“Aw, he hasn't done that in years, right, Kellan?” said Eustacia. Her electric-blue track suit fit properly, but she obviously wasn't wearing anything underneath it. I shook my head in disbelief at the multitude of oddly-shaped age spots and diverted my sight anywhere but in her direction. She continued, “I remember when he had that awful problem. Poor Seraphina had to change the sheets whenever that boy stayed over.”
Could this get any more embarrassing? I'd been three years old and had a nervous bladder. I'd gained full control of the situation for close to three decades at this point. “Cut it out, you two. I'll toss your little blue pills down the garbage disposal, Mr. Endicott. How'd you like that?” His eyes opened wide sending two giant, bushy eyebrows in every direction like ants in search of a morsel of food. “And you, Ms. Paddington… I'll slice several inches off your cane and see how you like hobbling around.”
Millard Paddington, Eustacia's older brother—by less than a year, Irish twins as she often called them—blushed a shade of red I rarely saw anymore. He was the only truly gentle human being in the bunch. “Leave the boy alone, you rascals, or I'll swap Gwennie's high-blood pressure pills with Eustacia's gastrointestinal medication. Neither of you will know what hit you. Don't we have important business to attend to?” Millard was the tallest of the bunch, rail thin, and had lost his hair years ago. He'd grown a handlebar moustache and had almost perfected the curls, but the children at the library held a penchant for yanking on it when he'd read to them. Calling it spotty would be a generous description yet he seemed to enjoy all the attention from the boisterous toddlers.
Gwendolyn, or Gwennie as her fellow club members called her, had been married to Eustacia's and Millard's brother, Charles, who'd passed away the prior year. She was exceedingly prim and proper and had a habit of being hasty and judgmental. I'd luckily rarely been on the receiving end of it, but Nana D had to put the woman in her place many times in the past. Gwendolyn remained silent with her upturned nose looking as snooty as possible—old schoolmarm after tasting a rancid, sour grapefruit.
“As much as I'd love to keep getting roasted by the old timers' club, Mr. Paddington is correct. How can I help with Nana D's campaign?” I asked relaxing into the only remaining chair in the room which left me practically sitting inside the roaring fireplace. “What have you prepared so far?”
Silence. No one said a word, just looked back and forth at each other waiting for someone else to chime in. We continued like this for another five minutes until I finally got them to produce a list of the top ten changes they wanted to see happen in Wharton County. I was pleasantly surprised to discover at least six of them were pragmatic ideas others could get behind. The remaining four were not—free massages in the park by 'the hot little number at the Willow Trees Retirement Complex' and a new dating app called 'Let's Get Lucky' for the over-seventy crowd seemed a tad unnecessary and inflammatory to me. Then again, I might want those things in forty years, too. Who was I to judge or put the kibosh on someone's late-in-life carnal desires? I won't even mention the other two ideas.
While I assigned everyone tasks, Gwendolyn excused herself to use the powder room. “I'm borrowing your cane, Eustacia. I'm not feeling too steady on my feet the last few days.”
As Gwendolyn walked down the hall, Nana D teased, “I'm sorry I don't have a chamber pot, you old bat. Here we call it a restroom! No one says powder room anymore.” Was Gwendolyn avoiding her responsibilities or was the absence a coincidence? As if she were privy to the conversation going on in my head, Nana D turned and said, “She always does that. When she returns, Gwennie will rush out saying she has to deal with an emergency. Just like Millard whenever I asked him to sleep over. That's the reason things didn't work out between us. He was selfish when it came to intimate things like…”
“No, Nana D. Please stop. I can't listen to it,” I said once my insides cringed and turned to Jell-O. “We've talked about this many times. I don't want to hear anything about your love life. And in return, I won't bother you with anything about mine.”
“Does that mean you have a love life to speak of? Because last time we chatted, your ability to flirt and any awkward sex appeal you still clung to had disappeared the way of the pony express,” she replied while kissing her finger, touching her derriere, and making a sizzle sound. Her tiny noise erupted into a room full of irritable senior citizens hooting at my expense.
“I'm only here for a little while, Nana D. You need to use your time wisely, or I might not help you win the mayoral race.” I filled Gwendolyn's box with campaign promotional flyers and walked out the front door to load them in Lindsey's car. He'd carted the gang over to Nana D's given he was the best driver in the whole group. When I got to the porch, I heard Gwendolyn on her phone as she shuffled to the far corner.
Gwendolyn said, “Well, if you can't make it, then I'll find someone else to take your ticket. It's not the first time you've disappointed me, and I'm sure it won't be the last. I've sponsored this production of King Lear. The whole family is supposed to be there in support of our generous donations. Maybe you're not cut out to be a member of this clan anymore.”
I watched the sourpuss expression on her face deepen until it was her turn to speak again. When she did, even I got the chills from her icy tone and unexpected threat.
“You remember that when I'm no longer around. Family is supposed to look out for one another as they get older. Not throw them to the curb like trash. Maybe I need to make another trip to the lawyer to look over my will again.” A few seconds later Gwendolyn shouted into the phone, “You've always been useless. I've got a good mind to take you down right now. We'll see how you like it when things don't turn out as you expected.” Then she hung up and struggled with the clasp on her vintage 50's-style handbag. She finally got it open, flung her phone inside, and agitatedly clutched it to her side.
I'd already stepped onto the porch and couldn't sneak back inside without her noticing me. As she turned around, Gwendolyn sneered. “You eavesdropping on my call? What kind of manners did your nana teach you, Kellan? I've got a good mind to…”
“I'm sorry. I was bringing this box to the car and didn't know you were out here,” I said cautiously holding my free hand up and balancing the box against my chest with the other. I felt bad for interrupting her privacy but was shocked at what she'd said on the phone. “Is everything okay?”
“No, my awful family keeps taking my money but refuses to do anything nice for me. I'm about to learn how dreadful one of them truly is. What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked in a raspy voice.
Other than preparing for classes and trying to contact Francesca, who'd left me no number to reach her when she absconded with her mother to New York, nothing was planned. “Spending time with my daughter and helping Nana D prepare for her upcoming debate with Councilman Stanton.”
“Well, find yourself a babysitter. You're coming with me to Braxton's dress rehearsal for King Lear. One of my useless kinsfolks canceled and I have an extra ticket.” Gwendolyn wiped a speck of dust from her eye. A woman like her never cried about family. She just complained about them to anyone who'd listen. Or even those who didn't.
“I'm sure they love you. Maybe it's a misunderstanding,” I said, sympathetic for her plight. Nana D had mentioned several times how Gwendolyn's kids had either abandoned her or gotten into trouble ever since their father had passed away. Her husband, Charles, had been the family's center of gravity while he'd been alive, but now they all treated her like a burden or an ATM machine.
“That's certainly a load of petrified cow dung! They'd be happier if I kicked the bucket on the drive home tonight. I'm concerned one of them might be trying to kill me. Something ain't right with how I feel lately. Going to the doctor on Monday to find out.” She steadied herself against the doorjamb and huffed loudly. “Stupid ungrateful beasts. If I find out one of them has been gaslighting me, I'll have them arrested. No two thoughts about it. We might be family, but they're all a bunch of vultu
res.”
Gwendolyn went back inside to corral the rest of the Septuagenarian Club. I rubbed my temples, loaded the box into Lindsey's car, and returned to the house. After everyone left, Nana D pulled me into the kitchen away from Emma's curious ears. “Did I overhear Gwennie tell you someone in her family is trying to murder her?” Nana D asked with a peculiar twitch in her left cheek.
“Yes, I assumed she was upset about one of them not going to the show. I guess I'll be going with you now,” I sighed as if the weight of the world rested on my shoulders. I loved my nana, but her friends were harder to handle than standing upside down catching a greasy pig in a mud slide.
“No, brilliant one. That's where you're wrong. Something's definitely whackadoodle in that family. She's been acting strange for weeks. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those Paddingtons was trying to kill Gwennie. You're gonna help her figure out which crazy one it is before they succeed, right?”
Chapter 2
After leaving Nana D's farm, Emma and I went shopping at a local bookstore. An hour later and a hundred dollars deeper in debt, we exited the charming literary wonder set between the two Braxton campuses with our hands full of recycled bags stocked with books. I'd snagged a copy of the debut novel in a new mystery series that had caught my eye. Next stop, the Pick-Me-Up Diner for an early dinner and much-needed therapy session with my sister. Since she was the only person I could talk to about Francesca, Eleanor would have to suffer through endless conversations about what to do next.
When we arrived, I made Emma put on a hard hat in case she bumped into any of the construction in the currently-being-renovated Pick-Me-Up Diner. Emma joined Manny, Eleanor's chef, who was in the kitchen testing new recipes even though the place wasn't accessible to the public. It still needed a final inspection on Wednesday morning before allowing in any paying customers.
“She seems to be adjusting well,” Eleanor said pulling her dirty-blonde, curly hair into a bun on the top of her head and wrapping a scrunchie around to hold it in place. While our older siblings had inherited our father's tall and lanky body structure, Eleanor and I split the dominant Danby and Betscha traits in resemblance of our mother. Eleanor got saddled with wider hips and shorter arms than she'd liked, and I ungraciously accepted untamable hair and a tiny, button nose that refused to properly balance my glasses. “Still haven't said anything to Emma, right?”
“No, I wouldn't know how or where to begin. I'm living in one of your daytime dramas lately,” I teased my sister even though it hadn't felt like a laughing matter. I loved Francesca, and the day I buried my wife was the worst day of my life. I was having trouble believing her reappearance wasn't a dream.
“Tell me again exactly how the Castiglianos pulled this off?” When Eleanor had met my mother-in-law to pick up Emma, Cecilia sent my daughter upstairs in my parents' log cabin, aka Royal Chic-Shack as we all called it, while she told Eleanor to wait in our father's study. A few minutes later, Cecilia snuck Francesca into the small, private office nestled in the far corner and locked the door. Eleanor shockingly learned that Francesca was alive, and I was summoned home immediately.
“I had less than one hour with her, then Cecilia whisked Francesca away to New York refusing to provide any way to reach her. All communication must go through my controlling in-laws,” I replied. It was like a Woody Allen movie playing out in front of me, not my own life. “I'm hoping to see her again when they return tomorrow.”
“You're seriously telling me Francesca's been hiding out at the Castigliano mansion for over two years?” Eleanor asked with bright eyes and an exaggerated amount of air blown through her lips to push rogue bangs away from her forehead. “Diabolical!”
“Yes, the whole macabre series of events happened quietly and quickly. A few days before the fake car accident, Francesca had been kidnapped by a rival mob family, the Vargas gang. I never knew about it because I'd been away on a film set. Her father's goons killed one of their men, and as retaliation, the Vargas mob captured Francesca. When he found out what'd happened, Vincenzo instructed his henchmen to do whatever it took to return his daughter.”
“But how did she end up faking her death? You've never explained that part,” Eleanor asked while peering through the small window in the kitchen door to verify Emma was still helping Manny prepare dinner and not listening to our conversation.
“The only way Vincenzo could protect her was to stage an accident that looked like she'd been killed by the Vargas family's newest driver. He bought off a local cop who poured alcohol all over the other guy's car and had the medics attempt to rescue Francesca. They never caught the driver because there never was one. When the police called to tell me about the accident, Francesca was in the room with them trying to convince her father to find another solution.”
“I can't believe she'd hurt you like this. Painful.” Eleanor acted as if it were her wife who'd lied and disappeared. I knew she was empathetic, but no one could understand the impact to my world.
“I remember seeing a few random thugs checking out the accident. They must have been there to ensure Francesca looked dead and to report my reaction. Vincenzo eventually convinced the Vargas family that he'd suffered enough by losing his daughter. Everyone agreed to call off their turf war and carefully observe proper boundaries in the future.”
“Does she have to stay dead forever? What kind of life is that?” Eleanor asked.
“I wish I knew. We only had time to agree on not telling Emma for now.” It'd made me so happy to see my wife, but my body filled with an intense anger I'd never experienced before. “Francesca's been secretly watching our daughter at the Castigliano mansion whenever Emma slept over. When I told the Castiglianos I was moving back to Pennsylvania, Francesca freaked out. It meant she could no longer watch Emma from a safe, comfortable distance.”
“That's why she came back from the dead now?” Eleanor said without blinking for a long time.
I nodded. Francesca tried to abide by her father's rules and stay hidden, but when the possibility of never seeing her daughter again became a reality, she snuck onto the plane with her new fake identity to convince me not to take Emma away. Francesca had worn a costume, dyed her hair, and sat far away in coach from Emma—Cecilia had undoubtedly flown first class. “I have no idea what to do next. I can't let this impact Emma, but if her mother's alive, shouldn't she get to be part of her life?”
“Only if it isn't dangerous. What about you? Are you thinking about getting a new identity and disappearing somewhere to rebuild a life together?” Eleanor looked disappointed and worried that I would leave town again.
In the forty-one minutes Francesca and I had together, all of which were supervised by my mother-in-law, we only discussed what to do about Emma. “I haven't thought about it. Right now, I just want to find out what she's been doing the last two and a half years. I don't even know if we're technically still married, or how any of this works.”
“Don't you still want to be married to her? You loved Francesca so much,” Eleanor asked while hugging me.
“I'm overwhelmed. I want to reclaim what we once had, but she lied to me. She ended something intimate and passionate. We were great together, and now, it feels strange to be around her.” I paused to keep my emotions from exploding. “The new Francesca has short blonde hair, wears colored contact lenses, and speaks differently. I don't know who my wife is anymore, Eleanor.”
My sister leaned in to hug me, but we were interrupted by my ringing cell phone. I looked at the screen and groaned. What did my boss want with me on a Saturday evening? I wanted to ignore her but needed a temporary break from thinking about Francesca's re-appearance in my life.
“Good evening, Myriam. How's your weekend?” I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster. Eleanor patted my shoulder, then went into the kitchen to check on Emma and give me some privacy.
“I've no time for small talk. I'm trying to fix gargantuan issues with our upcoming King Lear production. I suddenly remembered you were su
pposed to drop off your course recommendations for next semester. You seem fond of keeping me waiting for you to get your job done properly,” Myriam said haughtily. Her normal appearance backed up the narcissistic attitude, too—she always wore immaculately cut power suits and kept her short, spiky gray hair perfectly styled. I'd suspected at one time it was a wig, and if I ever had the chance, I'd rip that sucker off to test my theory. It didn't matter that she was old enough to be my mother, the viper needed to be taken down a notch or two.
While Myriam was correct about the deliverable, we'd agreed on Monday being the due date. It was only Saturday. I'd completed them that morning but hadn't planned to submit them until the last minute as retaliation for her giving me such a short deadline. It was the only way I could irritate my boss without crossing any overt boundaries. “Certainly. I thought we could discuss them in our weekly meeting next Tuesday. I'd be happy to email them to you tomorrow.”
“That simply won't do. I need time to review before we meet, and I'm in rehearsals all day tomorrow. I distinctly asked you to get them to me in advance, but it seems you struggle with listening as well as punctuality. 'Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.' Wouldn't you agree?” Myriam told me to hold on, then shouted at someone in the theater about annunciating properly.
“As you like it,” I replied naming the Shakespearean comedy from where her line came.
“Now you seem to understand who's the boss. Drop it off in thirty minutes at Paddington's Play House. And don't dawdle. I'm sure it'll take me hours to revise and comment on it,” Myriam replied with a growl before hanging up.
Broken Heart Attack Page 2
