3CWP Award Winner

“Vilaura” [excerpt]

The study smelled of old dusty books and polished wood – familiar, heartbreaking. With its floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls, she felt comforted by the many legal volumes, business ledgers and classic literature that surrounded her. She thought back to the many evenings she had lounged on the Moroccan rug and done her homework while her father worked late. She always knew when he was getting close to going to bed as his Spanish accent was thicker the more tired he was. Though she loved her father’s gravelly voice, it was the moments it was the thinnest, when he was laughing, that she loved the most.

Down the hall she heard the old grandfather clock with its loud metallic bongs indicating  that it was now midnight. Happy Birthday to her. She was now 18 years old and with her father dead, this manse now belonged to her. Vilaura, or Vila as her friends called her, had been out hours earlier celebrating when she came home to find her father murdered in their driveway. Sprawled across the cobble steps, Javier Torres lay motionless in a pool of his own blood. Her father had been her world. His frame muscular, six-foot tall, his raven hair slicked back, Javier had not known the bullet was coming for him. He lay face down with his feet still on the walk, his chin resting on the top step and his arms stretched wide. The police officers said that it looked random as his untouched briefcase was nearby, his wallet still on him and the gold and diamond watch he always wore still in its place on his wrist.

What the police officers didn’t know, and why Vila was still sitting in her father’s old leather chair, was she’d found a coin and a key, in an all too familiar blue silk pouch, clasped tightly in her father’s hand. Her father always carried this pouch with him, tucked gently into his front right pocket. At night he placed it into a small plain cherry oak box that sat beside him on his nightstand. Once, she had asked him about it, but his gentle yet stern reply was that she would find out in time. The coin and key contained in the pouch were items that she’d never seen before. It didn’t make sense. What was so important about them to be treasure by her father all these years. More importantly, why had he pulled the pouch from his pocket to clasp as he lay dying? Her father was a careful and meticulous man. A man who planned three steps ahead and hated loose ends. If her father had chosen to keep these objects secret and hidden all these years – and then to die clutching them – then they weren’t just random or keepsakes. They were a message and she was meant to understand it.

The coin was heavier than it looked – older, too. The metal wasn’t gold or silver, but something in between, dull and softly gleaming, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. They curled and looped like whimsical vines, delicate and precise, as though whoever carved them had done so with reverence instead of force. No date. No country. No identifying markers. Just the strange markings on one side and on the other a crescent-and-crown emblem she didn’t recognize. Vila turned the coin repeatedly between her fingers as she now studied the key. The key was as strange to her as the coin. It was older and barely the size of her pinky. Vila had never seen a key like this outside of the similar looking key that Cinderella’s stepmother used to lock her in the attic. It had the same intricate vine-like design going from the bow and down the shank where it stopped at the glinting diamond collar. The bit held unusually shaped teeth. Vila had tried every door in the house, every drawer, every cabinet, even the old trunk in the attic where her father kept his memories from the island where he grew up. Nothing fit.

She rubbed her eyes, which burned from crying she refused to do anymore. Tears felt useless. She needed answers.

In the desk drawer, beneath a stack of arranged files, she’d found the envelope with her father’s unmistakable handwriting – For Vilaura. Her chest tightened and her hands shook. She gently pulled an opener from the top drawer and slid it along the underside of the envelope flap. Vila hurriedly pulled the folded pages from within. Unfolding the papers she nervously began reading:

My dearest Vilaura~

If you are reading this, then I am no longer able to tell you these things myself – and for that, I am so deeply sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me. Please know that every choice I made was to protect you. Never doubt, even for a moment, how fiercely I love you. You have been the greatest treasure of my life, and I would not trade the years we had together for anything the world might offer

Vila couldn’t hold back the flood of tears that spilled over her lids. Her heart ached with such intensity she thought it may stop. She didn’t understand what her father thought she needed to forgive him for and she certainly knew the depth of his love for her. She’d felt it within her soul every day she could remember. She continued reading:

Much of what follows may not make sense but will in time. I wish I could explain everything plainly, but the truth is dangerous and lies were the only shield I had left to give you. Soon, a stranger will come to you – someone who will unravel your reality. They will tell you things that I was unable to. Listen carefully. What you learn will be difficult, but necessary. I wish you did not have to learn about your mother like this.

Vila gasped and almost dropped the letter. What truth about her mother? Her father had always told her that her mother, Selene, had died in a car accident when she was 2 years old. She didn’t remember her mother beyond her father’s stories. She didn’t even have a picture of her. Her father had genuinely loved her mother beyond just words because he’d refused to take off his wedding band, and the mention of even meeting another woman beyond business was out of the question. She continued:

I know your heart must be breaking right now and that you have so many questions. I hate that I won’t be there to carry your pain or to help you navigate what is to come. Be strong, my brilliant girl. Trust your instincts. Question what you see and are told. Do not place your faith in anyone too quickly. The world is not always what it seems, and this – of all things – is your most important investigation yet.

Well, at least now she knew that she was right when she jumped into her Sherlock Holmes mode after finding the pouch in her father’s hand. She recalled those quiet evenings beside the fire listening intently as her father would read of Holmes and his investigations. She’d been mesmerized and found herself often playing detective games as a child. Her father would participate at times and give her riddles and clues to follow where she would find a present from him in the end.

I have always believed in you. Now, I need you to believe in yourself. Though I may no longer stand beside you, know this with certainty: I am not gone. My love, my spirit, and my watchful heart will remain with you for all the days of your life, just as they always have.

Eternally Mi Amore,

Papa

The letter fell from her hands as she surrendered herself to the grief. Her father really was gone from this world. The flood exploded from her eyes, and she let out a guttural howl of anguish. How long she lay curled on the floor, sobbing in the darkness she didn’t know, but it was in this state that she lulled herself asleep.

Vila woke to the sound of a woodpecker beating the tree outside the window, as if his breakfast was more important than her sleep. The sun was falling brightly through the panes, piercing the morning with hope that last night was a nightmare. It wasn’t. She picked up the coin to study it again, flipping it over- she froze. She could have sworn the markings shimmered. Vila blinked hard, her pulse kicking up. The room was quiet. Normal. The sunlight catching dust motes in the air. She turned the coin again. Nothing. Just metal and symbols and her own imagination, fueled by shock, grief and exhaustion. She stood up and stretched. Slipping the coin, key and letter into her skirt and smoothing the wrinkles. Well, she’d better get some breakfast before starting on her day. She wondered if any of the staff had arrived yet. The police officers would be by later to question them all though she couldn’t imagine any of them wanting to harm her father. She still had to tell them that their beloved boss was dead. Hit by another round of grief by the thought, Vila slumped back into the chair as fresh tears threatened to spill. She had to maintain her composure.

The clock chimed just as the shrill of the doorbell shattered the silence. She wasn’t expecting the police until later this morning, and she wasn’t expecting anyone else, most certainly not at the front door. All of their usual visitors knew to use the kitchen door where Ms. Knoll was usually baking some kind of delicious snack or dessert. Maybe it was the police with a new lead or arriving earlier to be here when the staff began to arrive. Another ring, firmer this time. With her heart pounding in her ears, she crossed the hall and descended the stairs. Each step echoed too loudly. She reached the front door and hesitated, hand hovering over the knob.

“Hello?” she called out, though her voice wasn’t as strong as she’d hoped.

There was a pause, then a woman’s voice, calm and clear. She spoke with a delicate, twinkling chime.

“Vilaura Torres. I must speak to you at once.”

Every hair on Vila’s arms lifted. She cautiously opened the door. The woman standing before her looked ordinary at first glance. She was possibly in her mid-thirties, her dark hair pulled back into a perfect bun, wearing a simple coat and sensible shoes. But her eyes were primordial. Not frightening or cruel. Just… old. Ancient in a way that made Vila feel suddenly young, small and terribly seen.

Vila stepped back to let the stranger in. Closing the door, she turned to find her visitor staring at her.

“You look just like her you know,” The stranger said. “Your mother.”

Vila’s breath caught. “My mother is dead,” she said, the words sharp and practiced.

The stranger laughed. The sound of a million bells all chiming at once filled the air. It would almost be delightful if it were not for the fact that this stranger was laughing at Vila for her dead mother.

“No,” the stranger laughed, “She’s not. And neither are you what and who you think you are.”

Suddenly, the coin in her pocket felt hot against her hip and somewhere deep inside her, something long asleep began to stir.

Author information: Mary is in her 2^nd semester at Cecil. She lives in Elkton with her husband John, their daughter Luna, their son Julius and their German shepherd, Remi. Mary hopes to one day see her writing in bookstores and travel to see Scotland.