by Sidney Ivens
“Faring along fine.”
Auntie Rob poked a tongue into her cheek, appearing confused while seeming to measure her words. Her fleshy upper lip protruded like a lid too big for its pot. “Uhm, Elena’s a little tired. She worked late last night.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Lexi reached over to pat her aunt’s hand. “Nice chatting.” At the entrance door, she spun around on her stilettos. “Oh, by the way. Did Nicky enjoy your class?”
Nick-eee, in a baby-doll voice that made Elena’s teeth grate.
“Nick Zaccardi.” Lexi’s smirk was undeniable. “Rhymes with Bacardi. Surely you’ve heard of Zaccardi Hotels. The international luxury hotels. I thought Nicky might get a kick out of it. Did he?” Laughing, she tugged the cashmere collar of her coat across her chest with a French-manicured hand.
Lexi the name-dropper. Of course, anyone not hiding under a rock knew of Zaccardi Hotels.
Elena steadied a suspicious gaze on her. Why would Lexi Jasper be playing footsie with Nick Zaccardi, and why would he want to buy their building and lot as a hotel space? Even as a high-rise, the structure wouldn’t be big enough. Were the two of them real estate grifters, playing against each other to confuse her aunt?
“I didn’t find last night’s interruption particularly funny. Do you two work together?”
“Hardly.”
“Obviously you know him.”
Lexi’s lips curled up like an exotic cat’s. “You might say that.”
Well, wasn’t that suggestive. So the two of them had sex. Lexi probably did acrobatic flips from a trampoline while he leaped around in a cheetah loincloth.
“I made it clear to the gentleman last night,” Elena said through her teeth. “And I’ll be clear now. The bookstore isn’t for sale.”
“Elena—” Her aunt pressed a hand over hers.
“Did Nicky want to buy it? Is that what happened?” When Lexi didn’t get the answer she wanted from Elena, her gaze shifted to Auntie Rob.
Elena tapped her foot against her aunt’s ankle to silence her. She grabbed a pile of promotional literature and rapped the edges against the counter. “Look. We’re busy. Buried with holiday preparations.” She pointed to the poster and matching leaflets promoting the December appearance of Hannah Reed Colter, a women’s fiction author whose latest book had skyrocketed to the New York Times’ bestseller list. Colter had appeared on Good Morning America earlier in the week. Take that, name-dropper. Elena gave a tight smile. “We’ve got a big Christmas planned.”
“Oh, yes. I can see customers have been beating down the doors.” She cupped a hand around her mouth. “You’re a few days behind on the advent calendar, Elena.” She tilted her head. “Oh. And tell your disabled brother I said goodbye.” She exaggerated a giggle. “I think he likes me.” She strutted out the door, letting in a blast of cold air.
By now, Elena’s teeth were so clenched that her ears hurt.
“Elena Glynn, you were almost hateful to that girl.”
Elena sighed.
Her aunt patted her on the arm. “Good.”
“I shouldn’t be. Hateful.” She pressed her lips together, avoiding eye contact. “Sisterhood and all.”
Increasingly, though, Elena questioned the contradictions. For every pioneer like Billie Jean King, some women believed feminism gave them carte blanche to be self-centered and rude. The trouble with studying history was that she knew that Roman women poisoned their patrician lovers for power. Women resorted to catty, Queen Bee behavior and then phony-wept as the victim. Elena never denied the darker nature of men. It was just that women could be dark, too.
“About the lecture last night,” she said. “It didn’t go well. And Zaccardi didn’t attend. He crashed.”
“He also crashed my phone. Called early, too. Must be an early riser. He’s got quite the deep voice.”
His parting shot about being the early worm. She imagined him chomping on a worm between those carnivorous white teeth. Even worse, that Phi Crappa Jerka got better evaluations than she did.
She returned a loose publishing industry magazine to its rightful place on the counter. “I should’ve called the police. Hauled him out of here. But no, they wanted him to stay, so I obliged them.”
“Don’t feel bad for obliging them. For being courteous.”
“People think you’re weak when you’re accommodating, Auntie Rob.”
“Well, I still think a considerate nature’s better than a harsh one. Life’s too short to snarl at everyone. Zaccardi Hotels. My word.” Her aunt pulled over her laptop and Googled the name, pulling up all kinds of links. Photos of blue-sky paradises, ocean-front properties, smiling people in bathing suits, people snorkeling, couples at candlelit dinners. Hundreds of breathtaking images of hotels from around the world.
Elena wrinkled up her face. Talk about the one percent.
Zaccardi. Italian. No surprise there. He’d murmured Italian when kissing her hand. She wanted to forget, and couldn’t, the texture of his lips on her skin, the perfect balance of moist and soft, the briefest of kisses. The bold eye contact, those golden-green irises.
Totally lethal.
Before falling asleep last night, she rolled around her sheets. Restless, so restless. Tried to block the sensation of his mouth against her hand, the nerve endings of her skin coming to life. She disliked him—fiercely—but had been gobsmacked by his size and brazen maleness. Transfixed by those half-lidded eyes.
I’m going to enjoy changing your mind.
Then came the baffling moment, the two or three seconds after she’d mentioned Harlow’s monkey experiment. The haunted look on his face. What was that about?
“Maybe it’s time.”
Elena startled, knocking into a yellow highlighter and sending it to the floor.
“Time to be realistic.” Her aunt tapped a forefinger on her lower lip and roamed over to the clearance bin. Dozens of books still unsold, gathering dust.
“Auntie Rob. No.”
Her aunt exhaled and glanced down, rubbing her arms.
So in one conversation, this huckster had persuaded her aunt to abandon the business she fought so long and hard for?
When child-rearing had become too much for her beautiful but unstable mother, Aunt Robbie told the family court that she’d raise Chris and Elena as her own, and had worked two jobs to support them. The bookstore building came into her possession after a great-uncle passed, and her aunt launched the Lucky Pup. After living as trailer trash nomads with her mother, Elena had been thrilled to have a real home.
“Sweetie, we’ve been white-knuckling it for years. Maybe . . . I’m just plain old tired.”
“How much?”
“I’d rather not say. I don’t want to jinx it.”
Had this man already started to manipulate her aunt and told her not to talk to her? Of course, he had. He assumed the two of them were passive, easily duped females. Go on right ahead and pillage, Mr. Zaccardi. We’ll be sure to duck as you hack up the shelves. Elena chewed her lip. “We never keep anything from each other.”
“Let’s first see whether the offer’s for real. His real estate agent sent papers for me to review.” Auntie Rob nodded toward the cashier counter area, at a large manila envelope.
Wow. He moved fast. Elena picked up the envelope and pulled the stapled documents free. Skimming the pages, her heart sank. The paperwork looked legitimate, and her aunt was actually considering it. Then again, Zaccardi could undercut her on the asking price.
Her eyes narrowed on the edge of a napkin trapped underneath a glossy travel magazine. She pushed it aside to reveal a white napkin embossed with a bold logo. Division One. Someone had sketched the bookstore with a black marker. Might as well have the concentric circles of a target.
That’s it. No more Ms. Nice Guy. She would deal with this now, and set him straight.
My condo’s located in Chicago’s Streeterville neighborhood, a two-bedroom, two-bath, 2,457-square-foot luxury unit with a private elevator. I dial
the number for another potential chef and pace near the windows to a view breathtaking even in winter, a clear sightline to Navy Pier, traffic winding around Lake Shore Drive, a piercing blue sky and crusted-over white shore. A frozen wonderland. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could interfere with this Lake Michigan vista.
Except for my old man.
The incoming call lights up my cell. I dig a thumbnail into its plastic-protected edge. Might as well get it over with.
“Ezio tells me you’re skipping out at work.” On the other end of the line, Dad’s voice is low and wise-guy rough. Dad never says hello. His idea of a greeting is an ambush. “Is that true?”
My heartbeat ratchets up. Ezio is Division One’s head bartender, a supersized Greek who has more hair on his back than on his head. Apparently my father and he are becoming chummy. “I thought bathroom breaks were allowed.”
“Hah, hah, smartass. He says you’re disappearing for one, two hours at a time.”
A sudden freeze chills the lining of my stomach. Has Ezio turned informant? He couldn’t know about the potential bookstore acquisition; he’d been elbows-deep in customers and beer taps the night I made my pitch. Cos would never squeal. Miss Belly Shot wouldn’t care.
Lexi rhymes with sexy? I shrug off the image of her stalking me with night goggles and weaponized bacteria. No way did she know Dad. His security detail wouldn’t let anyone near him, female, male or any self-identifying aliens.
My skipping out was for a good reason. Interviewing chefs and other potential employees. Lining up resources for every phase, construction contractors for the remodel, suppliers, equipment outlets. I’m building my dream on the side, but I’ve got to do it stealth while still managing Div1. Preserve my image of the dutiful son furthering the family crest.
“My back’s been bothering me from all the years I played sports,” I say. “I’ve been seeing a chiropractor.”
“Who?”
“North Side guy. Dr. Lee.” Hopefully “Lee” did the trick. Smith or John Doe weren’t options.
The old man snorts. “Ezio says a few Blackhawks showed up Monday. You could’ve had someone there take photos. Had ‘em framed for the celebrity wall in front. But you blew it.”
“Monday’s my one day off, Dad.”
“First rule in business. There is no such thing as a day off. You want the good life? Earn it.”
“I am earning it.”
“Like you earned that MBA at Wharton?”
Heat flares up around my neck. The old man knows exactly where to poke to make the fur stand up.
“I didn’t fuck up. I dropped out.”
Leaving Wharton qualified as a page in the family scrapbook, my old man pacing outside Samson Place. I’d just hauled a load down and found him standing right there, ready to confront me. See, he’d been bragging to his pals that the son of his loins attended Wharton. And I’d quit.
The instant we were on a shaded street, away from the public eye, he shoved me. The hamper I’d brought down went flying, and my clothes landed in a pile on the pavement. I fell against the passenger side of the limo, my face kissing metal, nose-first. The cartilage cracked, and my nose swelled up to twice its size. Blood dripped through my fingers and spattered on my shirt. Dad yelled at the driver to take me to the ER.
Later, he’d paid a top plastic surgeon to fix my nose. Otherwise, I’d have a boxer’s face, and the old man might miss out on me attracting a new crop of girlfriends. No way would he pass on that competition, hitting on women thirty years younger than him. He slid his hand over their knees right in front of me.
I wasn’t the first kid to have a father like that; wouldn’t be the last. Wouldn’t be the last to discover that celebrities smile for cameras and become nasty to ordinary slugs wanting autographs. Dad’s got a great public image: strong, charming, a leader. At home, he’s an entirely different guy.
To get him off my back, I worked hard. Specialized in stoic, too. Never let him see the slightest twitch of a reaction. Otherwise, my father would’ve crushed me under the heel of his Bolvaint Verrocchio shoe.
When I was young—five years old, maybe six, a memory that’s hazy, dreamlike—my mother would hold me and tell me everything would be all right. It wasn’t. Just before my thirteenth birthday, they lowered her coffin into the ground, and I looked up. There stood my father, staring at me with cold, dark eyes.
There are times I think a part of me went into the casket with her, the part that believed in Santa Claus, the part that dreamed I could pilot the Millennium Falcon, the part of me that believed people were good.
“What’s with you lately?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Don’t take advantage of my good name, Nick. Remember the lifestyle you enjoy. The place I gave you.”
“Rent me, Dad. Not gave me. I pay rent.” The Streeterville condo was a leftover love nest that had belonged to a showgirl he shagged while married to Wife Number Three. Three lasted the longest of his marriages: two presidential terms.
My phone lights up. Cos. “I’ve got another call.”
“They can wait.” He clears his throat. “When’s that contest thing happening?”
“St. Patrick’s Day.”
I update him on the details. The NEW EATS competition is an invitational to first-year restaurants and sports bars, a way to kickstart their eateries and attract publicity. I’d pitched the concept last year, and city officials had loved it. It’s a riff off those reality-TV chef competitions, except limited to Chicagoland. Another difference: it won’t be just another chef competing against other chefs. The event will showcase décor and concept, and feature a team pulling together, manager, lead chef, wait staff. The entire dining experience, soup to nuts.
A panel of food critics will rate the finalists, along with Joe Schmoes—I’d insisted that regular people would participate, too. Voting won’t happen until the night of the event, when the dozens of restaurants are whittled down to seven finalists. Lucky Seven.
To ensure this all goes viral, I recruited several celebrities to judge.
Naturally, Division One would be entered.
But there’s a twist. I intended to enter my own place, the renovated bookstore. All done in secret. Winning NEW EATS will let me fly past GO and collect a lot of dollars.
And I’d beat my father at his own game.
I finish debriefing the old man. “Contest proceeding as planned.”
A silent lapse follows.
“Dad? You there?”
“I know what your problem is. You’re sulking. Every year, you’re like this. How long is it going to take you to get over it? It’s been sixteen years. Six. Teen. Years.”
A red rage pulses in front of my eyes, and every muscle tenses. I want so badly to tell him that I know. I know what he did to my mother. My hand clenches into a fist. I fucking know.
But I’ve got to wait. So I say nothing.
“Grow the hell up, Nick,” he says, hanging up.
And that’s the typical chat on the Zaccardi friends and family plan.
The air trapped in my lungs blows out through my mouth. I toss the phone onto the ivory Italian sectional.
I gaze out the window of Special Operations Command, the Streeterville condo. Luxe all the way, off-white furniture, wide-plank wood flooring, fourteen-foot-high ceilings.
So different from a three-story bookstore nearly a century old. A bookstore. Godsend or godforsaken. Maybe I am about to make a left turn off a cliff.
Mind buzzing, I tip back my head, squint my eyes shut, and press the pad of my thumbs to the closed eyelids. Normally I tackle stress by swimming thirty laps in the condo’s infinity pool, but there’s no time. I have to reach Cos.
Just as I swipe my phone to call him, I hear a sharp rapping on my door.
Annoyed, I cross the room to activate the security camera. What the hell? On-screen is some overgrown school girl in a puffy winter cap. A Girl Scout peddling cookies? Solicitors aren’t allowed. The condo assoc
iation is going to hear about this.
Then I squint.
And grin.
Under that puff hat is the professor.
I feel strangely elated as I open the door.
She charges past me, perfume swirling around the space, sort of flower meets spring. And get this, she’s wearing mittens. Last girl I met who wore mittens was in my second-grade class. The professor’s red coat is unbuttoned, and a black leather pouch is slung over her shoulder. In her hand, she’s clutching inkjet printouts and an envelope, holding them so tight that the papers are warping. On her head is a black knit cap with a pom-pom flecked in white, red and black. Her shorter black hair’s flipping up around the knit rim.
Underneath the coat is another big sweater that could cast a partial eclipse. A plaid pleated skirt skims her knees. Her legs are in solid black stockings, and the black shoes are like wooden Dutch shoes, the kind kids wear scampering around windmills.
I can’t take my eyes off her. That face. That beautiful face.
My heart kicks up several gears. Outwardly, I play it cool. “You look like you’re out for blood.”
“I am. Yours.”
“Oooh, a vampiress.” I fling my arms back. “Have at it. I’m O positive. Universal donor.”
“You’re in cahoots with Lexi Jasper.”
“Cahoots?”
“Nick-eee.” She imitates Lexi’s nasally baby voice to perfection. “She just happened to drop by, too.”
Did she now? When she had been so good at pretending indifference? I clear my throat and narrow my eyes. “Miss—” What was her name? Same as the aunt’s?
“Professor. I don’t want either one of you sneaking around my aunt. You go through me first.”
Acting tough now, huh. She’s cute, as adorable as a kitten hissing at a Rottweiler, but I have things to do. “The name on the property belongs to your aunt, not you . . . and I’m busy.” I take her by the elbow and steer her toward the door.