Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  Then Fred hopped out of his box.

  “Damn.” Nick scrambled to his feet, pulling on the yellow gloves again. “I borrowed him from a buddy.”

  They chased after the frog, which hopped into the darkness. “Here, Fred!”

  She started to laugh hysterically. “He’s not a dog, silly.”

  Nick flipped on the lights, and they cornered the frog against the brick, near a corner table. He dove down for it, his tuxedo tails catching on a chair and knocking it over. He pawed at the floor, wearing those ridiculous household gloves.

  Fred hopped near Elena, and she screamed. She threw her napkin over him, and the frog moved underneath it.

  Nick swooped over the napkin and carefully put Fred back into his box with the airholes and leaves. He snapped a lid on top of the frog’s portable carrier. “Poor little guy’s traumatized.” He turned to look at her. “What is it about you? Women threaten me with mace, I wind up doing pedicures and search through a dumpster and now this frog’s on the lam—”

  Hair ruffled, he stood there, looking at her, the crisp formal tuxedo clashing with the bright yellow latex gloves.

  Her feet were moving before she could stop them, and she ran into his arms. They came together, kissing, the heat and magic sparking all over again, their tongues and hands expressing what words couldn’t. Elena’s head spun as they moved into the shadows—away from the windows. She tugged off his jacket while he pulled up the hem of her dress. Breathless, she exhilarated in touching his bare back and torso; her fingers gliding over the ripples of muscle. His warm hands slid over her, and she surrendered to the same sensual drowning sensation as before, reveling in the texture of his mouth and that his heart beat as wildly as hers.

  They weren’t going to make it to the bedroom.

  She didn’t care.

  Ta-da. My cozy fireplace debut.

  Cos’s soiree is husband and wife all the way, salt-and-pepper sets lodged inside a metal holder. Coupled so tight that their smiles and limbs move in sync.

  Inviting place, though. I take a sip of my Jameson on the rocks and let my gaze roam. The living room’s got a floor-to-ceiling fireplace. The cedar mantle holds doodads, candles, and a giant wedding photo. Two dark green sofas face each other, sitting on top of an area rug. Ceramic lamps and recessed can lights cast an amber glow. Sinatra’s crooning “Come Fly With Me.”

  In the corner, two guys laugh and hold wine glasses filled with a pink-tinted Zinfandel. I shake my head. Wusses. Sinatra and the Rat Pack did not drink pink booze. They bit back shots of whiskey that seared their esophagus’s.

  “Good to see you, Nick.” Tiffany appears, decked out in a Pilgrim dress with a black billowy skirt and a big white collar. “Elena looks stunning.”

  I nod, proud of her. She’s wearing the dress I removed after Fred went AWOL. I smile at the memory, remember the zipper opening, my fingers sliding over her soft smooth skin. And then, moans. Lots of satisfied female moans. God, the sensation and taste of her—

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We appreciate you bringing over that deep-dish lasagna.”

  “I remembered how you liked the pizza puffs.”

  “You were hilarious that night.”

  “Please don’t tell me I’m on pedicure duty tonight.”

  Laughing, Tiffany taps my arm. “Could you make your homemade Irish cream?” She points to a small bar, a mid-century console with sci-fi looking legs. “Marc has all the ingredients laid out.” She pats Cos possessively on his belly, which is covered by a white shirt and suede vest.

  Hubby leads the way and I follow, noting a couple chatting with Elena, and Tiffany joining them, her hand affectionately on my girl’s shoulder. My girl. That plays back really nice in my head.

  We start concocting the “grog.” I pour the whipping cream into the blender first, followed by a small can of sweetened condensed milk. Then comes the Jameson Irish Whiskey.

  “The vanilla and almond extracts are in the kitchen.” Cos turns toward a white-framed doorway. “Chocolate syrup and the espresso, too.”

  At the small foyer, Tiffany’s greeting more guests, Devlin Greeley and his wife arriving. He’s helping remove his wife’s navy coat.

  Soon, Greeley strolls over, wearing a striped blue shirt, dark slacks, holding a glass of Zinfandel. He’s got a gleam in his eye, itching to pick a fight. “Hey. You got an invite this time.”

  “I promised to perform Mr. Bojangles.”

  “Looking brawny there, Nick. You working out?”

  “I’ve got a date for tonight, thanks.”

  Dev stalks away.

  Cos returns holding a small box containing the missing ingredients, which I pour into the blender. Soon we’re serving the Irish cream, guests accepting old-fashioned glasses of the stuff over ice.

  My former wingman clinks his glass against mine. “Good grog.”

  “Oog.”

  “Want to meet the prettiest girl here?”

  “I already know Elena.”

  “The baby, smartass.”

  We tromp down a Persian runner to the main bedroom, painted dark blue, with red and white bedding, and dimmed lamplights.

  Across the room, hovering over the lacy bassinet, Elena cradles a cream blanket rolled into a giant cigar shape. She’s a pro, gently rocking the baby. Cooing, she holds out her pinky, and the baby’s tiny fist closes around it. It’s almost a gauzy vision, a Madonna and child painting.

  I draw back, choking on a thickness in my throat.

  “Well, if it isn’t Nick ‘Love ‘Em and Leave ‘Em Zaccardi.” A vaguely familiar blonde sits on the edge of the bed, her hand enclosing a fistful of the bedspread. Giving me the death stare. “Once she’s a teenager, Marc, you’d better not let her get within a foot of him.”

  “I’ll be in my forties,” I say.

  “Like that’ll stop you,” she sneers. “No doubt you’ll be driving your mid-life crisis sports car.”

  Who is this rattler hissing at me? Her pupils are almost freaking slivers. I try to defuse the situation. “I sold my car.”

  Cos’s mouth drops open. “You sold the Aston?”

  “Shh. The baby’s going back to sleep.” Tiffany waves her arms, herding us out.

  The honey blonde favors her. Dummkopf. It’s her sister. I had a hookup with the sister. My stomach turns a little. Former hookup, present-day girlfriend. What could go wrong?

  “Marc.” Tiffany tugs on Cos’s sleeve. “Could you help everyone get started?”

  “I’ll help, too.” Elena smiles, leading the way.

  As we exit the bedroom, Cos pulls me back and lowers his voice. “Jessica’s tipsy, that’s why Tif’s keeps checking on the baby.”

  “Does Jessica have access to knives?” I whisper back.

  Fortunately, she doesn’t follow us out of the bedroom. She sprawls on the bed and glances over at the quiet bassinette.

  The rest of us, five couples in all, gather at their new dining room table. We feast like kings: a wedge salad with blue cheese dressing, twice-baked potatoes, broccoli, grilled ribeyes. My lasagna and Italian bread earn a round of applause.

  Tiffany insists we leave the dishes for later. Thank God, otherwise Elena the do-gooder would be up to her elbows in suds. We gather in the living room to let our food digest. Some of us plop on the two couches, others grab armchairs and others pull over the tufted dining chairs. Marc’s leaning on the mantle like he’s about to deliver a line in a Broadway farce, when Tiffany’s sister weaves into the room, a bourbon and coke in her hand, her shirt wrinkled from a nap. “She your latest, Nick?”

  A quiet falls over the group.

  Tiffany gives her sister a warning scowl. “Jessica. Get yourself something to eat.”

  “Come on. Everyone here knows the baby’s more of a grownup than Nick.”

  More silence. The guests fidget. Hands lift glasses to mouths to sip more alcohol. From the fireplace, the gas flames flicker evenly. Everything nice and c
ozy and corrosive.

  Seated next to me on the couch, Elena shifts a bit, draws up straight, hands on her knees. She hitches in a breath, her head tilts upward, and her face is earnest, as though she’s about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “Nick’s one of the bravest men I know.”

  The guests look puzzled. I tense up, not exactly thrilled she’s trying to defend me. Brave? Where is she going with this?

  “He’s taking on his father,” Elena adds.

  There is a clap of laughter, especially from Jessica. Her goddamn drink comes up through her nose, and Tiffany tosses her a cloth napkin from the table to clean up her sister’s damp shirt.

  “WTF?” Cos stares, incredulous. “You’re building a hotel somewhere?”

  “No,” Elena clarifies, her dark blue eyes serious, her gaze scanning the faces in the room. “He’s no longer putting up with his father.”

  Eyebrow cocked, Cos gives her a sideways glance. “Do you know how famous his dad is?”

  “Dictators are famous, too,” Elena says.

  The room’s museum-exhibit quiet. People say nothing, their gazes darting back and forth between Elena and me. Elena might as well have said she found a roach in the salad.

  My face and neck feel hotter, and my collar’s tighter. How could she have said such a thing? This isn’t a therapy jerk circle; this is a flippin’ cozy fireplace setting not intended for any deep discussions. Someone needs to brag about his golf swing, or talk about some movie that’s earning serious bank.

  We drag through the next albatross of an hour, mostly the guys discussing the Blackhawks season. Elena sits quietly next to me. She knows I’m rip-roaring pissed. Her face is flushed as I help her with her coat.

  Once we’re in the Ford Explorer, headed home, I implode.

  “You bring up my father?” It still stings, how they laughed.

  “I got tired of her putdowns.”

  “So? I have been a horn dog. I was a jerk to her. Why aren’t you bitching about that? Other girls would be tearing into me.”

  “She knew the risks of a hookup and still made the choice to sleep with you. Maybe she regrets it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Come on, Nick. You know what I mean. It’s in the past. She seems likable enough, and it was good of her to watch the baby while the rest of us had dinner.”

  WTF? Elena’s not even angry; I’m the one who’s steamed, driving too fast, hands gripping the Ford’s steering wheel. “What kind of girlfriend are you? You’re not even jealous.”

  “It happened before we met.”

  “Don’t be picking out china patterns just yet.”

  “Have you slept with anyone else since we met?”

  “No.” Make that a hell, no, but she seems pretty damn sure of us and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I brake hard at a red light, sending both of us forward in our seats, torsos held in place by the seat belts. “Yeah, my old man’s a hardliner. He kicks my ass once in awhile. I need it.”

  “You had to have surgery on your nose.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “Don’t excuse them.”

  “I told you, I can handle a little razzing—”

  “Not them. Them.” She stares out the passenger window, tapping a knuckle against the glass. “Once my brother had an away game for basketball and got locked out of the apartment. I was at school, doing sets for a play. Chris almost got frostbite. Thank God for Aunt Robbie; she took him to the ER. Later the nurses bought us peanut butter and cheese crackers from a vending machine because we hadn’t eaten that day.” She pulled at her fingers in her lap. “My mother was God knows where with her latest boyfriend. ‘Smokin’ reefer,’ as she eloquently put it.”

  I say nothing, keep driving, seeing the image of her limping from her shoes. I turn down the fan to the heater.

  “She had an affair with my aunt’s husband.”

  Whoa. I frown. It bothers me that her Aunt Robbie could be betrayed like that, by her own blood. “Does she know—”

  “No. And she never will.” She plays with a gold button on her coat. “Early on, my brother called it. He could see who our mother was. Me? I idolized her. She was beautiful, unsentimental and tough. Solve your own problems, she’d tell me. Be self-reliant. What I didn’t realize is that she just couldn’t be bothered.” She stares harder out the window, shaking her head. Then she turns to me. “You’re more upset about me holding the baby.”

  “I’ve been real clear on this, Elena. Real clear.” Street lamps fly past us, ribbons of light across the windshield. I turn my head to glare at her. “Do not start knitting booties.”

  “You defended that little boy and me at the hockey game. You did that on instinct.”

  “No, I did it because—”

  The words dry on my tongue. Up ahead, red and blue lights flash.

  What’s up?

  Two blocks from Tailgaters, police LED lights pierce the night, two squad cars parked at odd angles near the intersection, blocking off traffic. Cops are re-routing cars.

  She leans forward, hand braced on the glove compartment. She squints out the window. “Is it an accident?”

  I spot three girls jay-walking and roll down the driver’s side window. “Hey. What’s going on?”

  A blonde says over her shoulder, “New club opening.”

  Twenty-somethings mob the entrance. Laughing. Animated. The thick pillars feature electricity bolts in a striking marine blue, contrasting to the black double doors. There’s a long line of slim, attractive men and women huddling into their coats and jackets, bouncing on their feet as they wait. A bass beat pulsates from inside as the door opens briefly to let more folks in. Two burly guys admit people two or four at a time.

  My guts are tearing me up as I circle back to my street and Tailgaters, which looks almost empty. I drop Elena off at the front doors and tell her I’ll be right back. I hand her my keys, held together by a keychain stamped with the Aston Martin logo, silver wings on black leather, the only thing remaining from my sports car days.

  After parking, I sprint all the way there, my lungs exploding. Please, don’t let it be true. I’ll reform and become a better person. I’ll donate blood. I’ll donate sperm. I’ll donate an organ—while I’m still using it.

  I get out and run down the sidewalk in the middle of the crowd, edging my way toward the front, getting a lot of “hey”s and curses.

  My heart’s beating fast.

  You won’t see it coming, Nicky. You won’t see it coming.

  I see it now, head-on.

  The Z in neon blue. The familiar zig-zag to the logo.

  NOW OPEN

  DIVISION ONE WEST

  A ZACCARDI SPORTS BAR

  The rest of the weekend’s a shipwreck. I withdraw from Elena, and she goes home. Then some righteous anger jacks me up. I find out where the old man’s going to be on Monday morning.

  I’m going to ambush him for once.

  At the hotel entrance, the warm yellow-lit interior glows against the depressing stone gray day. I avoid the revolving door and slip through one of the side doors.

  Outfitted in the standard-issue black suit, Z logo on the chest pocket, the concierge confirms that Dad’s on schedule, about to give a speech. Likely for some business conference, like the hundreds he’d done over the years.

  Ping. Ping. Molasses must be gumming up the elevator machinery, because it takes forever. Eventually I make it to the massive dining room next to the Affluence Room. Waiters in black are bent over white-draped round tables, arranging silver cutlery, placing white napkins folded into an origami-like Z shape on the center of the plate. Floating from the kitchen is a delicious aroma, chicken and rosemary, and cranberry stuffing, one of the hotel’s specialty entrees.

  In a corner, near the floor-to-ceiling gold curtains, my father paces in one of his expensive navy suits, flipping through index cards. He rehearses with cards and ad-libs the rest. The A/V people scramble to adjust the on-screen visuals to mirror his wor
ds.

  A young guy wearing a headset and black clothes rushes toward him, chops at the air with a frantic hand. “Ten minutes.”

  My father nods once. Resumes pacing.

  Seeing him so contained and barricaded from the mushroom cloud swirling around me makes me nuts. A rage swarms over me like thousands of fire ants. I halt several feet away and hitch in a breath before blasting my voice across the room.

  “Why the hell do you want to crush me?”

  Several of the waiters stop, their well-groomed heads turning.

  Dad’s head snaps up, and his eyebrows wedge together. In seconds, he closes the distance between us. Grabs my arm and shoves me toward a slightly open door.

  In the adjoining A/V room are a half-dozen staff members. Some wearing headsets glance up, their faces going pale. They freeze at their monitors like gazelles when the biggest lion creeps in. The room’s shaped like an oversized racquetball court, and all kinds of stage, technical and lighting equipment is shoved along the walls, wires taped to the floor. They have a one-way mirror set-up, like researchers and cops use, too, a giant window into the larger Affluence Room and stage.

  “Everyone.” Dad slices the air with a curt hand. “Out.”

  The only woman in the room glances up at the wall clock, her long ponytail moving down her back.

  “Now,” Dad snarls.

  She nervously shuffles out. On the other side of the wall, applause erupts from the Affluence Room, as another speaker is introduced and takes the podium.

  Red-faced, Dad yanks down on his suit jacket, pulling the lapels back into place. “I don’t have time for this.”

  It’s rare when I have him one-on-one, so I’d better make it good. “Two hundred neighborhoods in this city, and you had to open up near me.”

  “It’s a business decision.”

  “No, this feels goddamned personal. Family personal. You leveled her, too. You drained her accounts. Yeah. You did. The neighbor had a couple of her boxes. Bank statements. Savings. Checking. You drained everything. That’s why I can’t work for you anymore.”

  “She asked me to invest that money.”

  “Bullshit. You’d just gotten remarried.”