She looked again at the bike, barely making out the word Vulcan on the dented metal. The thing looked as though it had been through reentry. Lance rested it on its stand, leaned back into the enclosure, and brought out a helmet, nowhere near as sleek and nice as the black one he’d bought for her.
“Rico has a helmet?” She would have thought he, like Lance, didn’t bother.
“It’s an old one of Tony’s. We’ll cinch it up on you.”
“Lance, I’m not—” But when he raised the helmet to her head, she noticed his hands shaking. She’d seen him upset, but not shaking. He needed this. She pulled the helmet down and adjusted the chin strap, but cringed when he started the bike. The exhaust pipe choked up gray spume before the engine settled into an asthmatic growl.
He hollered, “Jump on.”
“Lance …” She had barely come to trust him with the Harley on quiet Sonoma highways.
“Come on.” He jerked his chin toward the spot behind him as the idle choked and wheezed.
She knew what he wanted, but she could not get on that thing. It was an accident waiting to happen. Didn’t he hear it? What was it with him and two-wheeled death vehicles?
He looked up and caught her expression. His shoulders slumped. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.” He dug for his house keys and held them out. With his other hand, he brought the engine back from death with a rev.
He would go without her, and wouldn’t she rather he did? Not if he was upset enough to shake. “Lance … don’t …” Oh, what was the use? She closed her eyes and straddled the bike, clamping onto his waist. It was a closer fit than the Harley, the seat configuration leaning her down against him. As he accelerated through the alley and into the street, her arms tightened. Rico’s bike didn’t have the rich roar of the Harley. It needed muffler work to quiet the racket the helmet didn’t buffer and surely had other issues that begged a mechanic.
As they maneuvered through the city, it took everything in her not to yell for Lance to take her back—if it would even register. His agitated starts and stops, his impatience with the congestion and lights showed just how wound up he was. She knew what he wanted, open road, speed. She recalled with shocking clarity that first ride in which he had intentionally scared her speechless.
Now as he hit the highway heading north into Connecticut, she sensed not rage in him but a similar ferocity. Wind buffeted her face and drowned her breath. She hated being at the mercy of his reflexes, his decisions, especially when she was not convinced he was making any. Lance in this mood was pure emotion, pure reaction.
She had given up control. It wouldn’t be as bad if she thought one of them had it, but she knew he was flying blind. She squeezed his sides and hollered, “Slow down!”
Instead, he leaned them out around the vehicle he’d run up on, into the oncoming lane, then back before a minivan whooshed by the other way. She ducked her head behind his shoulder. She could die … or worse.
What was a coma like; paralysis? How badly would it hurt to have every bone in her body broken? How would it feel to break every bone in Lance’s? But, having caused his grandmother’s relapse, he was probably trying to break them all himself. No one could blame himself like Lance Michelli.
Squinting down at the road flying by underneath, she tried not to imagine being launched with him and having those awful seconds to anticipate macadam imbedding in soft tissue, muscles wrenched and screaming before the mercifully swift snap of her neck. And now she was mad. “Lance, stop it!”
But he didn’t. Miles of interstate flew by, wooded landscape, quaint towns, and white-fenced estates. She didn’t know if Lance saw any of it. He was doing what he did to cope, as she would get hold of her tools and bury herself in a project, tearing out or building up, every cut perfect, every fit tight, every detail considered and executed. Losing herself. Running, maybe, as Lance was, without the speed and danger.
Danger. A flash of a blood-splattered wall, her dad’s screams, the warm, coppery scent of life escaping. She forced slow breaths, angry to be flashing back when it wasn’t even triggered by the sound and smell of a saw on wood. Only thoughts of death. Agonizing death. “Lance!”
He reached down and gripped her knee, pressing her leg against him. Was it supposed to be reassuring that he now drove with one hand? She wanted to scream, but hollered instead, “We need to stop!”
He’d heard her, she knew by the sudden deceleration, and a moment later he let go of her knee and made the arm signal for a right turn onto the exit. She gulped for breath as the wind stopped pummeling her lungs. His speed dropped dramatically as they entered the small town of Darien. A collage of Victorian, colonial, and Edwardian architecture surrounded her with picturesque shrub-lined cobblestone sidewalks that contrasted starkly with the grim streets of the Bronx.
Her limbs softened as he cruised through the town center and postcard-perfect neighborhood to a beach as lovely in its East Coast way as any she’d seen on the other. Pleasure boats bobbed in the water that lapped at the shore, white gulls winged overhead. The air smelled fresh… . Well, okay, there was still the exhaust from Rico’s bike, and her anger kicked back in when Lance brought the monster to a stop and climbed off.
She yanked off the helmet and glared.
“Wha-a-t?”
“You have to ask?”
“I said you didn’t have to come.”
“And where would you be now?”
“Farther.”
She got off the bike. “That thing is a wreck.”
“Just looks like it.”
“What about the gray smoke spewing out and its death rattle shutting off?”
Lance patted the grip. “A little rusty. Rico must not be riding much without my Harley to keep up with.”
She shook her head. “What is it with you? What does driving hellbent accomplish?”
He sent his gaze off. “It’s the miles, the motion of the road.”
“It’s running away.”
“Maybe.” His brow pinched. “I can’t really get far enough. I just have to try.”
She sighed. “Do you have to do it so fast?”
“It feels faster on a bike.”
Possible. Her road experience was in a Chevy 4x4. Lots of steel.
She looked out at the tree-lined beach, the golden sand, the cobalt water. After the noise and smell and film of carbon monoxide in the city, it was incredible. She could almost be glad they’d come. She was definitely glad they’d stopped. “Is that the Atlantic Ocean?”
He looked up as though he only now realized where he was. “Long Island Sound.”
Where would they have ended up if she hadn’t gotten through to him? Canada? She had a crazy desire to laugh—probably some hysterical release. She cocked her head and said dryly, “Where’s the picnic?” Now that the terror was over, she was starved.
He huffed. “Picnics are dangerous.”
“Picnics with me, you mean.” She recalled the raging climax of their first attempt when Lance cajoled her onto his Harley packed with wine and cheese to share in the sloping pastureland near Sonoma. She had told him no dates with employees, but did he listen? Did he ever?
He started for the shore. “We could dig for clams.”
“No thanks.” She started after him. “No slimy shellfish.”
“Ever tried it?”
She shook her head. “I love what you cook, but—”
“Say that again.”
She punched his arm. “I am not stroking your ego.”
“You punch like a man.”
“Good.”
He stopped at the water’s edge with a restless look that made her wonder if he would ever quell that urge for speed and distance. But then, she knew better.
————
The road wasn’t enough. He couldn’t outrun what he’d done to Nonna. It wasn’t just about getting it right anymore, it was how many people would he hurt in the process.
He should have stopped pressing, but as Rese said
, that wasn’t his forte. He’d forced Nonna to hear him. Sure it was gentle, it was coaxing, but he had not given in.
Italian machismo. And he’d thought he missed that gene. It didn’t play the same as in Pop and Tony. More sensitive, more attentive, but underneath just as determined and demanding. He stared out over the water.
Another woman would have filled the ache with words, given him something to build an excuse around. Rese stood beside him as solemn as the oaks and maples at his back. Hardwood, strong and lasting.
He felt like the whitened driftwood that came in on the tide. Why did he see things too late? Nonna trusted him, and he had used that trust to break her down.
Rese crouched, resting on her haunches, and fingered the pebbles in the sand. Her silence suggested she understood, but she hadn’t experienced the interweaving of lives so intricate every step was a dance on a sticky web. He had shaken Nonna loose, and the fragile gossamer that held her terrified him. Lord …
But he could not whistle for God and command Him along for the ride. Pride, to think so. And pride to expect it of Rese, of Nonna. Love did not force its own way. “It is not rude, it is not self-seeking.” He had learned the words from Nonna, sitting at her table with a blackened eye, telling her how he would get back at the bullies who attacked Rico.
“It always protects, raggazzo mio.”
“But I was protecting.”
They’d been caught by surprise, but he wouldn’t be next time.
“Love does not seek revenge.”
“Hah!” He’d clenched his fists. “A curse returned, Nonna.”
“You are a child, you talk like a child. Someday you will be a man.”
He groaned. Rese looked up, but neither spoke. He had lain in wait for the meanest of the bunch, found him alone the next day and beaten him soundly. He’d said it was for Rico, but there was no vindication in it, no satisfaction. Was he still trying to strike back? At what?
He rubbed his face. “We should get you something to eat.”
Rese stood up. “What about you?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Come on, Lance. You know there’s more to food than hunger.”
He raised his brows. “Such as?”
“Connection, acceptance, relationship.”
His own words back at him. But right now he felt like poison. “Maybe we could walk a little.”
She stooped down and took off her sandals, dangled them from her fingers, and stepped up to the water’s edge.
“You might not want to do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s cold.”
With her toes, she kicked up a fan of sparkling drops, then plunged her hand in and splashed him.
He sputtered. Another blast of salt water, and when he lunged, Rese took off up the beach. His surprise cost him time, but he tore after her. Her legs were strong and swift, and she reached the trees, caught hold of a silver maple, and swung around its trunk.
“You think that’s going to protect you?” He approached, a little winded.
She locked her fingers around it. “I’ve always had a thing for maple.”
He stopped a foot from the tree. “You are so lucky I’ve got a thing for you.”
“Or what?”
“I’d dunk you.”
She raised her chin. “Then you’d have my soggy self against you all the way home.”
He did not let his mind take that and run. Neither would he give her the last word. He pressed his palm to the trunk and leaned in. “Just might be worth it.” He moved around the trunk and stopped. What was he doing? He closed his eyes. Nonna lay in bed, and he was playing on the beach? He dropped his forehead to hers. “I know what you’re doing.”
She didn’t answer.
He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “It’s my fault, Rese. I keep thinking I’ve got it right, then …”
“What would she want?”
“To slap my head.”
Rese studied him a long moment, then shrugged. “I could do that.”
He stepped back. “Right.”
She raised her brows. “You think I can’t? Ask Sam and Charlie.”
At fourteen she’d handled the jerks who assaulted her. Lance cocked his head. “Okay, give me your best shot.” He waited. “Come on. I won’t hit back.”
She shook her head, then looked away. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not mad. And it’s you.”
“Just think of all the ways I’ve torqued you off big time.”
She glared. “I’m not going to hit you, Lance.”
“What are you, a girl?”
She turned her fury full on him. “Yes. Got a problem with that?”
He grinned, feeling some of the tension release. “You kiddin’? I like girls.”
Rese ran her hand over her hair. “Look, I’m not very good at this.”
“This what?”
“I don’t know, comfort. Perspective.”
He wasn’t looking for comfort, and his perspective was clear as glass. He sighed. “I just want to take it back, to undo something so stupid I’d … do anything to get one more chance.”
“You’ll have a chance.”
He pressed his hands to his face. “What if I don’t? What if I can’t tell her how sorry I am?”
Rese took his hands down. “She knows.”
“How?”
“She knows you.”
He studied her as that small comfort leached in. Nonna would forgive more easily than he could forgive himself. He half smiled. “You’re better at this than you think.”
She shrugged. “You tend to lose sight of things when you’re all fire and emotion.”
He leaned his palm to the tree. “Do I?”
She nodded. “You do okay the other one percent of the time though.” She pushed off from the tree and started back down the beach.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Like photographs doubly exposed, scenes overlap;
bedposts and white walls gilding
with wine country sunshine,
the bustle of a crowd, the scent of dust… .
Ashabby boy picks Nonno’s pocket, but Nonno gets him by the nape before he slips away into the crowd. I cannot believe the gentleness in Nonno’s eyes as he faces the youth and holds out his palm. Though thin and scrawny, the boy is older, I suspect, than my fourteen years. He would bolt but for the power of Nonno’s gaze and the press of people in the Plaza.
His throat works up and down as he slaps the wallet into Nonno’s hand, the one not holding a cane to support an old man. This youth must have seen an easy mark in Nonno, but he didn’t know Quillan Shepard if he thought that. He squirms a little under Nonno’s gaze but seems to realize this man has no vindictive spirit in him.
“What’s your name?”
He doesn’t want to tell but can’t help it. “Joseph Martino.”
“Looking for a job?” Nonno’s words surprise even me. Times are tight, jobs hard to come by. He offers one to someone who just tried to rob him?
“What you got, old man?” The youth’s face isn’t as tough as his words.
“Your life,” Nonno says, “in my hand.”
Again the boy swallows. Someone hardened to crime would have sneered. But few men sneer when confronted by Nonno’s kindness. What will Papa say when he sees Nonno has brought home another stray? Others have drifted on, but something passes between these two that makes me wonder. Nonno could have brought the cops on him. Instead he redeemed him.
Maybe Nonno sees himself—a bitter, unloved youth who found his share of trouble. Whatever the case, he says, “Know how to cut grapes?”
The youth shrugs. “I can try anything once.”
The scenes run together like a moving picture, season after season, hoeing, pruning, harvesting, Joseph becoming to Nonno as devoted as a son.
And then pain twists his face as I tell him Nonno is dead. Quillan Shepard fallen and left to lie. Joseph Martino
stands with a shovel in his hand, promising to make a grave, a tomb for our fallen hero. Then he is gone.
The Studebaker swerves and skids down the drive onto silent streets. People sleeping, unaware of the violence, the grief that throbs in my breast.
Papa! Nonno! Signore, why? I ask, but what good are answers that change nothing? I want it to be different. Maybe Papa wasn’t shot. Did I see him? I have only the sound of it and supposition and Marco’s assertion. And the awful emptiness. Papa. Oh, Papa.
And Nonno. His last words, his last breaths as his great heart gave up. Too many griefs; too much loss. Maybe mine, too, will stop.
I keep my eyes on the road. Though I know Nonno will find his place there, I cannot look up to heaven, cannot stare through the stars to the throne where angels sing praises. This is a night for weeping, for beating my breast and raging against the fates. Mal occhio. A curse upon me. The devil has had his way. I press my hands to my eyes and sob.
————
Rese had hoped for a quiet dinner with Lance, Star and Rico, and Chaz, if he wasn’t working, but as soon as Lance pulled in on Rico’s deathtrap, his mother motioned to him from the window and called, “You two come up. I’m making spaghetti.”
Lance killed the engine. “Need a hand?”
Doria leaned on her palms. “I’m capable of spaghetti.”
“I didn’t mean you weren’t.” He sounded weary. The day had taken its toll.
His mother fanned a hand before her nose. “That bike smells like burnt oil.”
“Maybe you better check the stove.”
She started to argue, then turned and disappeared.
Rese climbed off, and Lance wheeled the bike onto the canvas tarp inside the enclosure. It did stink, though it seemed to have worked out some of its issues on the drive. As Lance had? He’d gone out of his way to be cautious on the way back, but, hooking the helmet over the grip, she was glad to lock the bike up behind them. Lance had it out of his system, and they’d survived.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Spaghetti?”
Unforgotten Page 9
