by Ellen Mint
“That sounds…” Sad. Exhausting. Marty likes her. Be nice. “Thrilling,” Brandy said, forcing her lips to turn up.
Janeth gave a little bow of her head, no doubt trying to dismiss the tiny peon with only twenty-three people who followed her nearly dead account. Wanting to vanish into the dark, Brandy was about to do that when the pulsing lights of the stage formed a spotlight on the dance floor.
Marty’s father, Angelo, stood in the middle with a guitar strung across his chest. He strummed it then stared out across the massive gathering. “Where is my beautiful wife?”
It took the crowd parting to reveal Mrs. Dashwood. Even through the harsh gold and green light, it was evident she was blushing as her husband pulled a chair out to the middle of the floor. Angelo gestured once to it. With a shake of her head, she sat down.
“Fifty years,” he said, catching her hand. The pair stared deep into each other’s eyes. As he raised her knuckles to his lips, he said, “And she doesn’t look a day older than the summer we met at the Tuscany villa.”
“You old softie.” She laughed as he kissed her hand.
Angelo shifted the guitar around and began to play. While Mrs. Dashwood kept her face turned to him, her gaze drifted around the crowd all watching. Then her husband began to sing. Not well, not even close to what one would call in tune. But it was so heartfelt and genuine, the abject apology she seemed to beam to the crowd didn’t feel necessary.
He didn’t care if he made a fool out of himself. It was all for the woman he loved. And now Brandy knew which parent the brothers took after.
She heard the snap of a shutter and turned to find Janeth’s phone propped up. The woman kept silent, but the rictus on Janeth’s jaw and laugh in her eyes told her enough. An urge to shout at her to put it away rose, but Brandy cause sight of Marty shifting through the crowd and her indignation died.
Who was she to tell his girlfriend what to do? Maybe he found his father’s singing as hilarious as Janeth. What was she doing getting in the middle, anyway? His life had nothing to do with her.
A sting burned through her ears, and not due to the strained singing. Brandy slipped away. Past the banquet tables ransacked to little more than chicken bones, she found herself dashing through the french doors on the patio.
She stared in a confounding terror at the caterers dressed in chef’s whites. They must have been shooting the shit before a random party guest wandered in. A dozen memories struck Brandy at once. Of the long hours she’d spend tramping dishes and produce up winding paths and stairs. How they’d all cluster outside to smoke, even if she never picked up the habit, to get away from the homeowner. The little doggie bags of treats she’d crack into with Kevin at two a.m. as he listened to her day.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Brandy called out at the top of her lungs.
The chefs all stared askance at each other before one was kind enough to say, “Through there.”
Gasping, she nodded in thanks and made a beeline through the swinging doors out into an American West-styled living room. For some reason she’d expected the house to be a cold, pristine white. Yet rich earth tones filled the couch, the walls, the sandstone sculpture and the paintings.
What if the caterers were there to stop any guests for gawking at the artwork? Not wanting to drown in embarrassment, Brandy turned away from the picture of a ghost coyote. A helpful sign marked ‘Guest Bathroom’ hung above a door. Fairly certain she had it right, she turned the knob and walked inside.
Arms were wrapped around nearly naked skin, a head was suffocating in exposed cleavage and pants lay on the floor. Panic seized Brandy’s body, her hands flying up to block her eyes and her damn legs locked in place. “Sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
In trying to scramble away, Brandy slapped at the lights. Naked skin in full spotlight blinded her, sending her dashing for the door.
At least she didn’t smack her head on it in the escape. Slamming the door behind her, she tried to pull in a breath to cleanse the shame prickling up her legs. Another evil thought bounced through her head—at least it hadn’t been Marty and Janeth.
“Are you okay?” a voice called from the kitchen.
The idea of a caterer grabbing her by the ear for peeping on a couple in flagrante sent Brandy flailing away. It wasn’t until she was halfway up the staircase that she realized they probably didn’t want a couple fucking on the sink either. But she kept going up, each step chasing away another decibel of the party. As the sound fled, so too went the churning in her stomach that she didn’t realize was there.
Here, the air smelled crisp and cool. The A/C blasted on high to make up for all the bodies shifting in and out below. On a small credenza, she spotted a potpourri bowl filled with seashells and wicker balls scented like the ocean. Pictures lined the walls of the long hall. There was one of what had to be Eldon at his college graduation, with Marty pretending to steal the diploma. Another with Marty wearing some kind of uniform and showing off a scar on his arm.
Curious, Brandy kept walking deeper into their lives. Some of the frames held their parents, usually standing hand-in-hand beside a famous landmark. But one picture caused her to stop and stare. Two kids, maybe six and four, were photographed on a playground. The eldest stood rod straight, his hands behind his back, and the youngest flopped down in the mud.
Even when he was a preschooler, Marty’s come-what-may smile was recognizable anywhere. It stretched wide enough to show a missing tooth, baby Marty sticking his tongue through the gap. No cares, not for him. Only happiness in a loving family.
A sound burst from outside, causing Brandy to whip her head to the East. Were they starting the fireworks already? She circled her fingers around a doorknob, knowing it would be impolite to enter, but curious. Maybe it was the upstairs bathroom. That had to be around here somewhere.
Another loud hiss followed by a pop set her on her path. Turning the knob, she stepped into a bedroom just as a spray of purple and red stars faded from the window. She walked over close enough to see without looming over the party. Sure enough, there was Eldon with a fire extinguisher in hand, directing people on where best to wait. And Marty, holding three lit punks between his fingers, ran about adding the fire.
The show played out for their mother, who stood front and center. As the impressive display approached the end, Marty pulled out a massive artillery shell the size of a cooler. After securing it on the ground, he lit the fuse and ran.
For a moment, nothing happened. Both brothers looked about to inspect it when the full payload shot into the air. The explosion snapped back so hard that the entire house rattled under Brandy and the light in the room clicked on.
Like an anthropologist who had stumbled upon a mythical tomb, Brandy stared at her surroundings in wonder.
The colors ranged from blue walls to purple rugs and a green bedspread. One desk was covered in knickknacks and trophies. What didn’t make it there spilled over to the dresser. And leaning against that was an old acoustic guitar.
Did Marty play too? He was always pretending to sing along to songs, but she’d never heard him try. Maybe he was as tone deaf as his father, but had enough sense to know it.
Shaking her head even while smiling at the thought, Brandy inspected the cork board. Here were pinned pictures that came from the family printer. The ink had faded until the flimsy paper was mostly yellowed and stained, but she could make out the idea of what had been. There was another image of a slightly older Marty in the same camper uniform. This time, instead of showing off a scar, he was posing to bring out barely-there teenage biceps.
Beside that was a picture of him standing on a theater stage dressed like he‘d run out of a renaissance fair. Brandy peered closer, noticing that the white tights suckered to his legs had a hole in the knee, when a voice shouted from the hall.
“I know it turned all the lights on, that’s why it was worth so much…”
She didn’t have time to run, to flip off
the switch or leap out of the window. All she could do was stare as Marty pushed open his bedroom door and caught her standing in the middle of his memories.
His mouth opened in surprise, but a snicker escaped first and he shouted to his brother, “I’ve got it! You can get back to the party!” With that finished, he turned to her. “I wondered where you got to.”
“I wanted to use the bathroom, but it was occupied…” She gulped, her face shifting to full-on chartreuse.
Marty raised both eyebrows as if he expected more, but Brandy clammed up, afraid she might spill everything in one go. “So you wandered in here instead to check out my dashing turn as Romeo.”
Of course they’d pick him to be Romeo. Lucky Juliet. “That would explain the tights,” Brandy said with a smile.
To her relief, Marty returned it. “There was this half-cape that dangled off my shoulder as part of the costume. Loved that—made me feel like a stuffy Batman. Memorizing all those lines, however… Pretty sure I’m the reason the drama teacher took an early retirement the next year.”
Marty slipped inside and closed the door. “Haven’t been back up here since…that Thanksgiving flu. Oh, that was fun. Whatever you do, never eat Eldon’s potato au gratin. He’ll swear up and down he didn’t poison us, but I know better. It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to look out for.”
Poor Marty had been so green for that Black Friday that he’d matched their store uniforms. She’d even brought him some of her leftover turkey stock to try to ease his stomach back from the brink. And now he had Janeth to help heal him. “I’m sorry for wandering in here.”
“My fault for not giving you the proper tour. Let’s see, this is my desk where I’d pretend to do homework when leveling up my Orc mage. Ah, that dresser was perfect for hiding all the bad report cards before my mom saw. And the closet…” He moved to yank open the shut accordion doors, only for a great shift to rumble inside.
Slamming them shut, Marty said, “Is best left the way I found it. What else do I have? Oh, the bed.” He waved his hand out, inviting her, and sat by the flat pillows.
Brandy sat beside him, shuffling her purse into her lap. Marty tugged back the cover to reveal perfectly placed sheets. “I knew it. Eldon’s been making this again.”
“Your brother would make your bed?”
“Every damn morning while I was eating Pop-Tarts. He’d sneak up here to make it, knowing full well that I wanted it left open to breathe. But no, since he doesn’t get night sweats, it’s proper for a bed to be…” Marty’s babbling paused and he whipped over to her. “Not that I’m admitting to sweating when I sleep. Or any other time. Unless it’s manly sweat. Chopping down trees. Rescuing kittens. That sort of thing.”
“You don’t sweat—you glisten with testosterone.” Brandy placed her purse on the bed between them.
“I’m practically radioactive due to all the machismo hormones pumping through me.” Marty chuckled, strained his arms wide and bunched his fists closed for a manly pose. In doing so, he knocked his elbow into her purse, sending it flying to the floor.
“Crap,” he called, bending over to try and help gather up her private belongings spread across his bedroom rug.
Brandy raced to beat him to it, shoving old makeup, tissue packs and so many lip balms back inside. “Ah, I think some rolled under the bed,” she complained, stretching her hand under.
It was a hard position to reach, requiring her to strain her legs apart. When her knee bounced against Marty’s, she turned to find him staring at her. Way to be the least ladylike person at the party. Slamming her legs together, Brandy sat up high on the bed and found she had a sheet of paper clutched in her excavating fingers.
That hadn’t been in her purse.
She turned it around to discover a rather busty woman in a bikini which barely covered her prominent nipples. With skin of a deep bronze, her black hair wet and the high cut of the bikini bottom floss on her hip, it was rather obvious what she was.
“Really, Marty?” Brandy turned the bathing beauty on the guy shrinking deeper into himself. It was his turn to shift a bright red. “A magazine? How old are you?”
She flipped it around to find an article on how to attract a mate filling out the backside to Ms. Buxom. The man on the spot laughed and wiped the glistening testosterone off his forehead. “Yeah, about that, um, my mom was real good about monitoring internet use. Scary good. And last thing you want to do is confront her about…any of that.”
“What’ll my silence cost you?” Brandy asked, raising the image ripped from some late nineties sports magazine up beside her face.
Marty darted his eyes from her to the lovely lady and back. “That, that’s um… What do you want from me?”
“Hm.” She tapped her chin, dragging out his torture. Marty squirmed on the bed that saw a lot more than just his night sweats. An image tried to knock into her brain, of the man beside her resting here with cock in hand, but she shook it off hard.
Not…not like that.
Cursing at her damn shameful libido, Brandy said, “I’ve got a wall that needs painting.”
“I can do that! I’m great with household tasks,” Marty enthused so much she foolishly let her tongue take control.
“In only certain rooms of the house?”
Marty cupped his chin in his hand just like the senior portrait above his dresser and grinned slyly. “Why? Would you prefer I make your bed for you? Maybe wear a little maid outfit as I fluff your pillows?”
He pretended to curtsy, causing Brandy to laugh along. All in good fun. She would never picture him in next to nothing. Because he’s a friend. “I, uh, I think the painting will be good enough.”
“Then we have a deal.” Marty held out his hand and she shook it. “I was hoping you’d hand over the incriminating evidence, actually.”
“Oh, sorry.” She passed it to him, and rather than rip or toss it, Marty folded the old wank material up into his pocket. “You don’t have to help me paint. I was just kidding.”
“I know,” he said, knocking his shoulder into hers. “But I want to anyway. This is that yellow-brown living room, isn’t it? Looks like a very bad accident during chili night occurred in there.”
She agreed and had been wanting to change it for months. But somehow the energy to do it had never arrived. Curling up in her robe and watching every documentary about cute animals she could find felt like all she could manage most nights. Maybe with Marty’s help, it’d finally change.
“I wanted to tell you something, so thanks for sneaking off to my bedroom.”
God. She struggled to not feel even more embarrassed for her fuck-up.
Marty picked up her hands, the same ones that’d sealed their pact. “For coming out to my mom’s party and giving her some fantastic cupcakes, of which I took two. Suffering my relatives and their ever-probing questions.”
“They weren’t so bad,” Brandy assured him.
“I just wanted to say, you’re welcome.”
“What?” She heard a full record scratch in her head, her brain pivoting from saying that same thing to him. “Why would I…thank you?”
“You’re welcome again. All that time you spend cooped up at your place. I knew you just needed a little push to get you back out into the wide world. To help you get over…you know.”
He hadn’t invited her to meet his family. To have fun while experiencing the traditions he grew up with. To even meet his girlfriend and tour through his old home. No, he just wanted her to stop being depressed and sad. To shake off that widow’s veil and become normal.
Anger bubbled through Brandy and she yanked her hands back. Snatching up her purse, she rose and stared down at Marty. His cocksure smile flipped to a cautious frown.
He was trying. He wanted to do something good. Just…let it go. “I should get home. The busses…they’ll have stopped running.”
“I could give you a ride.” Marty rose. “Janeth’s about done anyway.”
“No!” Brandy rais
ed her hands as if to stop him in his tracks, but she dropped them fast. “I’ll call Mel. She wanted to hang once this was over anyway.”
“Okay, well, thanks for stopping by.”
Brandy only nodded, her blood boiling. She knew she couldn’t be around him or she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. He just assumed he knew her, knew what she needed better than she did? Acted like it was a gift?
Well, maybe Brandy was tired of being the pitiable woman with a dead husband. And maybe it was finally time for her to do something about it on her terms.
Chapter Seven
Ooh. Marty’s random swiping on his phone was halted by the news that Tristan Harty’s Blue & Black tour would be stopping through old Philly in a few weeks. That’d land right on their one-month anniversary too. A perfect date night. Okay, he wasn’t certain what kind of music Janeth was into, but who didn’t like My Half?
After navigating to the arena’s website, he found a smattering of seats available and was about to buy a pair when the price revealed itself. “Two hundred bucks!” slipped through his lips. “Sure, just let me sell my kidneys for a couple tickets. I can always grow one back.”
“Are you suffering money troubles?”
Marty winced, his head turtling into his shirt at the chipper voice of his brother over the phone. He was so invested in the idea of their first couple concert together that he’d forgotten Eldon had called him. To be fair, his brother had been blathering about something unimportant.
“Only the kind due to greedy ticket companies draining the common man dry for rich CEOs.”
“Martin, if you are having problems, there is a solution.”
“Yeah, invest in a pitchfork. How expensive are guillotines these days? Ouch. Maybe I could make my own and save.” He didn’t actually scroll for prices to chop off the heads of the elite, but began to stroll down the sidewalk. The bookstore closed early for Mr. Fensin’s bunion-scraping day, allowing him the freedom to wander impatiently in front of the store because he’d forgotten. He was supposed to meet Janeth for a late dinner, but if he’d remembered, they could have gotten the early bird special and saved him a few dollars.
