by Rebecca York
She looked behind her, wondering if she should just back up and return to the airport. Then she told herself she was overreacting.
When the gate swung inward, she proceeded up a curving driveway bordered by lush foliage you’d only see indoors back home in Massachusetts. Among the green leaves were low plantings of bright impatiens and begonias that had long since been killed off by frost in New England.
The house had been invisible from the street, but as she rounded a bend, her jaw dropped. The white stucco structure sparkling in the tropical sun was the size of a small apartment building, but a lot more stylish, with shady verandas, a huge second-story balcony, a four-car garage and a front door that looked like it had been stolen from a Spanish castle.
As soon as she parked her rental Hyundai in the brick-paved circular drive, the massive door opened, and a short, dark-haired man wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt stepped out. He looked so much like her father that her breath caught. Well, she corrected herself, like Dad had looked before he’d gotten sick. But the prominent nose, the deep-set eyes and the wavy dark hair were the same.
As she climbed out of the car, he hurried to the driver’s side, seeming a little nervous, and she suspected that he was wondering how to act, now that she’d arrived.
“Honey, you’re all grown up. And you’ve turned into a beauty like your momma.”
Mom had died a couple of years ago, and Francesca still missed her.
“I’m sorry you didn’t want to stay with me,” Uncle Angelo continued, then looked like he wished he hadn’t said it.
“I didn’t want to put you to any trouble,” she answered cautiously. Really, she had good reason to keep some distance between them.
“Well, I’m so glad you came. Come in. Come in. You must be worn out from your trip.”
She studied his tanned face. Now that the greetings were over, she saw that his features were drawn, and his eyes darted around the garden before coming back to her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m just trying to finalize a business deal.” He led her into an entrance foyer as large as Dad’s living room back home, then through to a covered veranda. The view swept down to the Gulf, where she saw a wrought iron fence blocking direct access to the beach. She might have asked him if he ever went down there, but she didn’t want to start off this reunion by bringing up his security concerns.
Searching for something to say, she murmured, “This is a beautiful setting.”
“Yes. I was lucky to find the property.”
At one side of the seating area was an alfresco kitchen, where he opened the fridge and brought out a bright red plastic pitcher.
“Fresh-squeezed orange juice,” he said. “A perfect welcome to Florida. And some little sandwiches. Chicken salad. Tuna. Ham and cheese. Egg salad. I had my housekeeper make them before she went home for the day. What’s your pleasure?”
It was hard to focus on the question because she was having trouble taking in everything. Before he’d started getting nostalgic, her father had called Uncle Angelo a selfish bastard, and this man was all solicitude. Or maybe he was working overtime to show he’d changed since the good old days.
She put two triangular sandwiches on her plate—tuna and ham and cheese.
“Try the orange juice,” her uncle urged. “The oranges are from the trees right over there.”
Dutifully, she picked up her glass and took a swallow. “It’s good.”
“How come you decided to contact me?” Angelo asked.
“Dad’s not doing too well. He’s had Parkinson’s disease for a couple of years, and it’s gotten worse.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. What about your mom?”
“She passed away.”
“So, you’ll be alone in the world when your father dies.”
She nodded.
“All the more reason it’s good you phoned me. We gotta keep in touch.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small velvet bag. Opening it, he took out what looked like an antique gold locket.
“This was your grandmother’s. Dante’s and my mom’s. From the old country.” Dante had been her dad’s name before he changed it.
She stared at the piece. It looked old and valuable. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Well, I’ve had it for years, but I don’t have a daughter. I’d be so happy if you’d take it.”
She fingered the scrollwork on the front. “I . . .”
“Put it on. and wear it with pride,” he urged.
She hesitated, then slipped the heavy gold chain over her head and felt the locket settle against her chest.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “It looks like it was made for you.”
Since he obviously wanted to get closer to her, maybe it was the right time to ask, “What happened between you and my father?”
He shifted in his seat, looking like he wished someone would come and rescue him.
“You know how it is when you get mad at someone and can’t let it go?”
“Actually, no.”
Before he could elaborate, a flicker of movement down by the beach caught her attention. Two large tough-looking men dressed in knit shirts and jeans were coming across the sand toward the fence.
As Angelo turned to see what had caught her attention, he made a strangled sound.
“Oh no. Not now.”
“What?”
“Come on. Quick.” He turned and took her arm.
Dragging her up, he propelled her toward the house. Inside, he headed back to the front hall and opened the double doors to the coat closet. He swept the hanging clothing aside and pressed the edge of the back wall. A door slid open, and he shoved her into a dark, closed space. “Don’t make a sound if you don’t wanna get dragged into this.”
Quickly he closed the door, and his footsteps receded.
It had all happened so fast that she hardly had time to absorb his words. But as the implications slammed into her, she started to shake.
Voices drifted toward her from the back of the house.
“Don’t try it, old man,” a threatening baritone advised.
She heard something that sounded like a fist slamming into flesh, and someone made a gagging sound. She had to assume one of the men had hit her uncle.
God, if she could only call 911 and ask for help from the police. But her phone was in her purse, and it was still on the table on the veranda.
Oh no. Her uncle had shoved her into this hidden space at the back of the closet, but the men had surely seen her pocketbook and knew she was here.
One of the men was speaking again. “You think you can go up against the boss?”
“I’m not.” Her uncle answered, his voice sounding high and thin.
“What would you call it?”
“I was going to let him in on it.”
“Sure.”
There was a pause in the threatening conversation, and she held her breath, waiting for what might come next.
Not more words, only another cry of pain.
She hardly knew her uncle, but it was torture standing here in the dark listening to him being hurt. And there was nothing she could do. If she went out there, they’d just beat her up, too. Or maybe they’d kill a witness.
Could she get out of the closet and make it to the street? She wasn’t even sure how the hidden door worked, and if she tried to open it, the noise might give her away.
“You got one more chance.” The murderous voice threatened from the back of the house.
There was a long pause. It was followed by two little popping sounds that might have been firecrackers. Under the circumstances she was pretty sure they had come from a handgun.
his book with friends
