Lesley stared back and wondered if Dominic was about to spit on her like his mother had. She’d given up feeling awkward and unattractive shortly after leaving Terry and this town, but the scowl on Dominic’s face brought those feelings back. His gaze bore into her as if she were still a naïve twenty-something – with two heads, a mono-brow, buckteeth and horns.
That momentary reminder of ugliness had been enough. Instinct said to avoid him, and she had tried, but he’d sniffed her out and now he blocked her access to the aisle. Lesley was not the type to back down from confrontation and, quite clearly, the way he’d cornered her, confrontation was his intention.
He stood too close, towering over her, which wasn’t hard; at five-one most people did. However, Dominic loomed, in more ways than one. Aloof, and barely twenty-two when he’d received his PhD in Quantum Physics, his intellectual ego was even more imposing than his stature.
Big brains or big bodies, a lot of men used intimidation to their advantage, but that sort of thing never worked on Lesley. That tactic simply ignited her inner Napoleon. Initially, she’d wanted to be civil because she felt that was the right thing to do. She had nothing against him and she’d even tried to smile, but since civil wasn’t going to happen, she could play it his way too.
Sun-burnished threads of gold, red and more than a little silver in his hair made his tanned complexion seem warmer, as hotly intense as his blue-flame gaze. He was, and always had been, intense. Everything about him was just a little too extreme; as if a sculptor trying to copy a piece of Greek artwork had gone a bit overboard. Long, beautiful fingers seemed out of place on hands so huge. He was too tall. His face was a bit wider than it should have been, while his eyebrows were slim, delicate and perfectly arched. Startling aquamarine eyes were too close-set for his broad face and the effect made his crooked nose seem longer than it actually was. The angle of his granite jaw was too severe, too comic book-like, and his smile was a dentist’s dream of perfect whiteness and oral hygiene. His brothers were smaller, classically handsome, but at six-three, forty-six-year-old Dominic was the Mt Everest of the Brennan clan.
Again she smelled cypress, cedar and sweat, and that funny little flutter, the one she’d had up at the counter near the popcorn, was more pronounced than the rumbling of her empty stomach. In fact, it sort of made her aware that something else was, and had been, empty a lot longer.
The air around them thickened with awkward tension that was compounded by an even more awkward silence.
‘Yeah,’ he said finally, clearing his throat, ‘something’s…different.’
‘I wear contacts now. My hair’s longer.’
She watched the muscle along his sculpted jaw pulse. With his superhero looks, khakis and work shirt, he looked like a guide for an African safari. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the warm, glowing skin of a man who frequently worked outdoors without a shirt. Lesley had a flash of how he’d look shirtless, as a pin-up boy for a Men of Mensa calendar. It wasn’t fair that time had made him even more attractive. She had another four or five years left of being decent-looking, but as he aged he’d become rugged or distinguished.
She’d just be old.
Dominic had never known what colour her eyes were before. He’d never bothered to take notice, but he did now; his mother collected fancy Wedgwood plates that were the same jasper green. Thick, brown lashes accented that springtime colour, and he thought it was funny that a pair of bookish, wire-framed glasses had once disguised something so vibrant. Her scent was pretty vibrant too and another whiff of it was enough to stir things up. God Almighty, that annoyed him and peevishness flooded into him. He crossed his arms. ‘Oh. Is that what it is? You changed your hair?’
‘Is this where I say you look well, too?’
‘I don’t remember saying you looked well. I said you looked different. Are you different?’
‘I guess you’ll have to tell me.’
‘Here’s what I’ll tell you; in a second, you’re going to leave.’
‘Really?’
‘Isn’t that what you do? Walk out?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Terry.’
‘Oh, Terry. Am I supposed to ask?’
‘Ask what?’
‘How your brother is.’
There was something so wrong with the picture besides the fact he’d found her so tempting. While he was usually quite ambivalent about his youngest brother, Dominic responded like an older brother on the defensive. This woman had started Terry on his road to perdition, but there was something more to it. Lesley reminded him of the one thing in life he intentionally forgot, the one thing he never believed he’d ever have to confront.
The reason Stefanie had left.
Protectively, his hackles went up and he barked, ‘Don’t pretend to fucking care.’
‘I wasn’t pretending anything. I don’t care.’
Dominic glared. His mouth opened, but then snapped shut.
‘I think the word you’re searching for is bitch.’
‘No, Lesley, the word that wanted to roll off my tongue was c—’
‘Uh, Boss?’
Dominic swung around.
Kyle stood behind him. ‘I, um…I…sorry, um,’ he began, fumbling with the band that held back his hair, his eyes darting over Lesley, ‘I’ve got to get out to DP Road for some wood.’
‘OK, go,’ Dominic grunted, jerking his chin toward the store front.
‘You’ve got the keys.’
It only took a second to yank the truck keys from a pocket and toss them over. ‘Go.’
‘One more thing: Mrs Urbanik is waiting for you up front, and I don’t think she’s real happy about your, uh, language.’
Lesley laughed. She slapped Laura Ashley paint books against Dominic’s chest, shoving them into his hands as she shoved him out of the way, and speed-walked to the front of the store.
‘OK, boots, start walkin’,’ Dominic taunted, following her. She hurried out the door to the parking lot. He watched her pull on a helmet, slip on a leather jacket and pair of gloves, and climb on a red motorcycle. She looked directly at him, raised one gloved hand, and gave him the finger.
The bike snarled the way he wanted to. Instead, he turned to bee-hived, bespectacled Mrs Urbanik, and smiled.
Chapter 2
As soon as Lesley took off her leather jacket, GP rocked forward in his creaking leather Lay-z-boy and started his shtick, which had originated when she was an eleven-year-old fascinated by old movie stars, and he’d overheard her say she hoped she’d fill out a sweater like Lana Turner did. ‘Minchia!’ GP swore in Italian and snickered. ‘Well, come on, I haven’t got all day. Give me a little sugar, Sweater Girl.’
Lesley was used to her Grandpa. He wasn’t a man who’d grown cantankerous as he moved into his twilight years. According to family lore, Martino Rotolone had always been a son of a bitch, and at thirteen she’d discovered that if she shrank back from his haranguing and teasing he only got worse. ‘Hello, GP,’ she said, leaning down to kiss his papery-soft cheek. ‘How are you, today?’
‘None of your goddamn business.’
‘Screw you too. Where’s Mom?’
‘Number Five is golfing with The Mick. You know you surprised the hell out of me. I thought you had more sense. I play poker with Mike Witteveen over at Aspen Ridge Lodge, he’s my best buddy you know. We call him Aces, even if he can’t play worth a damn. You don’t appear to have had a stroke, so why the hell did you buy his half-burned piece of shit?’
‘So I could be closer to you, of course.’
‘Ha! I don’t have a choice, but like a person would want to live out here in the middle of nowhere! I know you. You mother may be telling everyone you’ve come back for good – and she’s damn excited by the prospect of doing your laundry – but I believe you when you say you’re just here to pretty up Aces’ place. You’re going to sell that dump for three times what you paid – and I know what you paid for it. You’ll be gone
before Christmas, which is smart, considering how desolate it looks here that time of year.’
‘If it all goes right, I’ll be gone by Labor Day.’
He wasn’t listening. ‘You know, they should nuke this town. They got things rolling with the Manhattan Project and down south at the Trinity Site with those nuke tests and then quit. Those atom-loving idiots shoulda levelled the whole goddamn state with their A-Bomb.’
Lesley wanted to agree with GP – Terry Brennan had forever soured Los Alamos for her – but she shook her head because his tirade was as well rehearsed as his ‘Sweater Girl’ routine. ‘What’s the matter, did Mom toss out your cigars?’
‘Yes. She’s denying an old codger his one last pleasure in life.’
‘Why do you want to smoke if you’ve got emphysema?’
‘Emphysema – pah! Is that what she told you? I had bronchitis once last year!’ GP waved his spotted, thin hand and rocked in is recliner, ‘I’m ninety-two. I should be allowed some sort of vice. I think I’ve earned it.’
Lord knew she’d had plenty of smartass practice with her grandfather and she wondered why she hadn’t dished it back to Dominic the same way she fired back at GP. Why was she still thinking about Dr. Dominic Jackass, anyhow? Weary, she plopped into an overstuffed chair across from GP. ‘Gambling’s a vice, isn’t it?’
‘So’s prostitution, but the diseases that’ll give you will make your pecker fall off. I’d rather kick the bucket with shit-filled lungs than no pecker.’
‘I guess you’ve got a point there, GP,’ she exhaled and sat back.
‘A point? Minchia! No self-respecting man wants to go to his grave peckerless!’
‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’ Her empty stomach yowled. After the run-in with the biggest Brennan, she’d forgotten all about onion rings and lunch and instead of heading back to the house, she’d ridden over here out of habit or of some kind of blind, absent-minded rage.
‘Your guts are louder than that motorbike you got out there,’ GP grumbled. ‘Have some lunch so we can go for a ride afore your daddy gets back and hollers down the roof because you still have that little rocket. Number Five made that nice turkey last night. There’s leftovers. Go make a sandwich. Maybe if you’d made fancy boy Terrance a lousy sandwich he never woulda carried on with your friend Emily. Jesus, that girl had a big nose.’
‘That’s what you told her.’
‘No, I said she could fit a fist up one nostril.’
Laughter erupted from Lesley’s throat. It was true. Emily McGregor had a hell of a honker. The size of Emily’s nose wasn’t nearly as hilarious as the fact Lesley had once caught her former best friend checking out just how many fingers she could fit into one nostril.
GP cackled. ‘Whatever happened to that nice Italian kid, Enzo?’
Lesley cringed. Two years ago, Enzo had his mid-life crisis right beside a supermarket shelf full of pasta. He’d mentioned he’d found grey hairs curled down around Il Duce. Unfortunately, she’d made a joke about Grecian Formula for pubes and he’d gone nuts. First, Enzo reminded her he was one quarter Eyetalian. Then, he grabbed a box of San Giorgio pasta, hollered, ‘Lesley, you’re a lousy lay!’, showered the contents over her head, and squalled out of the grocery store in a torrent of made-up Italian curses that all ended with the word puttana.
Not that she minded. He had, after all, referred to his penis as a bald, dead despot, which, when it came to what mattered, was rather accurate. Terry had tainted Los Alamos and his affair with Emily had also made Lesley cautious of female friends, but Enzo, well, Enzo had completely ruined pasta. She couldn’t look at a plate of spaghetti without seeing his limp, little dictator surrounded by curly grey hairs. ‘I have no idea where Enzo is,’ she said.
GP gestured with one hand and pursed his lips. ‘Why you and your mother went for Irish over Italian has been a cross on my back for years. I know yours doesn’t really count, but what, besides potatoes, have the Irish given the world? Italians have given us radio, Michelangelo, automotive excellence, pizza and—’
‘Mussolini!’
‘Yes, and he made the trains run on time.’
Laughing again, Lesley shifted out of the armchair, stretching her arms overhead.
‘Y’know, Sweater Girl, everything old is new again. Your nephew told me a new word last time I talked to him. Sweater puppets.’
She made a face at him, ‘Listen, you dirty old man, tell Mom I’ll be back later. Someone’s dropping off a dumpster and I’ve got to get back and wait for it’
‘You’re just going to let me starve?’
‘What do you want on your sandwich?’
GP scratched his chin. ‘Turkey. On rye. Those yellow hot peppers, yellow mustard and some of those little goldfish crackers. Mind that you put some of those BBQ potato chips on the bottom layer, under the Swiss cheese, but on top of the mustard.’
Lesley saluted. ‘Anything else, mein Führer?’
‘I don’t care what your mother says, you bring me a Dr Pepper and…oh hell, I’ll come in there with you because I know you can’t carve a bird. No woman can.’
It took three good rocks of his Lay-z-boy, but GP managed to stand up. He moved pretty well for his age. His vision was good enough to drive short distances, he was proud he still had all his teeth, and he was fit enough to golf three times a week. He walked all eighteen holes, but his knees didn’t always want to cooperate when it came to standing. He ambled into the kitchen and began giving orders on how to construct the perfect sandwich.
Lunch-making hadn’t progressed very far. Lesley had a single slice of turkey on rye bread when her mother blew into the house. She rolled into the kitchen, a tumbleweed dressed in beige golf clothes. ‘It’s so good to have my baby back home!’ Gina Samuels’ embrace practically knocked her daughter over.
Lesley’s ‘It’s just for the summer, Mommy,’ came out half smothered against her mother’s neck.
‘Quit trying to hide behind your mother, Lesley,’ her father warned from the kitchen doorway, ‘She’s not going to save you. In fact, if you’re still riding that red monstrosity outside, nothing is going to save you.’
‘I’m not hiding, Dad, she’s got a death grip on me here. I can barely breathe.’
Gina gave her one more squeeze and let her go, pushing her towards her father, ‘You could at least give her a kiss before you jump down her throat, Patrick.’
‘I haven’t started jumping yet, Geen.’
Her mother waved a hand. ‘When your father’s done, Lesley, put those dirty things you’ve got on in the bathroom hamper. I’ll wash them for you.’ She looked her daughter up and down, nose wrinkling in disapproval. ‘You’re a little beyond that t-shirt and ragged shorts look now, aren’t you, honey? We can drop by Bealls after lunch. I saw some linen shorts there that would look nice on you’
‘Hey! Are you gonna make me lunch, or do I have to do it myself?’ GP picked up a packet of BBQ potato chips and opened them.
Tactically ignoring his glare, Lesley stood on tip-toe and kissed her dad. His silvery moustache tickled her nose, just as it always had. ‘Want a sandwich, Dad?’
‘No. I want to discuss the continuing death-wish you have.’
‘Cut the kid a break, Paddy, she’s making my lunch.’ GP stuffed a rusty-looking potato chip into his mouth.
The storm door squeaked open. Toby called out, ‘Hellooo?’
‘Daddy, you know you can’t eat those!’ Gina snatched the bag of chips from GP’s fingers and handed them to Lesley.
‘What is this fondness you have for death on two wheels, Lesley?’ her father frowned. ‘Is the motorcycle some kind of substitute for a child?’
Toby shuffled into the kitchen. ‘You rode your motorcycle in shorts, Lesley?’
Gina sighed, ‘Will you stay here, Tootsie Roll? You don’t have to cook, I’ll do your laundry, and you can come and go as you please – as long as you’re home by ten and…oh, dear, maybe you could rethink the length of you
r hair.’
GP slammed the refrigerator door, items inside rattling, magnets dislodging and falling to the pale yellow tiles below. They all turned to look at him and he scowled blackly. ‘All right! Who the hell drank all my fuckin’ Dr Pepper?’
Trujillo’s delivery truck stopped at the bottom of the inclined drive, the engine idling with a strained whine. They were a good half-hour early, but that wasn’t a big deal. Kyle had the work order to use the Bush Hog, and slashing weeds from the backyard wasn’t nuclear science. Neither was lugging around a few cans of paint.
Simultaneously, father and son both looked up at the house, heads cocking to the right, the mannerism perfectly mirrored. What Dominic saw at the top of the driveway made him think of a gingerbread house, an over-baked, partially melted, ramshackle gingerbread house. Dull strips of grey speckled, slightly sparkly tarpaper shingles waved in the breeze. Dried bird poop made whitish stripes like lines of icing on milk and dark chocolate. Several windows were frosted with spun-sugar fog, the chimney glazed with fuzzy green moss, and pinecones littered the narrow front walk like oversized black jellybeans. Beside an empty yellow dumpster, rolled-up brown carpet and disintegrating, hot-pink foam underlay made a small mountain in the driveway.
Kyle yawned, pointing at the dilapidated structure. ‘What a hole. It’s just supposed to be the backyard, but maybe I should offer to mow down the house too.’
Dominic snickered and climbed out of the truck, directing Kyle as he reversed up the scraggly driveway and manoeuvred around the dumpster.
The ground beneath his feet looked like the bottom of a forest floor and Dominic picked his way around the debris like a surefooted billy-goat. Behind the pile of carpeting, he found an air compressor and four-rung ladder that was spattered with different colours of paint. He moved to drop the tail on the truck so Kyle could get the Bush Hog unloaded. Then his long fingers snagged six cans of undercoat from the truck bed. The garage door was open a few inches, but not high enough for him to shove the paint cans through. He strode to the front door, three canisters in each hand.
A Basic Renovation Page 3
