by Brent, Cora
But then I remembered that I really didn’t like Marco very much so I returned to the kitchen and quietly helped prepare the salad, dreading the hour my father and brother would arrive home and continue their perpetual war.
And Marco? I may have felt briefly sorry for him, but that was all. He was not my friend.
CHAPTER TEN
Marco rang the front doorbell promptly at 6pm.
I started for the door but my father threw me a warning look and beat me to it. This was his house. And he would be the one to greet anyone who crossed the threshold.
Particularly anyone who was messing around with his only daughter.
“Marco, come in,” my father said, managing to keep his tone polite.
“Hello, Mr. Durant.”
To my shock, Marco was not only neatly combed, freshly shaved and tucked in, but carried a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. My mother, who emerged from the dining room wiping her hands on her apron, was charmed.
“Daisies,” she grinned, touching him lightly on the arm in appreciation. “Dinner is just about ready. Alan, would you mind opening a bottle of wine?”
“Meatloaf and wine?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.
Grace waved her hand. “Oh I didn’t make meatloaf after all. Marco, I hope you like ravioli.”
He smiled. “I love ravioli, Mrs. Durant.”
For a moment Marco and I lingered alone in the living room together. Each time I observed him in the small home of my childhood, the larger he seemed. His short dark hair had been slicked back and his plain blue shirt was neatly buttoned. I started to let my gaze travel lower, past his belt buckle, then stopped myself, blushing. Despite everything we’d already done, we were about to sit down to a family dinner. It seemed wrong somehow to fixate on the shape of his dick in such context.
“You look nice,” I said, meaning it in every sense.
Marco’s expression suddenly dropped the patina of politeness as his eyes roamed the length of my body, lingering on my breasts. I’d fixed the buttons of the blouse I’d worn the day I arrived and paired it with a simple black skirt which reached to my knees. I’d meant to look traditional, safe.
But Marco’s burning gaze let me know that nothing I did or didn’t wear would be safe. “You look nice, too,” he drawled, spreading his hands over my ass and pulling me so close I could feel his sudden erection.
“Behave,” I hissed, pushing him away as I heard my parents arguing over which wine glasses to serve.
He backed up, his palms out, his expression once again mild and gentlemanly. “Of course, Angela.”
I shot him a troubled glance, trying to gauge how much of a game this all was to him. But he only stared back at me with a slight smile, letting me know I could guess all I wanted.
The dining room was scarcely large enough for a table. During holidays when the center leaf was inserted, it took up nearly the entire room and one had to scrape against the wall just to be seated.
My mother had placed Marco’s daisies in a crystal vase in the center. She had gone to some trouble, breaking out the good china and the ancient silver pieces inherited from a great grandmother.
As Marco made a big show of manners by pulling my chair out, I started to feel a little out of sorts. I’d set my expectations low for the evening, figuring my folks would likely be stern and disapproving, and that Marco would likely be a glib smart ass. And that by the end of the meal everyone would be equally uncomfortable.
But Grace’s face was oddly radiant as she carried a basket of sliced Italian bread. She seemed to have swiftly recovered from whatever disapproval she harbored toward Marco. My father followed her into the dining room with a large bowl of steaming ravioli.
“Looks wonderful, Mrs. Durant,” Marco said in a low, appreciative voice as my father set the large serving spoon in the center of the bowl.
My father sat down at the head of the table, eyeing his dinner guest with distrust as he unfolded a linen napkin. My mother sat to his right and I sat across from her. Marco shot me an uncertain glance and finally sank into the high-backed chair next to my mother.
Grace Durant laughed merrily. “I hope your appetite is as hearty as it was when you were a boy,” she said, reminding him it wasn’t the first time he’d sat at our family’s table.
Marco winked at me and grinned. “Improved with time, actually.”
My father stared into his lap while my mother beamed. And then I realized what she saw when she looked at Marco.
She saw a reason for me to stay in Cross Point Village.
For a few minutes there was only the business of serving plates and the passing of dishes. I glanced over at Marco and noted he seemed to be concentrating on ways to avoid getting any tomato sauce on my mother’s white damask tablecloth. It actually touched me a little and when he looked up and saw me staring at him, his face wore a boyish intensity which crept into my heart.
“How is everything?” my father asked abruptly, his question directed squarely at Marco.
Marco looked at him with a touch of confusion. Alan Durant could have been talking about anything from the ravioli to the Red Sox.
“You were always a great cook, Mrs. Durant,” Marco said, answering the question in the safest, most indirect manner he could muster.
My mother was buttering a slice of bread. “Thank you, Marco.”
Marco set his fork carefully in his bowl and cleared his throat. “Look, I know I should have thanked you sooner, but I know everything you did for my mom. When she got sick and all. Your friendship meant a lot to her. So thank you.”
My mother’s face softened. “She was a good neighbor. And a good woman.”
Marco swallowed. “I should have been there.”
“You were with her when she passed.”
He frowned into his pasta bowl, his face a mix of pain and frustration. “Yeah, I was with her then.”
My father’s voice was unexpectedly cold. “And where were you before that, Marco?”
“Dad!” I was shocked. My father’s manners were ordinarily so impeccable they squeaked.
Marco met his gaze clearly. “I was in prison, Mr. Durant.”
“You knew that,” I accused.
“Alan,” pleaded my mother’s quiet voice.
My father lowered his head and let out a deep sigh. When he raised his eyes again they rested on me for a second before shifting back to Marco. And I knew he saw the same thing my mother had seen; a reason for me to stay, a distraction. Only, unlike her, the concept did not please him.
Still, he wasn’t willing to wage war over a table full of ravioli. He took a sip of wine and tried again. “How are things coming over at The Cave?”
Marco relaxed visibly. “Fine. We’ll be reopening by the end of the week. Floors were in sorry shape, lighting was shot and the bar itself was chipped in a thousand places.”
“Boyle boys doing the work?”
“Yes.”
My father nodded. “They’re good workers. Fair too. I’m sure they’re giving you a good price.”
“They are. Good thing too. Damien is driving out here for the reopening and he’ll make me answer for every penny. Rightfully so,” he added.
I stared at Marco. His whole demeanor had changed when he began talking about the bar. Gone was the lusty playboy I’d been rolling around with. The bar, the weight of responsibility, made him serious. The Cave had been his mother’s whole life since he and Damien had taken off for more interesting places. Perhaps he felt a moral imperative to treat it well, to make it successful. Or maybe he saw taking over the bar as his chance to stop fucking around and join the realm of adulthood.
Either way, observing this whole new dimension of his character was squeezing my heart in the most peculiar way.
I took a long drink of wine and noticed Marco watching me. I tried to decipher his look but he only toyed with his glass and resumed eating his ravioli.
The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, except for a brief hiccup when
Tony’s name was mentioned. And as I watched the downturn of my mother’s soft mouth, I realized what else she saw in Marco.
If Marco Bendetti, the ultimate bad boy, had reversed his fortunes and, by appearances, turned out all right, then perhaps Tony would as well.
After dinner Marco helped carry the dishes into the kitchen. When we passed one another in the hallway he only smiled at me shyly and took the pile of plates I was carrying. I put my hands on my hips, staring after him, wondering where the hell this well-mannered guy had come from.
Dessert was a rich homemade cherry cheesecake. I was full after one small sliver but Marco, to my mother’s delight, managed to polish off a sizeable wedge.
As I stirred a cup of coffee my father relayed the regrettable news that the Cross Point Village cannon had been abused again.
“Damn kids,” he swore, tossing a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee cup. “I tell you, Grace, the things they’re rumored to do on our town’s monument would make your skin crawl.”
“Is that still a thing?” I asked, somewhat surprised.
“What?” my mother said, innocently.
“Ah, nothing. Just, I remember stories. From high school. About the cannon. Kids used to…” I let my voice trail off, not wishing to inject the pleasant evening with the tawdrier side of CPV adolescence.
And anyway, Cannon Banging, which was exactly what it sounded like, wasn’t an event I’d scored firsthand knowledge of.
But there was someone sitting across the table who had.
Someone whose tasteless nickname was derived from prowess at such activities.
I dared a glance across the table and saw Marco Bendetti staring at me with scarcely disguised mirth. I realized he knew exactly what I was thinking. I quickly used the coffee mug to hide my transparent smirk while trying to listen to my father drone on about historical landmarks and youthful disrespect.
It was half past eight by the time all the dishes were washed and Marco was once again warmly thanking my mother for a good meal. Then he extended a broad hand to my father.
“Sir,” he said sincerely.
Alan took the offered hand and shook it firmly. His eyes were narrow as he searched Marco’s face, waiting for a waver or a blink. But Marco met his gaze and didn’t flinch.
“Good night, Mr. Durant.”
“Good night, Marco. And please. You’re a man now. Call me Alan.”
Marco nodded and turned to me, maintaining an idyllic air of politeness. “Nice night out, Angela. I was thinking of taking a walk into town. Care to join me?”
“I would, thank you. Let me just go change my clothes.”
“I’ll wait here,” said Marco blandly. And unnecessarily, I thought. Until I remembered when I’d left him in the kitchen sweeping up broken glass while I intended to change my clothes. And how he’d followed me.
My face was hot as I disappeared down the hall. It was rather a surreal parody; of course my father knew Marco and I were screwing around. Dollars to donuts my mother had grudgingly accepted it as well. Yet there we all were proceeding with the fiction that a chaste summer stroll was all that was in the works.
I began tossing clothes out of my duffel bag, looking for something comfortable yet sexy and coming up dramatically short. Finally I sighed and slipped my skirt off, pulling on a pair of boxy high waist shorts which rolled down to a decent length, even as I reasoned that it didn’t matter a damn bit if Marco saw my thighs because he’d already seen me buck stinking naked and touched every inch there was.
Marco held out his arm as we stepped out into the night and I took it happily. Once I glanced back to my house and saw my parents silhouetted in the doorway of the foyer. Their shoulder to shoulder outline was the most familiar thing to me in the world, and with a pang I briefly waved and left them behind. Although it seemed to me they had always been there, exactly like that, I knew it wouldn’t always be so.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You know where we’re going,” Marco teased in response to my question.
The streets of Cross Pine Village were deserted. Now and again we saw darting shadows of cats and every once in a while the rustle of some lonely resident searching the night.
As we drew closer to the center of town I could hear the pulse of the Maple Street bars. Madonna was advising all within earshot to ‘Express Yourself’.
The buildings along Main Street were all dark. Though it was becoming more fashionable for places of business to remain open on Sundays, Cross Point Village was a bit behind the curve. Every establishment, including Durant’s Drug Store, had been closed to customers since Saturday evening.
I heard the pop of a few early fireworks, likely coming from the high school parking lot. For Cross Point Village, tomorrow would be a usual business day, but ripe with anticipation for Tuesday’s holiday.
The Fourth of July was a kid’s summer Christmas. They would wake up early and start scouring the side streets for Chinese firework duds which they would squirrel away, unrolling the paper and peering at the foreign writing within, slowly accumulating a pile of the black powder. Always there was some awful story about this kid in the next town or a neighboring county whose fingers had been blown off, whose eyes had been singed out. But privately the kids agreed that these tales of horror were concocted by adults for the sole purpose of keeping them contained. They knew there was no real danger, no actual risk. Such heavy concepts existed only for grown ups.
Marco stopped short, staring at the hulking monument secured into a concrete pedestal in front of the town hall. The pedestal rose eight feet off the ground, sloping on all sides with shallow steps which made climbing to the cannon easy. And once you were there you could straddle its wide length and howl with glee over the ultimate sacrilege being committed. Afterwards you could take a can of spray pain purloined from a buddy’s garage and write ‘Suck Me’ or ‘Fuck Me’ or some other deep witticism which was meant to be the decisive Screw You to the universe, to your parents, to CPV.
Or so I’d always heard.
“Memories?” I asked him.
He chuckled. “A few.”
Marco found my hand and pulled me along as we circled the cannon, which seemed to peer down at us with withering expectancy. I stared up at the thing doubtfully as Marco’s arm circled my shoulders.
As a sigh rolled through him I realized there was more on his mind than screwing on the town landmark. I put my head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around me tightly. I inhaled the clean scent of his aftershave, enjoying the feel of his body pressed against mine. For all the times we’d already coupled, there was something far more intimate about this quiet embrace under a clear night sky.
I leaned back and our lips touched tentatively, then more insistently as our tongues found one another. Marco groaned softly and tangled his right hand in my hair, his fingers massaging the hollow behind my neck. His passion began to assert itself and I reached low, touching him, outlining the growing want.
“Come here,” I said suddenly, pulling him along towards the shadowed side of the town hall.
Marco offered no objection as I pushed him against the crumbling brick, kissing him fervently. I felt his sharp gasp when I dropped to my knees and pulled out his swollen dick.
I brought him along quickly, having learned much in our times together. I teased his tip and ran my tongue along his length, finally taking him full in my mouth and moving rhythmically as he whispered my name over and over and then released the salty outcome, which I swallowed.
“Damn, girl,” he said softly, sinking to the ground.
I sat next to him, listening as his heavy breathing gradually slowed. Marco took my hand.
“You’re something, Angela.”
I laughed hoarsely. “How many girls you say that to, Marco?”
I hadn’t meant for it to be a jab but realized as the words hung in the air they seemed to have a bite to them. And I admitted to myself that I’d been jealous. Jealous of whatever memories Marco
guarded, jealous of all the girls I’d seen him with since junior high, jealous of all the unknown women he’d had since then.
“I like you, Angela.”
“Ha! Do you like me or do you like me like me?”
“Which answer will score me another blow job?”
I slugged him in the shoulder. “My father’s right. You are an asshole.”
“Did he call me an asshole before or after dinner?”
“What difference does it make?”
Marco waited.
“Before, all right?”
Marco nodded and then leaned over, rubbing my neck. “I like you,” he said quietly. Then he sighed. “It’s just…I’m not good at this shit, Angela.”
“It’s all right,” I said, standing and brushing the asphalt crumbs from my rear end. I looked up into the night sky, which was far brighter and more illuminated than a typical Boston night. “You don’t have to be.”
Marco stood at my back and hugged me from behind, his strong arms crossing in front of me and gripping my shoulders. I kissed his arm.
“I like you too, Marco.”
We stood like that for many moments, quietly breathing, saying nothing, just enjoying a rare occasion of peaceful contentment.
Finally Marco gave me a small squeeze and withdrew his arms. “Well, Alan and Grace are likely waiting up.”
“And you reminded me that I’m not exactly sixteen.”
Marco seemed thoughtful. “Yeah, I know and believe me I would love to repeat last night, but your folks were nice enough to let me into their house. Seems disrespectful to follow it up by debauching their darling daughter all night long.”
“Debauching?” I broke into giggles.
Marco yanked me along playfully. “Believe it or not I know a cool word here and there.”
“I believe it. You were never stupid.”
Marco glanced back at where the cannon stood silent vigil. “I was stupid,” he said quietly.
