“You’re out of a job here.”
“I can get another one.”
“You have one waiting for you there.”
“But I live here.”
“You can’t possibly call that place a home. It’s archaic.”
“I like old. I like the sound of squeaks and rattles. I like drafts. It makes the house feel alive, as if it’s taking a breath. I like scratches and scuffs. It lets me know someone lived there before. They’re a story, a history. I was here.”
Mother’s house was French provincial, which was actually rather beautiful, but somehow, she made it unwelcoming. I think it was the fact that not a thing stood out of place, always propped at the perfect angle, neither a spot of dust nor a smudge of fingerprint in sight. Tommy shared that trait, though he leaned toward cold and ultra-modern. Naturally, I leaned in the opposite direction.
“Coop thinks you’re coming back.”
“Coop knows full well I’m not coming back.”
Lifting another jar, I pried off the lid. Cranberry infused the air. It smelled delish, but I needed to stick with the necessities. Pushing the lid back onto the jar, I placed it back on the shelf and went with two small jars of cinnamon and pine. I didn’t have a tree or decorations, but I could fake it while I watched It’s a Wonderful Life, Scrooge, and A Christmas Story marathon on Christmas Day.
“What about that kiss?” he pressed. “Are you going to lie and say you didn’t feel anything?”
“What I felt is irrelevant. I shouldn’t have done it, and I apologize for that. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
Baffling me, his lips turned up at the corners in an amused grin. “The chase is half the game, Emelia. It makes those kisses that much sweeter when you give in.”
“It was one kiss.”
“So far.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“If you say so.” Taking the large jar of cranberry, he sauntered toward the register and pulled out his wallet.
With a miffed pout, I followed while fishing my wallet from my purse. Abstractedly, I heard the cashier give Shane a forty-dollar total. I looked at the bottom of my jar, double-checking the price tag. Nope, I hadn’t misread them. Ten dollars, just as I’d thought. And then it hit me, what exactly Shane was doing. “No,” I rushed, “nuh-uh, no way. I can pay for my own.”
“Too late.” Shane passed his card to the cashier and then took the two smaller jars from my hands. He placed them on the counter beside his own.
Reluctant to make a scene, I held my tongue and waited patiently while the cashier rang the sale and wrapped the candles in tissue paper. As she handed me the bag, I smiled politely and thanked her. The minute we stepped outside, I let him have it. “I don’t want you buying things for me. Don’t do that again.”
“It’s just a gift.”
“You can’t buy me, Shane.”
“Do you think that it could be possible that I just wanted to do something nice? You’ve had a rough couple of days. I wanted to make you smile.”
“No.” Actually, it hadn’t crossed my mind. I had immediately jumped to conclusions over his motives. “I’m sorry. It’s…it’s just...”
“That’s what your mother or your ex would’ve done?”
“Yeah. To them, money or gifts equate love or forgiveness. Anyone can be bought for the right price.”
“Doesn’t look like it worked that well for them.”
I shook my head. “No.”
Stopping along a small, stone fishpond in the center of the courtyard, I leaned over to watch the carp swim below the thin layer of ice. They swam languidly, suppressed by winter’s grip. I could relate. I had lived first under my mother’s and then Tommy’s icy principles. I felt suffocated at the mere thought.
“Are you going to be ok on your own?”
“Without my mother’s trust fund, you mean? I couldn’t care less about the money. I’ve lived without it this long.” Leaving the fish to their frozen sanctuary, I set off down the path to the restaurant. “Besides, taking money from my mother is like selling my soul to the devil. She would own me, to a degree. I can’t live like that again, always trying to meet her expectations and never succeeding.”
“I know what that’s like.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. My father was overbearing, controlling. He kept the finances. He was tightfisted. I mean down to the very dollar. And it wasn’t like we were poor. We were far from it. My parents fought over it constantly. It chased my mother out.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Shane shove his hands into his pockets, curling his back against the wind. His breath came out in tiny white puffs as he spoke.
“One time, my mother added a few items to the grocery cart, inexpensive things that she didn’t think would throw up any red flags. She was going to take them back later so she could use the refund. It worked too. She took me to one of those kiddy places with the video games and go-carts. We spent the day there. Probably the most fun I ever had. I think my mother just about died when we pulled into the driveway and saw his car parked there. He never came home early or took a day off. It was like she deflated. She’d spent about twenty bucks, but you’d think she committed a mortal sin. Well, my mother parked the car and unbuckled her seatbelt, stoic as ever. She gave me a kiss on the head sent me to the neighbor’s house. so I wouldn’t hear them fight. Not an hour later, I watched from my best friend’s window as she walked out. She’d had enough. She packed her bags and left.”
“She didn’t take you with her.”
Shane lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m sure she didn’t feel she had a chance of winning custody. My father wouldn’t have allowed it. He would’ve drained the bank account hiring the best lawyers. It was never about the money; it was about control.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“No.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“Watching her leave was the easy part. Living with my father, that was hard. If not for the D&D club, I probably wouldn’t be here today.”
“The D&D club?” I asked. “I can’t picture you playing Dungeons and Dragons.”
Looking over at me, Shane grinned. “Dead or Divorced Club—counseling. That’s how Tate, Carter, Jake and I met. Tate’s parents and mine divorced. Jake and Carter’s died. The school counselor ran a music program for troubled kids, to give them an outlet.”
“You were lucky to have that.”
“If only.”
“You don’t like being in the band?”
“I love the band, but at the time, it did more harm than good. Naturally, I chose the drums. They were loud and obnoxious. I used to practice just to piss my dad off. We’d fight. God, we’d fight. The guys didn’t understand. They didn’t get it. Sure, they’d lost their parents, but the family they had left were good people. I was alone. After a while, banging on the drums wasn’t enough. I turned to drugs—weed mostly. If we had alcohol in the house, I’d use that too.”
Reaching the restaurant, Shane tugged open the door and held it for me. The wind rushed past me as I stepped inside. I pushed the hair from my face as the hostess greeted us. She stared at Shane, starry-eyed over his bad boy appearance.
Once seated, we ordered our drinks and browsed over our menus. I went with the beef tips and au gratin potatoes. Shane chose the chicken stew in a sourdough bread bowl. The waitress brought our coffee and assured the quick delivery of our meal. With another starry smile, she left us in peace.
“Do you still talk to him?” I asked curiously.
“No, not at all.” Lifting his coffee, he blew on it a moment and then sipped tentatively. “The last time we spoke, he called, made some idle chatter and then got to the point and asked if he could have a few tickets. I told him to call my publicist from then on.”
“Maybe he wanted to see you play.”
“He’d seen me play,” he snorted. “He said to me afterward, ‘Any monkey can bang on a drum, son, but that boy ov
er there,’ and he pointed at Tate across the room, ‘He’s got talent. Mark my words; he’s going to be famous someday.’”
“Oh, wow. Gosh, I don’t know what to say.”
Shane smirked and chuckled. “What an asshole works just fine.”
“What an asshole.”
“I can’t say it didn’t bother me,” he admitted. “I hadn’t talked to him in years and he only called over tickets for some clients. I overdosed shortly afterwards.”
“On what?”
“Vicodin and alcohol. Lots of it.”
I noticed, then. He was jittering in his seat. He knee was bouncing a mile a minute. Telling his story hadn’t been easy for him. I felt instantly guilty because he was making a point to share it with me, and he had no idea that—even if he’d won me over—I wasn’t going back to Seattle with him.
“Shane.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly. “Need some fresh air.”
Before he could rise from his seat, I grasped his hand. “It’s my daughter,” I said in explanation. I wasn’t sure who’s hands were clammy, his or mine. “You want to know why I’m staying. Well, it’s because she’s buried here.” Tears sprang forth despite my best effort. I dabbed at the corners of my eyes.
Shane fell abruptly still. His hand tightened around mine.
“It sounds like an excuse, but it’s not,” I pressed on. “I carried her inside me for six and a half months. I felt her move. She might not have entered this world alive, but she certainly existed. She mattered. She is mourned. I can’t move across the country and leave her behind where no one will visit her grave.”
Our waitress appeared, alleviating the tension between us. I could feel the weight lift from my chest, palpable and relieving. I could breathe again. My tears receded. I slipped my hand from Shane’s grip, hid it in my lap under the table.
“What was her name?” he asked when the waitress was gone. He lifted his fork and picked at his stew.
“Giovanna.”
“Giovanna Machiavelli, that’s a mouthful.”
I felt an instant of shock at the mention of my married name. I hadn’t used it since the divorce. “I go by Cipollini now.”
“No offense, but after meeting your mother, I’m surprised you’d want to share her name either.”
“I had to pick the lesser of two evils.” Lifting a bite of beef to my mouth, my taste buds exploded with flavor. After fasting the past few days, the sensation was nearly painful. My mouth cried tears of joy, watering effusively.
“You aren’t kidding.”
“How did you find out who I was?” I hadn’t exactly advertised it. He must’ve done some digging around after my mother’s visit. It was no surprise that she had money. You only had to take one look at her. And with everything he’d heard, the mystery of my true identity must’ve been irrepressible.
“Richard.” Carter’s brother in law. He was a lawyer. I had forgotten. “He was on your ex’s defense team.”
“Small world.”
“He’s a good guy, Em. He was just doing his job.”
“It’s not Richard; it’s the conversation. I rarely talk about Tommy and I never ever talk about my daughter. It’s…difficult.”
“I’m sorry. We can talk about something else.”
“It’s fine. You know most of it already.”
“Frankly, what happened to you is some pretty dark shit. It’s usually something I’d bear with a drink in one hand and a joint in the other.”
Indeed, looking up from my plate, he’d barely touched his food. I, on the other hand, had eaten nearly half of my meal. “I hadn’t realized I was that hungry.”
“You’ve barely eaten in days. I’d say you’re making up for lost time.” Reaching across the table, he offered me the cap to his bread bowl. I took it from his hand and placed it at the edge of my plate.
“Thank you.”
“I was afraid you’d start licking the plate.”
“Vaffanculo, Shane.” Still, I grinned sheepishly and ate another bite. The burgundy sauce was amazing and the beef, tender.
“Seriously, you’re a machine.”
“It’s good! Really good!” Abandoning any vestiges of refinement, I smeared the heel of bread with a dollop of butter and bit in. With a smile of satisfaction and perhaps amusement, Shane sat back in his chair and watched.
Chapter 6
Nonna’s was the name of my family’s restaurant. It began as a small osteria, started by my nonna in the early fifties and expanded into a full ristorante nearly forty years later, right before she passed. Nonna’s expanded once again when my father opened a second restaurant in the base of Hadrian’s Villa Casino in Atlantic City. The latter of the establishments, my father had created to appease my mother. It was the beginning of the end of my nonna’s blood and sweat.
Don’t get me wrong; the place prospered, but she had turned it from a quaint, informal restaurant where food was served family style in large platters, at one large table, into an haute eating establishment with designer cuisine that came in miniscule portions at outrageous prices. She’d turned our family’s pride and joy into an atrocity that was everything against what my nonna stood for.
It was at Hadrian’s that my mother first introduced me to Thomas Machiavelli. I hadn’t known it at the time, but it had essentially been a modern day betrothal. And I’d fallen for it. I was naïve and eighteen. He was handsome¸ charming, seven years my senior and the son of Michael Machiavelli, the owner of Hadrian’s Casino. His maturity was a draw. He wined and dined me, flew us to exotic islands and spoiled me with lavish gifts. Naturally, our marriage would strengthen and ensure the stability of our partnership with his family.
Two years later, Thomas proposed. At my father’s request, we waited until I was twenty-two to marry. He’d told Thomas that he couldn’t have me breaking any laws by toasting at my own wedding. In private, he told me that he wanted me to have time to decide if Thomas was what I truly wanted. He wanted me to shop the market before I settled down with any one man. By that time, Thomas already had me so far under his thumb that I couldn’t back out if I wanted to.
In the beginning, I had found his constant attention flattering. If I needed a dress for a party, he was there to help find the perfect one. If we were going on vacation, he told me what to pack in my suitcase. We’re going to dinner, wear the red dress, it accents your olive skin perfectly. Or pack the black one piece bathing suit; the beach isn’t private and I don’t like to share what’s mine. As time went on, these small requests turned from flattering to grating. I saw them for what they were, demands, not requests. He was controlling everything I did, and if I didn’t comply, it caused an extreme reaction. He didn’t like it when I disobeyed.
Life had become a dance that required the lightest of steps. Every move required lengthy consideration. Every turn needed the most cautious of thoughts, because even the smallest misstep earned excessive rebuke. Life had become a conscientious routine borne out of fear and intimidation. Life had become a chore in every aspect.
I had acquaintances, not friends. Any outing with those acquaintances entailed providing the complete itinerary of our evening, down to what outfit I would wear, the location of our rendezvous, who was attending, and the expected time of my return. Any deviation from this plan was cause for suspicion.
Yet, to turn down plans with those same acquaintances caused the opposite response. I had a role to upkeep. I wasn’t an ordinary housewife. I was the spouse of the esteemed Thomas Machiavelli. Vanity needed to be maintained.
It was a charade, of course. The illusion we preserved of a perfect family couldn’t be further from the truth. The migraines that immobilized me for days at a time were merely an excuse to hide the black eye and split lip. The new angora turtleneck Thomas had bought me in Paris was really a prop to hide the marks left on my neck where he squeezed too hard. Nor was my hoarse voice the after effects of a chest cold. I had an excuse for everything under the sun, except t
he truth.
Five years into our relationship, and barely one year into our marriage, I became pregnant. It wasn’t planned and it certainly wasn’t celebrated. Thomas didn’t want children, ever. Though I wanted them badly, I dared not bring them into his world. No, my birth control had failed miserably. It had failed me.
Thomas was furious when I broke the news. He was livid. In all honesty, I was surprised my pregnancy lasted past that night. The stress alone was enough to induce a miscarriage. As expected, Thomas flew off the handle. I was careless and irresponsible, despite having had my injection on time. I was selfish, only ever thinking of myself. I hadn’t considered the stress it would cause him.
He demanded that I have an abortion. When I refused, all hell broke loose. The first stage was always a vigorous shake, the second, a slap across the face. As long as I didn’t fight back, he didn’t usually resort to hitting. But when he was frustrated, the hands would find their way around my throat. His face would redden as he shouted at me, whether just a verbal onslaught of oaths or reiterating his demands.
We wound up on the floor that night, both sobbing. Clutching the ultrasound in my hand, I tossed it at him, wanting him to see the miracle he had created, the miracle he wanted to destroy. I cursed him for being born, for the monster he had become and threatened to kill him the next time he tried to hurt my child. I wasn’t sure which got through to him, the image or the threat, but he didn’t touch me again until the night he returned home drunk and finished what he had started.
“When I pulled the gun from under the mattress, he looked confused at first, and then as it registered, he smiled. He was amused, as if I didn’t have the balls to do it. He even called me on it. He ripped his shirt open and thrust his chest out. ‘Come on, shoot me,’ he told me. ‘Do it. I dare you.’ So I pulled the trigger.”
Breaking the Habit Page 6
