by Sophia Henry
Maybe he was jealous of Drew’s hockey talent from the beginning. Maybe he was jealous because Papa was ecstatic with Drew’s interest and talent in hockey. Maybe he just wanted someone to notice that his talents lay in areas other than sports. Like the guitar and the piano and, well, videogames. They were the only things that kept his attention. But Mom and Papa pushed him to go to college. After one semester he dropped out, packed up his things, and moved to Colorado. He’d been home only twice in five years.
And now he was back.
In Papa’s hospital room.
Joey inched toward Papa’s bedside, taking baby steps as if he was afraid our father would reach out and grab him zombie-style.
“Come on over, son, I’m not going to break.” Papa’s low voice filled the awkward silence after Joey’s arrival.
“How’re you feeling, Papa?” Joey asked. He’d finally taken a full step toward the bed and stood close enough for Papa to grab his hand. A very un-Papa-like thing to do.
“Save me, Joey. They’re treating me like I’m an invalid.”
“You had a heart attack, Pop.”
“A mild heart attack. Very mild,” Papa snapped, shooting angry eyes Mom’s way.
“Point your dirty looks somewhere else, Giuseppe Bertucci. A heart attack is a heart attack.”
Papa rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Doctor said I’m going home today. I’ll be back at work next week.”
“Like hell you will,” Mom muttered.
“We’re going to take care of everything while you’re resting, Papa,” I told him. “You won’t even have to think about work.”
“I can do a lot from the computer at home.”
“Drew moved the computer out yesterday. Absolutely no work for you, until after your checkup with the cardiologist next week.”
Mom was a brave lady for dropping the no-computer bomb on him. I didn’t think she’d release it until Papa got home. But if he was going to wig out, better to do it at the hospital while under a physician’s direct care.
“Why would you do that, Celeste?”
“You know why. You can’t jump straight back into a stressful situation. You’re lucky I’m not sending you to the Caribbean to relax for a few weeks.” Mom took a spot next to Joey.
“Yeah. Because that would suck,” Drew deadpanned. Our group laughter sliced through the awkward marital tension in the room.
“You haven’t enjoyed a vacation in twenty years.” Mom slid her hand against Papa’s forehead. So tender even when they were at each other’s throats.
I wanted a relationship like that.
“Well, if the boss lady says I’m out of commission, we’d better figure out a plan.”
“I’ve already got all the shifts covered at Three-one-three,” I told Papa, happy to be able to bring some stability to the work front. “I’ll be opening and closing every day. I’ll manage the orders and schedule the cash pickups. And Sammy and I will coordinate with the Mitchells for the stand’s produce shipments.”
“Whoa, whoa, back up a minute, Gaby.” Papa stopped me. “Those are the things that I do.”
“Yeah, I know, Papa, but you won’t be at work, so I’ll take over the stuff you would normally do and delegate—”
“Gaby. Stop,” Papa commanded.
I cocked my head in confusion. Despite Mom’s warning yesterday, I went rogue and figured out what needed to be covered, managed, and handled at the new store. Other than Papa, I was the only person who knew 313 Artisans from storage closet to front register. And since he couldn’t work for at least three weeks, maybe longer depending on the limitations his doctor set for him, I’d taken the reins to make sure everything was in order.
“Joey’s going to take over at Three-one-three for me while I’m out.”
The blaze of startled confusion in Joey’s eyes was as intense as the angry confusion in my own.
“But Pop, I—I—” Joey stammered.
“Joey will take care of my role, and you, Gaby, will resume your current role and manage the schedule. I don’t want to hear another word. It’s final.”
Arguing with Papa about it made no sense. Arguing with him never made any sense, but especially today when he was laid up in a hospital bed, anxious to be released. It would be just our luck that a stupid squabble would make him relapse.
It’s almost as if Papa planned the whole thing. I could picture him sitting in the tiny office at the back of the store, elbows on the desk, tapping his fingertips together. How do I get Gaby not to freak out about telling her I’m handing the store over to Joey? Oh, I’ll tell her while I’m in the hospital after I’ve had a heart attack. She couldn’t possibly argue or get upset with me in my fragile state. And my diabolical plan to keep Bertucci stores run only by male members of our family continues on. Muahahahaha…
Okay, I’m sure Papa didn’t really think like that. And I shouldn’t be so selfish, especially now. We should focus on working together until Papa got back on his feet.
“Sure, Papa. I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” I told him. I was still standing behind everyone, almost in the corner of the room. No reason for me to be up in Papa’s grill. His beloved lost sheep came home.
Joey stiffened, the veins in his neck popping out as he turned his head toward me. Between the freaky veins, the sideways glare, and the ramrod-straight back, his entire body screamed sheer terror.
Seriously. Rotting, undead corpses may have been closing in from behind me, judging by the look on his face. The terror must have come from my easy agreement to leave a store he’d never set foot in in his completely incapable hands. It couldn’t be from surprise over me not standing up for myself. My brothers had to be used to that by now.
“Good.” Papa shifted in his bed, as if trying to get comfortable. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me about Denver, Joe.”
Yes, Joe, tell us about all your important Halo 3 playing and weed smoking. That’s a super exciting story. Let me pull up a chair.
For some reason, a desperate urge to speak with Landon hit me. I wasn’t even sure where it had come from, as we weren’t really even friends. I didn’t have his phone number or address.
Actually, that was only half true. I didn’t have his home phone number or address, but I suppose I could call Robinson Arena during a Pilots practice and ask to speak to him. I’d get laughed across the Detroit River, but technically it would be like calling someone at work.
Landon had left a few messages on the store’s voicemail, asking how Papa was doing, but he never left a return phone number, so I couldn’t call him back.
I’d had the same group of friends since elementary school. I told my best friend, Michelle, everything. But she wasn’t in town, as she’d already gone back to Chicago for school. So why would Landon be the first person I thought of calling?
Maybe the immensity of him calling 911 and saving Papa’s life? Maybe the genuine surprise that he seemed to know as many random facts about me as I knew about him? Maybe the weight of him telling me I’d been his first kiss?
Whatever the reason, I wanted to talk to him now.
But I didn’t know when I’d see him again.
Chapter 4
“Joey, just listen for a minute.” I could’ve been screaming “Fire!” and he still wouldn’t have listened.
“Hit Credit. Swipe card. It’s not that hard, Gaby.”
An annoyed growl rumbled in my throat. “You have to manually input the amount into this little machine before you swipe or it won’t go through.” I tapped the black box that printed the receipt and had a handheld keypad attached for customers to approve the transaction and input their PIN number. “It doesn’t automatically do it. The machines don’t talk.”
“Hold on.” He pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his dark skinny jeans and tapped the screen. “Yeah, man. Nope. Not busy at all.”
“Ugh!” I slapped the counter with my hand, no doubt causing more pain to my own palm than giving Joey an accurate
portrayal of my frustration with him.
Most employees were fairly easy to train. Granted, most of our employees, with the exception of a few people, were members of the Bertucci family and had been running a register and working at some type of store for most of their lives.
Still, my brother did not follow the easy-to-train pattern. I’m sure he could’ve if he paid any attention to me at all. He must have magical I-know-how-to-work-a-cash-register powers, because he’d never worked in any of the family stores. Or maybe he had a job back in Colorado that he never mentioned. Or showed up for.
The door chimed and I watched an incredible being with arms, legs, and a huge bouquet of flowers for a head walk in.
“Gaby?” A long-haired delivery guy peeked out from around the arrangement.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I met him halfway into the store and took the flowers. Curiosity burned my hands, but I set them on a display table.
“Sign here.” He extended a clipboard and tapped the bottom near an X. I scribbled my name quickly and handed the clipboard back.
“Thanks,” I called after him. He held up two fingers, giving me the peace sign as he pushed through the door.
The scent of the mixed assortment of blooms assaulted my senses as I plucked the card out of the bouquet. Though flowers were beautiful to look at, I hated them. Technically, I hated the smell they produced. I’d yet to find a flower whose scent didn’t make me sick to my stomach. It wasn’t just flowers, but various fragrances. Birthdays and holidays were especially difficult for me because, without fail, someone always gave me body lotions and shower gels as gifts. I always had to pretend to be excited. Now, I know I sound like a huge jerk—I was totally thankful for the gifts, just not the scents. The only smells I could stomach were vanilla and strawberry. Occasionally apple.
Holding my breath, I turned my back to the flowers and read the card.
To the Bertucci Family:
Thinking about you and wishing Joe a speedy recovery.
Please let us know if there’s anything we can do while he gets back on his feet.
All the best, Landon Taylor and Family
“Who are those from?”
“The Taylors sent them. They hope Papa gets back on his feet quickly.” My lips slipped into a small smile.
“Old man Taylor should’ve saved his money and took it off Papa’s bill,” Joey said. He’d hung up with whoever he’d been speaking with, and now he was either playing a game or killing ants, judging by his vigorous thumbs slamming against the screen.
“What does that mean?”
“Dr. Taylor is Papa’s cardiologist.”
“Huh. Never knew that.” I read the card again. Maybe it was my personal bias, but it looked like the flowers were from Landon, and his family had been an afterthought.
“The Taylors have been customers since we were kids. How can you not know what Dr. Taylor did?”
“Well, I knew he was a doctor, I just didn’t know he was a cardiologist. We have a lot of regular customers, Joey.”
“Yeah, but none that get you all fired up like that Taylor kid. The hockey player.”
“Shut up.”
“And he doesn’t even know that flowers make you sick.” Joey chuckled. Despite having a semi-conversation with me, he hadn’t looked up from his phone once.
“The flowers are for Papa, not me. And he doesn’t get me fired up.” I grabbed the vase and headed toward the office in back, then thought better of it, because I couldn’t have them in such a small space with no windows. I’d barf.
“Good.” Joey finally looked up and met my eyes. “Hockey players are fucking pricks. They only want one thing.”
“The Stanley Cup?” I asked, feigning ignorance, though I knew where he was going with his lame overprotective big-brother act.
Ever since my parents made me tell them I’d been raped, both of my brothers carried around a burden of guilt. Drew especially, since he’d been at the same party where it had happened. Whether he’d been at the party or not made no difference. I never blamed Drew or thought he could have stopped it. We all trusted Jared Mitchell.
“He’s a hockey player and he’s twenty years old. Think about how Drew acts right now.”
Despite having a girlfriend for a short time last year, Drew’s love life could be summed up in one hyphenated word: man-whore. Which was horrible to say about my own brother, but it was the truth. He chased after anything with long hair. And I mean that. He once hit on a guy who he thought was a girl. It was hilarious.
Drew being such a skirt chaser was somewhat surprising, as his best friend since grade school had been a girl. And I didn’t remember him ever trying to make a move on her. Not that I knew what the hell he was doing. I’m just the little sister who’d gone to a totally different high school.
Thankfully, Joey took the light make-fun-of-Drew angle, not the remember-when-you-were-raped-by-a-hockey-player? angle. I appreciated that.
“Even if I did like him, I know I’d never have a chance, Joey. So we can end this conversation.”
“If I ever see you with any hockey player, I’ll shove his hockey stick down his throat until it comes out the other end.” Joey’s brotherly guilt always came out verbally in rather aggressive ways.
“That’s really graphic. And gross.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I don’t even know if that could happen physically.”
“End of the conversation.”
Joey didn’t see it, but I flipped him the bird behind the bouquet before I carried it through the office and to the back door. There was a fifty-fifty chance the flowers would be stolen, but I set them outside next to the door anyway and hoped for the best. I’d take them home to Mom after work. She’d be excited for a huge arrangement for our kitchen table. She loved fresh flowers.
Before I went back into the store, I stopped to shuffle through some papers on Papa’s desk. The stack held a few invoices that, I assumed, still needed to be paid because they hadn’t been stamped. I lowered myself into the well-worn, brown leather chair behind Papa’s desk. It had previously been a fixture in our home office. But when the store opened, Papa brought his favorite chair instead of breaking in a new one.
I loved being stuck in the dip Papa’s backside had made from years of use. The office still smelled of his aftershave, a warm and welcome scent, especially after the flower attack, although an indication that he might need to tone it down on the Old Spice.
I leaned down, unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, and removed the oversized binder holding the business checks. As Papa’s replacement, Joey should be paying the invoices, but he wouldn’t even listen to me explain how to use the register, so how could I expect him to have paid the bills?
“Gaby!” Joey called from inside the store.
“Just a sec!” I hadn’t even had a chance to write the first check before he needed me. I tossed the binder back inside the drawer and locked it up.
When I returned to the store, I saw Joey swiping a credit card once, twice, three times in the five seconds it took me to get to the register. The customer on the other side of the counter watched him with wide, cynical eyes. Probably wondering how many times the transaction would charge to his credit card with all of Joey’s manic swiping.
“Just back it out if you can’t get it,” he said as he grabbed his credit card out of Joey’s fingers.
“Sorry, sir.” Joey looked at me with panic. “I can’t get the credit card machine to work.”
I moved behind the counter and looked over his shoulder. “You totaled it out in the register, right?”
“Yes.” His voice dripped with annoyance.
I let his cross tone fly over my head. I didn’t ask the question to be a jerk. The register had to be totaled out to proceed to the next step. I picked up the handheld keypad. “Did you enter the total into this manually?”
“No.”
The customer tapped his credit card against the counter impatiently. I loo
ked up, catching the V slant of his eyebrows and the frown on his lips. “Thank you so much for your patience, sir.”
Then I glanced at Joey to make sure he watched what I did. I entered the total from the screen on the register into the keypad on the credit card machine.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m going to need your card one more time.”
“He already swiped it twenty times. How many times will my card be charged?”
“I promise you won’t be charged for all those swipes, sir. For some reason our register and credit card machine don’t communicate. Your card is only charged when we swipe it at the top of this keypad.” I held up the plastic device. “Joey is a new employee. He must’ve forgotten that from training.”
With a huff, the man handed over his credit card. I swiped it quickly and the tiny box immediately printed the receipt. I tore the paper off after the first pause in printing and set it on the counter in front of the customer with a pen. “Sign on the line, please.”
As the customer signed the slip, I hit another button and a copy of the receipt started printing. I grabbed a coupon from a shelf under the register, threw it in the bag with the receipt, and handed the bag to the man. “Thank you again for your patience. I threw in a coupon for five dollars off your next purchase. Please visit us again soon.”
“After this?” He huffed again as he grabbed his bag and left. I doubted his huffs meant he had a cough stuck.
“I just explained the credit card machine to you,” I said, once the man had left the store.
“It’s a lot to remember, Gaby. Give me a break.”
“It would be easier for me to give you a break if you’d paid attention to me when I was explaining it to you earlier. I’m going to instill a no-phone-at-work rule.”
“Then what would any of us do?”
I flashed him a scowl. “That was a customer. Let’s hope he does come back after the crappy service.”
“Whatever, Gaby. I’m not even supposed to be up here. I’m going back to the office.”
“Good. There are some invoices that need to be paid. Do you know how to write a check?”
