True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  Amy wraps her fingers around the weapon and tentatively holds her arms straight out. “How can you tell if it fits?”

  Bob takes her hand in his and turns her arm for a better look at her fingers curled around the weapon. “Not bad. If the first pad on your finger engages the face of the trigger, the fit’s good.”

  Amy tips her head, checking the fit. “I’ll take it.”

  “You don’t want to try any others?”

  “No. I want this one.” She sets it down and pulls her Connecticut Pistol Permit from her purse. “I need the gun and anything else necessary. Ammunition, a gun safe, maybe a holster of some kind, cleaning supplies.”

  “Okay, I just have a couple forms you need to complete. And what about training?”

  She pulls a pen from her purse. “Where would I do that?”

  He slides a glossy brochure across the counter. “The indoor firing range is down the street. You’d want a combination of classroom and live firing instruction. I’d advise a basic safety course followed by a defensive handgun course. Some of the classes pack a lot of punch in a few hours.”

  Without basic training, the weapon is no good to her. Amy turns it over in her hand. The pad of her thumb runs over the dotted black polymer grip. Sara Beth is babysitting Grace and so she needs to get back home, under the pretense of returning from a special therapy session. There are all kinds of therapy, after all. Physical, psychological, social. She considers the gun, needing to control it physically first. Psychologically, too. So the defensive lessons on the firing range will be her therapy now. Therapy preparing her so that next time, she’ll be ready.

  “I can sign you up for the lessons here. We’re part of the same facility.”

  “Okay, Bob. That will work out just fine.”

  * * *

  “I hate doing this, but I need as many eyes on her as possible.” George pulls the pencil from behind his ear and rips a piece of meat wrapping paper from a roll. He writes Amy’s address on the paper and hands it to Nate standing on the other side of the deli case, sunglasses perched on top of his head.

  “Why do you hate me helping?”

  “You bullshitting me?” George asks. “This is all your damn fault to begin with, and now I’m asking for your help?”

  “Yeah. Well. I know the house. I picked you up after the mall thing.” Nate folds the paper in half and tucks it into his jeans pocket. “I still don’t get why you hooked up with her. If she figures things out, you’re screwed.”

  “Quit worrying about me.”

  “It’s not just you I’m worried about.” Nate checks his watch. “I’m coming around back to make a sandwich.”

  “Not with those clothes on, you’re not.” A film of white dust coats Nate’s jeans and the long sleeve denim work shirt he just slipped out of. He wears heavy work boots and a T-shirt revealing seriously strong arms. Tile work does that, the same way throwing baseballs did, developing the biceps and triceps fully. “You’ll contaminate the place.”

  Nate walks in a long stride to the round tables in the corner and hangs his shirt over his seat back. “Make me a sandwich then, would you? Got any roast beef?”

  George returns with two roast beef sandwiches on hard rolls, two cups of his shop’s house blend coffee and a jar of horseradish. He sits across from his brother. “And don’t be going by her place until I talk to her.”

  “I won’t,” Nate says around a mouthful of sandwich. “You’ve got the cash, George. Why don’t you hire someone to watch her and find out who’s doing this shit? I mean, stalking? That’s pretty serious.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not touching that money? It’s not ours to spend. Let’s just return it and the hell with it.” He picks up his sandwich and sets it back down, untouched. “Forget the day ever happened.”

  Nate finishes chewing and washes the food down with a swallow of black coffee. He opens what is left of his roll and slathers horseradish on the pink roast beef. “Hey, it was all insured. No one’s really lost anything. If we play our cards right, we’ll be set for life with that cash. Like right now, it can find who’s stalking Amy. It opens doors.”

  “Like shit it does.”

  “No, really. Let’s say it’s your birthday. Now I can buy you season tickets to the Yankees if I want. I could never swing that before.”

  “What do I want with season tickets? I’m not driving to the Bronx more than once or twice a year.”

  “It was almost your team, George. It’s my way of paying you back.”

  “Will you get over it, once and for all? I don’t want to hear for the rest of my life that you fucked up my shot at the majors that day at the cottage. Dad died when he did. It is what it is, Nate. Drop it already.”

  “Oh, cool off. I’m just saying you earned it, man, if you spend a little on yourself. Kind of like a sweat equity.” Nate tips back in his chair and eyes George. “Sweet Jesus, we did sweat that day, didn’t we? So enjoy the payoff. We can take that bike trip any time now. Go out to the west coast. You’re looking stressed, George. It’d do you good to get away. Just the open road ahead of us, blue skies and all.” He presses what’s left of his sandwich into his mouth. “We can even fix up that rat trap at the beach now,” he says around the food. “Hell, we can remodel it into a seaside resort.”

  The bell over the door rings when a young working couple stops in on their lunch hour. They consider the meals-to-go case. “Hold your thought,” George says as he goes to take their order. They buy seafood cakes and two porterhouse steaks before leaving. When George sits across from Nate again, he picks up his sandwich. “And we’re not doing any beach remodeling either, so don’t get any ideas. I like that little cottage just fine the way it is. The same way I liked my life the way it was. It was my life.” When the bell above the door rings again, George sets his sandwich down and shoves the plate to the side, nearly whispering, “For all the money in the world, I don’t own it anymore.”

  “George?”

  They both look back to the doorway. George glares at Nate, then pushes back his chair and wipes his hands on his black apron before walking quickly to the door. His eyes never leave her, never leave the deep gold gypsy skirt and fitted black tank, never leave the face that looks relaxed for the first time in a week. The therapy must have helped. And he doesn’t stop hearing his own heartbeat, as he’s unsure as to what Amy might have heard.

  “Hey,” he says, kissing her full on the mouth. “This is a nice surprise, what are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d stop in and say hello. I have a few minutes.”

  “How about a bite to eat?”

  “No, George. Just a visit.” She hitches her head toward Nate. “Did I interrupt something?” she asks.

  George looks over his shoulder, hesitates, then takes Amy’s hand. “It’s just my brother. Come on.”

  Nate pulls the sunglasses off the top of his head, slips them in the pocket of the shirt on the chair back and slides a third chair over to the table.

  “Nate. I’d like you to meet Amy Trewist. Amy, my brother Nate Carbone.”

  “Nate,” she says, smiling.

  Nate stands and takes her hand. “Amy, nice to meet you. Grab a seat.”

  George pulls out her chair. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Amy says, squeezing his hand. “Sara Beth’s babysitting Grace. We’re going out for lunch and ice cream.”

  “How’d the therapy go this morning? Did it help much?”

  “Definitely. I’m making good progress,” Amy assures him.

  “I’m sorry to hear what’s happened to you, Amy,” Nate says. “I told George if there’s any way I can help, I’d like to.”

  Amy’s gaze moves between the two brothers. “I’m okay,” she insists. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”

  “Well until they do,” George adds, “I told Nate about the stalking.”

  She turns to Nate. “It’s nothing, really. George is very protective.�
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  “With good reason,” Nate agrees. He sips his coffee, watching her over the rim.

  “We thought that when Nate’s in your part of town, he’ll swing by your house,” George lets her know. “To be sure no one’s there that shouldn’t be.”

  “You really don’t have to. I could never impose on you like that, Nate.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “The more people around you right now, the better,” George insists.

  “You guys,” she says. “You make it sound like I’m some damsel in distress. I am very careful. And nothing’s happened for a few days. Maybe he’s losing interest.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he’s gearing up for the next round,” George says. “In the meantime, I’ll feel better knowing my brother’s around, too. And you won’t mistake him when he swings by. That’s his motorcycle parked outside.”

  “Well now that I’ve got my Carbone bodyguards lined up … thank you, Nate. For Grace’s sake, I won’t argue further.”

  “Your daughter?” Nate asks.

  “Yes, and she’s my first priority.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Nate reaches for George’s plate with the still untouched sandwich and pulls it in front of him.

  “Don’t you have to get to work?” George asks, pulling the plate back across the table.

  “What do you do, Nate?” Amy asks.

  “I lay tile. A lot of commercial work, some specialty residential jobs.”

  “You’re an artisan, then.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use,” George says, never breaking eye contact with his brother.

  Nate reaches over and clasps his hand. “Thanks for lunch. And Amy,” he says, standing. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ll be glad to swing by, it’s no problem. Anything for George.”

  “Don’t forget your shirt,” George calls after him.

  Nate turns back and lifts his work shirt off the chair. “Thanks.”

  “He really doesn’t mind driving by?” Amy asks once Nate walks out to his bike. “Things seemed a little tense when I came in.”

  “He can be a pain in the ass.” George watches him start the bike outside. “Ever since we were kids, he always tagged along, trying to impress me so he could hang with his big brother, you know? To this day, he’s forever planning something with me, even more so since the accident with my father. A ballgame. One-on-one on the basketball court. Stops in here twice a week just to have lunch. So he can get a little overbearing, too, and then I need some space.” George sips his coffee, watching as Nate maneuvers into traffic. “And he never lets me forget his big dream, which is for me to buy a Harley and take a road trip with him. Two brothers on the open road, riding off into the sunset out west, or something like that. You get the picture.”

  “Sounds kind of nice. You’re lucky to have him.”

  “Yeah.” A quick smile passes over his face as he looks out to Nate’s now empty parking space. If you’d call it luck, he’s not so sure.

  * * *

  Amy had been in the neighborhood when she stopped in to see George. She had been killing time before the appointment she’d scheduled with Detective Hayes.

  “Maybe I’m crazy, I don’t know,” she says once she sits beside his desk. “But I think I’m being stalked.” There. She said it. For a week she thought about doing this and finally decided that if she was buying a gun, it was damn real. The incidents are valid. She needs all the protection she can get, so the police need to know.

  “Stalked. What’s happening?” Detective Hayes asks.

  She tells him everything, starting with her tampered answering machine and ending with her whistling teakettle. “They’re kind of insignificant. I mean, I haven’t been threatened in any way.”

  “Oh, I think you have,” he interrupts. “Non-violent threats are still threats. And they can escalate.”

  “So you don’t think it’s just me? Forgetting things with the stress I’ve been under?”

  “No, I don’t. And I’m glad you’re telling me. Sometimes victims think the stalking is harmless or will resolve itself. And that’s not often the case.”

  “Well now. This keeps getting better.”

  “Anyone got a beef with you? Agitated neighbor? Family quarrel?” When she shakes her head no, he goes on. “Didn’t think so. What I’m inclined to think is it’s all tied in with the heist. I’m just not sure how, yet. Or why.”

  “Me, either.”

  “I’m going to need you to do a few things to help us out. You’ve taken all security precautions?”

  “Lights, locks, that sort of thing, yes,” she assures him.

  “Good. Lock your garage, too. And document everything: phone messages, letters, email, mysterious gifts. It’s all evidence. And keep your cell phone charged. You know, in case anything happens to your landline.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And if you’re in your car and think you’re being followed, drive directly here.”

  “You’re not taking any chances, Detective.”

  “We absolutely can’t. The thing with stalking is that there’s not much the police can do about it at this stage. Of course, with what you’ve been through, I’m documenting it all as part of the same crime.”

  “Which means I’ll have police protection?”

  “We can’t stake someone at your house around the clock, it’s really not feasible. That’s why I need you to be vigilant. But I’ll have a cruiser swing by regularly. Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on you.”

  * * *

  Something about the day has a Christmas feel to it. It is the secrecy. No one knows that she talked to Detective Hayes. No one knows she bought a nine-millimeter handgun. Not even George. This is her life, her decisions. Her daughter that she needs to protect. The package remains in her SUV trunk like a hidden Christmas present. As she spoons vanilla ice cream dripping with hot fudge into her mouth, she knows she can reach the weapon within seconds, if necessary. She can stop someone dead.

  And all the while Amy smiles and converses with Sara Beth as they plan their next walking route. Grace sits beside her, and Bear sits beside Grace. A string of seashells form a necklace around Grace’s neck. But will Grace indicate which ice cream she prefers? No. Will she laugh and call Amy silly when Amy leaves a dot of ice cream on the tip of her nose? No. Will she sing along with Sara Beth when she softly sings a nursery rhyme? No. Her daughter has nothing to add about grandfather clocks striking one and mice running down and hickory dickory dock. And so Amy is thrilled to know she can stop any bastard who steals these little pleasures from her child again. That is the good that comes from being stalked. It’s empowered her.

  It does something else, too. She and George grow even closer. When he isn’t at work, he is with her. If he can’t be with her, he phones or sends quick emails about their weekend plans, or quotes a Sinatra song. He calms her through her flashbacks, holding her and talking softly. He often brings dinner from The Main Course so that she can spend more time with Grace, taking little walks with her, pushing her in the swing, keeping her at ease. He doesn’t complain when Amy sits quietly beside him night after night watching old movies with her ear tuned to the shadows outside.

  And he listens carefully when she explains the police cruiser parked on her street that evening.

  “Are they keeping a cruiser here round the clock?” he’d asked.

  “No,” she explained. “Just every now and then.”

  So she isn’t surprised when her phone rings shortly after she falls asleep that night. George uses any reason to phone: an idea to help Grace talk, a suggestion for the next night’s movie, mostly to be sure she’s okay. Amy sits up in the dark, disoriented from sleep. George had brought only one movie that night: Gone With the Wind. He sat with her for four hours, keeping her and Grace safe. Half asleep now, she smiles and reaches for the bedside phone, realizing when she hears the dial tone that it isn’t the phone ringing. It is the doorbell. So she slips into
her robe and ties it while hurrying to the front door. The bell rings again. Lamplight from her bedroom dimly falls onto the staircase. She hits the switch for the outside light and opens the front door fully expecting to see George.

  But nobody is there. And the outside light has not turned on. “George?” she asks through the screen, trying to see past the dark porch while her hand flips the light switch repeatedly up and down to no avail.

  No one stands on her porch. No car is parked in the driveway, its warm engine clicking and cooling. No police cruiser sits guard at this hour. It is just quietly dark. So was the doorbell part of a dream? Or real? What Amy does know is this: It’s time to open her early Christmas present. She bolts the door, returns upstairs to her bedroom and pulls the padlocked box from her closet shelf. The thing is, unlatching the lock and slowly opening the lid brings the same thrill as opening a gift. She lifts the gun, presses in the magazine clip and turns off the lamp, sitting in the dark on her bed for the next hour. Not moving, merely listening. With a knot in her stomach, she silently dares, and curses, her stalker’s next move.

  Twenty-one

  DID THE DOORBELL REALLY RING? She lies still, looking at the ceiling. Or had she been in a half-sleep state, thinking of George and imagining him calling, or returning? And just because the porch bulb burned out doesn’t mean she is being stalked. When sunlight filters through her lace curtains, she sits up and opens her nightstand drawer, reaching far back. Her hand finds the weapon, which she immediately returns to the safe in her closet.

  “I put it away,” she reminds herself. “I put the gun safely out of reach, out of reach.” The drill, over and over, is meant to stop any panic during her morning shower. If only the pelting water could wash her doubts away. Did she unplug the toaster? Did she close the garage door?

  Celia checks in with a quick phone call while Grace is still asleep.

  “I’m not going to work this morning, Cee.”

  “Why not? It’s time to change up the summer display. You have those new gowns for the mannequins. Plus it’s a nice day to get out.”

  “I’m a little tired today.”