the items seemed to necessarily go together. Maybe they’d made up their own coat of arms. I didn’t know, but puzzling over it was interesting enough to keep me from completely freaking out during the ride across the city to the Costas home.

  My fears of being way out of my league were confirmed by the guarded gate, with actual guardsmen inside the hut. The wall surrounding their estate must have been a good ten feet high, at least. All I could see over the top was trees. The driver stopped the car and rolled down the windows, letting the guard glance inside before the gates were open and he waved her through. I leaned forward to stare out the windshield. In the fading evening light, supplemented by up-lights on the trees, I could see a winding, paved, tree-lined drive and manicured lawns underneath the trees, with boulders and fountains, seasonal flowers and bushes all perfectly maintained. I didn’t spot the house until we’d driven a couple more minutes, the driveway was so long. We rounded the final bend. My breath caught when I saw the mansion at the end.

  “Wow,” I breathed.

  The structure was white stone with black tiled roof and gables. A circular drive led to the front door—which also had two doormen. I caught glimpses of more buildings behind the main house. Quite a few of them, actually. The house itself was large enough to qualify for a small hospital.

  Okay, you’re thinking like a nurse, I told myself. Don’t think like a nurse. Think like a…a—

  A what? Somebody who belonged here? I sure wasn’t that.

  The car rolled to a stop, and one of the two men standing by the front door approached to open my door. Unfortunately, I’d already opened it and had started to duck out, so it turned into that awkward moment of me not knowing what he was intending and doing his job for him. Still, he was polite, keeping his hand on the doorknob as I climbed out and shutting the door closed behind me.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, wondering if I should explain that I wasn’t used to people opening my car door for me. I kept my mouth shut. That seemed like the best thing to do. Just say as little as possible and survive the evening until I could get back home and into a world I was familiar with.

  “Not a problem, Miss,” he said with a small smile. “This way.”

  He led me into the house, past a gigantic thick, wooden front door carved with the same coat of arms that decorated the invitation. Inside, everything was extensive space and white walls, dark furniture, and pops of color in the décor. Also inside, waiting in the vestibule, were my hosts.

  “So, Ellie, tell us what you do,” invited Mrs. Costas.

  We were seated in a dining room that was bigger than the kitchen, living room, and dining area of my house combined. After introductions, Mr. Costas had led us here, pushing his wife’s wheelchair, explaining with a smile that things were going to be a little more informal tonight. If this was informal, I would have hated to see their version of formal. The wallpaper was creams and golds, the dining room table was mahogany, the chairs had embroidered cushions, and the flower arrangements alone probably cost more than an entire month of groceries for my family.

  I lifted my eyes from my plate, which I’d been staring at in an attempt not to stare at anything else. Ciara Costas was a beautiful woman, and, thanks to Google, I knew was consistently named to best dressed and most fashionable lists, despite living in a wheelchair. She was about fifteen years younger than her husband, so maybe in her late thirties. She was Irish, and had the lyrical accent to prove it. Her rich black hair was done up in a style that sort of reminded me of a Gibson girl hairdo, but on her it looked fresh and modern. Her red lips and green eyes were a striking contrast to the darkness of her hair and eyebrows. Despite her wealth and beauty, she had a sweet look about her and was clearly trying to make me feel comfortable.

  “I’m in nursing school,” I replied. “Training to be an RN. Eventually, I plan to specialize in pediatrics.”

  “Pediatrics. You must love children, then.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, we can never thank you enough for what you did for our son,” spoke up Mr. Costas.

  I glanced his way. He was a powerfully built man in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair combed back, piercing grey eyes under thick dark brows, and a well-trimmed beard. Tonight he wore a pin-striped vest over a white button-up shirt. The sleeves were casually rolled to his elbows, and I’d been surprised to see that his forearms were sleeved in tattoos. The tattoos were strange, too. All kind of mythical looking animals and creatures, like bulls and mermaids (mermaids again) and winged women and skeletons in armor and even a medusa with snakes for hair. When we’d first sat down, I’d considered asking if he was into mythology or something, but figured it might come across as rude since my guess was based off his tattoos, and maybe I wasn’t supposed to remark on them.

  “It’s fine,” I said, feeling awkward, uncertain how to respond. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time. I’d never want to see a child hurt. How is Jackson doing?”

  “He’s recovered very well,” my host assured me, picking up his coffee cup for a sip. “You know kids. They bounce back faster than adults. He acts like nothing ever happened.”

  “And Amy? How is Amy? She seemed pretty shaken up,” I inquired next.

  I was just trying to be nice. I wasn’t prepared for the hard look that spread across my host’s face.

  “Amy has been relieved of her position,” Mr. Costas said, setting the mug down with a clunk that made me jump. “When I hire someone to look after my son, I expect them to do just that. Guard my son. Amy’s carelessness nearly got my son killed. She won’t ever be allowed near him again.”

  “Oh.” Now you’ve done it, I sco
lded myself. You’ve stuck your foot in it for sure. “I-I’m sorry. I—”

  “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong,” spoke up Mrs. Costas, offering me a reassuring smile.

  But I felt like I had. The atmosphere in the room had shifted. Mr. Costas had fallen to brooding, and his wife was obviously trying to ease the tension.

  “Carter, would you fetch my husband some more coffee, please?” she said next, addressing the man hovering in the background, against the wall.

  He’d been so quiet and so still I’d barely noticed he was there. I’d wondered if maybe he was a butler or something, although he wasn’t one of the people who’d been in and out, laying out dishes, serving food, and pouring drinks. This was the first time he’d moved at all as he stepped up to retrieve my host’s coffee cup, carried it to the silver coffee pot on the side board, and refilled it. Our eyes met for a second when he stooped behind his employer’s chair to set down the mug. I quickly glanced away, not wanting to be caught staring.

  While he wasn’t the handsomest man I’d ever seen, he had sort of a striking appearance, with his olive skin and dark eyes. His black hair was cut close, and, like his boss, he wore a neatly trimmed goatee. The most eye-catching thing about him was how big he was. Not big as in tall—he wasn’t much over average height. It was his build. He was wearing a dark suit, but the seams on the upper arms looked strained. His jacket couldn’t hide the muscles in his broad chest and stacked shoulders. He looked more like a bodybuilder than a butler—if that’s what he even was. Honestly, I didn’t know if people still had butlers anymore, especially in Texas.

  He stepped back into the corner, far enough behind his boss’s chair to be helpful if needed, but to offer some privacy for conversation. Mrs. Costas, trying to keep the ambiance pleasant, asked a few questions about myself, my parents, and my family, starting with my mother. I explained briefly how Mom chose to be a stay-at-home mom and homeschool my brothers and myself, and why, hoping I didn’t come across as some sort of weirdo. Mrs. Costas didn’t bat an eye. She was smiling graciously and nodding, but I couldn’t help worrying, especially since here I was the guest of a man some people claimed was a mafia don.