by Mary Campisi
Virginia Romano pierced her daughter with her dark eyes: deep-brown Italian eyes, the kind that bore into a person and never sparkled, not even when they were exploding with joy. Opaque eyes, Jenny called them. They fit her mother. She was an opaque kind of person, at least to Jenny she was; there was no getting behind the words or the behavior to figure out the person.
“Are you responsible for this?” she asked Jenny, stroking the top of the girls’ heads.
“We cut it Grandma,” Danielle said in a quiet voice, as though she sensed the accusations beneath her grandmother’s words. “Aunt Jenny only fixed it for us.” She glanced at Jenny. “And then, she got hers cut, too.”
“The lady didn’t want to cut hers,” Natalie said, looking at her aunt. “But Aunt Jenny made her.”
Virginia Romano’s dark gaze flitted over her daughter but she said nothing.
“Well, don’t go doing anything so foolish again. Do you hear me?”
She was looking at Danielle and Natalie, but Jenny knew her words were intended for her. How long had Grace said she was staying? Two weeks? Three? Jenny chewed harder.
“Hi, Mom.”
Grace.
Everyone turned and looked at her, the woman who’d brought them all together. Sister, mother, daughter. Grace was all things to all of them. She looked beautiful walking down the steps, like she was floating, with that sad smile on her face, her hair pulled back into a pale pink headband. Her hair was growing, every day it looked better and Jenny made sure she told her so.
“Oh, honey,” Virginia Romano said, holding her arms wide. Danielle and Natalie scattered apart, drifting to Jenny.
“Mom,” Grace murmured, falling into her arms, pain and weariness pulsing in that one small word.
“It’s okay, now. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Jenny watched the reunion, a play of depth and feeling, like a dance in slow motion, one soothing the other, touching, offering comfort, and hope.
She turned away when the tears came. It was more than she needed to see. She swiped a hand over both eyes and went to check on the lasagna.
* * *
“This meal is delicious,” Virginia Romano said, helping herself to a second piece of lasagna. “Just like mine.” She smiled and a map of tiny wrinkles spread out from the corner of her eyes. “But, I guess it should be, since it’s my recipe.” She slid an end piece onto her plate, cut a small section and plopped it into her mouth. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“Thank you,” Grace said. “Jenny helped.”
Her mother arched a brow in Jenny’s direction. “Really?” She took another bite. “It’s very good.”
“Thank you,” Jenny mumbled into her napkin.
“Any reason for this sudden domestication?”
“No.”
“Not cooking for any man?”
“No.” She was not going there.
“What about Elliot?” Natalie asked.
“Elliot?” There was that tone, a soft lilt that disguised blatant prying as casual curiosity.
Jenny shook her head. “He’s a friend,” she said. Oh, God, hadn’t she practically gone ballistic on Elliot when he’d introduced her that way to Mrs. Abblebee at the airport? Well, her mother was different. Virginia Romano was a national broadcast and critique service, all wrapped into one.
Grace intervened and, once again, made sense out of a senseless situation. “Elliot is the psychologist the girls and I have been seeing,” she said.
“Oh.”
Jenny could tell that was not going to appease their mother. Not her. Nothing short of a divine revelation would make her quit without more information.
“So, what does Jenny have to do with him?” She was looking at Grace, fork paused inches from her mouth, and Jenny felt as though she were watching a play where the main character wasn’t present. Except that Jenny was, very much so.
“I met him first when I took the girls,” Jenny said. “Later, I encouraged Grace to see him.” There. That was the truth.
Virginia Romano looked at Jenny, eyes narrowing to fine dark slits, just like she used to do when Jenny was a teenager and her mother had asked if she’d been riding in Tommy Angelo’s Chevy. Jenny met her gaze, exactly as she had back then, no blinking, no frowning, and no nostrils flaring. The last was always a giveaway.
Her mother straightened in her chair and said, “I’d like to meet this Elliot.”
Jenny blew air out of her nostrils, just a tiny bit, so her mother wouldn’t see the relief. She was through with the thirty questions for now, but Virginia wouldn’t forget about Elliot. Oh, no, she’d be listening and watching for clues as to the nature of Jenny’s relationship with him, if for nothing else than to voice an opinion.
“Fine,” Grace said. “I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”
“Can I be done?” Natalie asked, putting her fork down and looking at her mother.
“It’s ‘May I be done,’” Virginia corrected. “‘May I be done, please?’”
“May I be done, please?” Natalie repeated, smiling at her grandmother.
“Wipe your mouth, and then you may be excused,” Grace said, in what could only be called a valiant effort to maintain control over her own children.
“Me, too?” Danielle asked.
“What do you say, young lady?” This from Virginia Romano, Miss Manners.
“May I be excused, please?”
She nodded.
“Go ahead, and take your dishes to the sink,” Grace said.
Ah, it was amazing that in the miniscule span of three hours, Virginia Romano had invaded the Clarke household, dug around in one daughter’s fragile relationship with her sister’s psychologist, usurped the other daughter’s control over her children, and all of this before dessert.
No one spoke again until the screen door banged against the frame a second time. Natalie ran yelling after her sister to wait up for her. When their voices faded out, Virginia turned to Grace and said. “I’d like to go to the cemetery tomorrow.”
Jenny had always heard of people turning white or gray, usually from fear or dread, but she’d never actually seen it. Until those words came out of her mother’s mouth. That’s when Jenny turned to Grace and saw her switch from a normal skin tone to ash-gray, faster than the double click on a camera. Grace opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“She hasn’t been to the cemetery yet,” Jenny blurted out.
Virginia looked from Grace, to Jenny, to Grace again. “Why not?”
Grace’s nostril’s flared, just a little, but Jenny saw them. Her hands were in her lap and Jenny would bet she was shredding her napkin into a hundred pieces. “I haven’t made it yet,” she said, in a quiet voice.
And you won’t either. Not if I can help it.
“Well, now that I’m here, I’ll take you there.”
Grace’s coloring shifted from gray to pasty white.
“I think she needs to rest and get better,” Jenny said. “She’s hardly been out at all, except to see Elliot and a few times to the grocery store.” She forced a smile to push her point. “We’ve been to the mall once. That’s it.”
“All the more reason to get her out and about.” Virginia shook her head, a salt-and-pepper color, more pepper than salt.
“She hasn’t been up to it, Mom,” Jenny said, more forceful this time. “The doctor only let her start driving this week and she doesn’t even feel much like doing that.”
“It’s her duty to her husband, she knows that.”
“Duty?” Duty? To that cheating jerk? If she only knew.
“A wife has a duty to her husband whether he’s dead or alive,” she said as though Jenny hadn’t spoken. “When your father died, I brought fresh flowers to the cemetery every week. They didn’t let you plant anything in the ground back then, so I brought my own vase, filled with flowers…sometimes carnations or daisies.” She stared at her glass. “A few times, I brought him roses. Red was his favorite. Even in the winter, I made sure so
mething was there. Holly, mostly.” Her voice faded and Jenny imagined she was remembering that square, granite headstone that read Joseph A. Romano, Devoted Husband—Beloved Father.
“She hasn’t felt well enough to go,” Jenny repeated, as the color sifted from Grace’s face.
“We’ll go tomorrow.”
Jenny rubbed the back of her neck. Damn, but the woman could be persistent. “Things are different now, Mom. People don’t necessarily honor the dead in cemeteries anymore.” She shrugged. “There are a lot of different ways to pay respect.” Jenny had been to her father’s grave once, the day of the funeral. But she thought of him every day.
“That’s a sacrilege,” Virginia Romano said, shaking her head. “Everything today is about convenience. People don’t want to go out of their way to do anything anymore.”
“It’s not that,” Jenny said, but her mother cut her off before she could say anything else.
“Yes, it is, Jenny. It is exactly that.” She looked at her, dark eyes burning. “If it doesn’t fit their schedule or falls during prime-time television, they don’t want to be bothered. It’s considered an inconvenience.” She let out a sigh. “No wonder we have all the crime we do today. Everybody’s just out for themselves.”
All Jenny had said was that Grace hadn’t felt well enough to go to the cemetery…and now this…
“I’ll go tomorrow.” Grace said, her quiet words plowing through the tension.
“You don’t have to go if you’re not up to it,” Jenny said, willing Grace to meet her gaze. Why was she buckling under their mother’s bully tactics? Couldn’t she tell that Jenny was trying to throw her a lifeline and give her a plausible out? Why wasn’t she taking it?
“Jenny, she said she’d go.” There was a sharpness in her mother’s voice that said the discussion was over. She’d won. “We should all go. It’s the least we can do for that poor man.” She sniffed. “He was like a son to me.” Another sniff, then she cleared her throat. “Such a tragedy. Such a horrible tragedy.”
Jenny wanted to throw her glass against the wall, watch the glass shatter in a hundred pieces, water dripping down the pale green wall. Then, she wanted to yell until her lungs hurt, Did you know he was screwing some long-legged brunette? Did you know he was with her the day he died? Did you know she wasn’t the first?
Did you know she looked like me?
Did you know?
Did you?
And did you know Grace knew?
But she didn’t. She just sat there, staring at her fork. Four tines, tiny scratches, faint scrollwork at the base. She studied a speck of red wedged between the last two tines on the left. Sauce, no doubt. She could almost not hear her mother’s eulogy for her dead son-in-law: a low droning that went on and on about everything from the time he installed a new garbage disposal for her to the way he made blueberry pancakes every Saturday morning. There was too much in between, too many “wonderful” recounts of “such a wonderful man.” Jenny wanted to ask her if she thought shoveling snow in subzero weather was fair trade for overlooking a husband’s screwing around? But she didn’t. She just sat there, staring at her fork, clenching and unclenching her right hand, and waiting for Grace to say something.
But she didn’t.
When her mother paused, Jenny jumped up, gathered her plate, fork, and glass, and mumbled something about having to be somewhere. She moved fast, rinsed off her dish and stuck it in the dishwasher. Then, she started on the kids’ dishes, faster yet. She had to get out, get out, get out!
21
“Jenny, are you okay?”
She fell into Elliot’s arms, pressed her body close to his, pulling his strength into her. “My mother came this afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.’” She pulled back, tried to smile.
He tipped her chin up, brushed his lips over hers. “You look different,” he said, his gaze moving from her floppy jeans hat with the big orange poppy-rose to her red tank and jeans shorts, to her sandals, and then back up to her hat. “Did you do something different or have I forgotten what you look like?”
“It’s only been twenty-three hours,” she said, her voice soft.
“Can’t be,” he said, running his fingers down her bare arms. “It feels like twenty-three days.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve been counting.” His hands were so gentle, so soothing, and yet, so exhilarating.
“Oh.” His voice dropped an octave. “So, you’ve missed me.” He led her further into the foyer, which was covered with large, leafy plants, burnt-orange walls, and black-and-white photographs of Sydney.
Jenny opened her mouth to make some flippant remark about not missing anybody, but when she looked into those brown eyes, they pulled her in, sucked her under, and all she could do was close her mouth and nod.
Her honesty seemed to surprise him. He probably expected her to banter, maybe even try to deny what was happening between them, and when she didn’t, another line of defense fell. “I missed you, too,” he said, his voice low, husky.
He leaned toward her and Jenny’s eyes fluttered shut, anticipating, wanting, needing. When their mouths met, opened, shared, she pressed closer, trying to absorb the feeling. Elliot gripped her face between his hands, his tongue probing, filling Jenny’s mouth. His hands moved to her hair, pushed the hat away.
“What the hell?” He pulled apart, stared at her head. “What did you do?”
Jenny twisted her fingers together, let out a noise that was more squeak than laugh. “Oh, yeah. I guess I forgot to mention I got a haircut.”
“I loved your hair.”
She bit her lower lip. “It’s still my hair,” she said, running a hand through it, touching her neck. “Just not as much of it.”
“Why?”
“I had to,” she whispered, wanting all of a sudden to cry. It was only hair. Just stupid hair. Why did everybody have to make such a big deal about it? She swallowed, settled her gaze on the dark, springy hairs peeking out of Elliot’s red polo shirt, right at the second button. “Natalie and Danielle cut their hair,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Really short, chopped right off. When they told me they’d done it to look like their mother, I couldn’t get over how brave they’d been, how truly incredible, for such young girls. So I joined in their cause and got mine cut, too.” Jenny lifted her eyes to his and tried to smile. “But, I also told them, no more scissors or sharp utensils. Period.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he lifted his hand and ran it through her short curls, like a soft caress. “I think you’re the brave one, Jenny Romano,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
And then the tears came.
Elliot led her to the living room, to an old navy couch with soft, oblong pillows trimmed in beige piping, worn at the edges. He sat down and settled her on his lap, his arms wrapped around her, protecting, offering comfort while she poured out the whole story about Grace, and the cemetery, and her sister’s refusal to stand up to their mother. At some point, the crying stopped, and Jenny rested her head on his shoulder, letting exhaustion take over as she drifted in and out of quiet slumber.
Ruby Red was curled up at Elliot’s feet, an occasional whimper sneaking out of her as she passed from half-sleeping to half-dreaming. “Feel better?” Elliot brushed his fingers over her bare arm, a slow, even rhythm, that both lulled her and gave her goose bumps.
What was it about this man that could soothe her one second, and excite her the next, and sometimes, do both at the same time? She shifted and nuzzled against his shoulder. She was too tired to think about it now, too tired to do anything but feel.
“Hmm,” she murmured.
“I’ll take that for a yes.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
He brushed his chin over the top of her head. “For what? You did all the talking.”
“With your help. You made me see that Grace has to make her own decisions, right or wrong, and I have to stop butting i
n.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“Unless she’s so off base that I can’t keep my mouth shut. Then, it’s my duty to say something.”
“No, it isn’t,” he corrected. “Unless she asks you for help.”
“Wait a minute.” She lifted her head so she could look him square in the eye. “Are you saying that if she’s totally screwing up, and I mean big time, I should let her go? Let her sink herself and not do a thing to try and help her?”
“It’s got to be her decision or she’ll resent you.”
She rolled her eyes. “So? She’ll get over it.”
“It’s got to be her decision, Jenny,” he said again, as though she hadn’t heard him the first time. “She has to realize what’s at stake and what she wants to do about it, if anything.”
“I can’t just sit there and smile while she messes up her whole life. It’s not in my nature.” She was wide awake now. She jumped off the couch and started pacing. “If it were really bad, I’d have to say something, try to make her see.”
Elliot shook his head. “Jenny—”
Before he could finish, the front door opened and Sydney called out, “Daddy, I’m home!”
Ruby Red jumped up in full alert, letting out a string of barks as she went in search of her owner. Jenny swung around, her gaze darting to the narrow hallway leading from the entranceway. She’d only seen Sydney twice since the day she’d kicked Jenny out of her garden and made the bold statement that her father hated women with long, curly, black hair and hazel eyes. Well, at least one of those adjectives no longer fit. The two other times they had seen each other had been fleeting: once to pick up Grace and once to drop off Danielle and Natalie.
Jenny stood near the couch and waited. Any second, Sydney would round the corner…
“In here, Syd,” Elliot said, holding out his left hand and motioning Jenny toward him.
Jenny shook her head. Some things needed to be faced alone and a confrontation with Sydney Drake was one of them. Would the child try to kick Jenny out of her house? Create a scene? Cry and throw a fit so Jenny would leave?
