Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  I looked back at the door. “Not usually. I hope everything is okay.”

  Dad nodded. We sat silently together, watching the news while we waited. A few minutes later, Brandon returned with his frown lines more pronounced than usual and his hair sticking up in the back. It obviously hadn’t been the best phone call.

  “Everything okay?” I asked warily.

  He ran his hand through his hair again, trying in vain to smooth it out. His efforts only made it worse. “Not really. Something’s come up. I’m so sorry, but I have to get back to Boston. There’s a deal that’s gone to shit. Ah, sorry, Danny.”

  My dad waved away the profanity with his good hand. “Like I ain’t said worse a million times.”

  I walked to where Brandon stood. As if programmed, his hands moved immediately to my waist and pulled me close.

  “When are you leaving?” I asked.

  “There’s a helicopter on standby downtown,” he murmured. He inhaled deeply, as if to breathe in as much of my scent as possible.

  “Okay. Should I call a cab?”

  Brandon shook his head. “No, I’m getting one. David will still take you home before he drives back to Boston.” He released me with one arm and turned to face my father. “Danny, I hope it’s not overstepping, but I’ve also arranged for a home aide for the next several weeks to help Skylar and your mother while you’re out of commission.”

  “Oh, you really didn’t have to—” Dad started, but was swiftly interrupted.

  “It’s the least I can do since I don’t get to see your daughter for a few weeks.” Brandon released me completely and stepped over to Dad to shake his good hand. “Take care, Danny.”

  Dumbfounded, Dad nodded and mumbled his thanks.

  Brandon turned to me. “Walk me out?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I assured Dad and followed Brandon to the elevators.

  “I’m sorry I have to leave,” he said as he pressed the down button. He pulled me back into his arms. “I really did want to stay.”

  “I know you did,” I said. “But you’ve done too much already. I’ll be back as soon as Dad’s through his next surgery and on the mend.”

  Brandon smiled ruefully. “Hopefully it won’t be too long. I’m not sure I’ll survive without you for two weeks.”

  It was meant to be a joke, but his tone made my chest constrict—the idea of being without him for more than a few days caused a massive cloud of dread to hang over my head. I was so in love with the man.

  The realization had my heart skip once, twice. Wasn’t it too soon to be thinking such things?

  “Skylar, I—”

  I looked up to find Brandon’s eyes wide with vulnerability. The hum of the hospital ward faded away, the voices and beeps muted as we stared, lost completely in something neither of us were ready to name yet.

  “Skylar,” he said again, softly. “I…I—”

  The elevator bell interrupted us. As the people filed off, Brandon kissed me, quickly but intensely, lifting me up so my toes hovered over the floor. Just as quickly, he released me, breathing heavily.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said as he stepped into the elevator.

  “Call me when you’re home,” I replied with a feeble wave. Just his brief kiss had managed to knock the wind out of me.

  Brandon gave me a sly grin, and my knees weakened just a little bit more. “Bye, Red.”

  The elevator doors closed. I turned around to find two of the nurses watching with twin expressions of pure jealousy.

  “Girl,” said one of them. “I don’t know what you are doing there. If that was my man, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight.”

  “No doubt,” agreed the other one. “He looks like trouble. The good kind.”

  “You have no idea,” I replied.

  They laughed as I walked back to my dad’s room.

  “He’s off?” Dad asked as I slumped into the chair beside him.

  I nodded and looked at the TV, afraid of what my expression would betray.

  “He’s a good man, Skylar.”

  I turned to Dad curiously. He didn’t usually say much about the men I dated. Even when I’d dated Patrick and Robbie and had come home crying, he’d left the interfering up to Bubbe. Dad was usually the quiet, watch-and-see kind of parent, content to let me make my own mistakes while he loved me no matter what.

  “I’m glad,” he said, fighting to get the words out of his still-hoarse throat. I started to speak, but he held up his good hand in protest. “No, I am. You deserve better than an old man who’s going to ruin the family. He’ll take care of you, Pips. And I’m glad to see it, ’specially since I can’t.”

  I swallowed. This was the moment, if ever, that I could talk some sense into him.

  “No one has to take care of me, Dad. I want to take care of you.”

  His mottled features spread into a wistful smile at the words. “Oh, kiddo, you already do.”

  “Dad.” I cleared my throat. I might as well get it over with. He needed to know he didn’t have to worry. “I went to Nick’s yesterday.”

  “You did what?”

  “Victor was there,” I continued. “We came to an agreement about paying your debt.”

  Dad’s entire body tensed visibly, and he stared without blinking before shaking his head.

  “Skylar. Honey. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

  Dad didn’t say anything. Finally, he looked at the open door. “So, what’s the agreement this time?”

  “Brandon gave him the first payment, and we’ll get the rest by the end of the month. He said as long as we did that, he’d leave you alone.”

  The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead became even more pronounced as he pondered my statement. “But…where are you getting the rest of the money?”

  I sighed. “I’m not going to lie. Bubbe’ll need to refinance the house for some of it. I don’t have enough left in my trust to cover it all and pay for a rehabilitation program.”

  His head jerked back at my last words, his eyelids blinking rapidly. “What? Honey, I really don’t think I need that—”

  “It’s non-negotiable, Dad,” I interrupted quietly.

  I patted his leg. Dad just swallowed loudly. When he looked back at me, clearly prepared to mount another weak argument, I just shook my head.

  “Non-negotiable,” I repeated.

  “Skylar—” he tried again.

  “No,” I said, this time more forcefully. “You have a problem. Your liver is busted. Your hand is completely smashed—it’s going to take months for you to even be able to start thinking about the piano again. I don’t know how many times you’ve gotten into trouble with these kinds of people—I couldn’t possibly count them all—but this is now the second time I’ve personally had to pay off your debts to some shitty loan shark, which means that I am now involved in illegal activities, something that could cost me my career too. This is the last time we’re doing this. Do you hear me, Dad? The last!”

  My voice was shaking by the end, even though my volume hadn’t risen a bit. He watched me carefully as I spoke, his lips clenched as he fought tears. He felt terrible about it—that much was obvious. But I wasn’t going to let him continue an even more terrible cycle.

  “You’re going to rehab,” I said definitively. “Because if you don’t, I’m turning you in for illegal gambling and for aiding and abetting known criminals.”

  “Now, wait a second—”

  “NO!” I finally stood up from my chair, unable to keep my cool any longer. I paced toward the door. Across the hall, a flurry of nurses at the station looked up. I turned on my heel. “You-you can’t keep doing this to us, Daddy!” I cried, my voice cracking on the last word.

  I hadn’t called him Daddy in years, but somehow it slipped out now. He had always been my hero, even when I knew things weren’t completely right. Even when I knew he was a fundamentally weak man—the kind of man who took back a woman who c
ontinued to emotionally abuse him, the kind of man who couldn’t say no to a good game of cards. He had only ever been strong in two ways: his music and his love for me. I wanted so badly for him to extend those strengths to other parts of his life—to be the man I knew he could be.

  I sat back down heavily in the chair, the metal leg screeching loudly across the floor. I laid my head on his leg, and before I could stop them, a cascade of tears poured into the thin fabric of his pants as I let out the years of pain, anguish, worry that his addiction had caused Bubbe and me. The sobs wracked my body. Once they lessened, I registered the feel of a hand stroking my head, combing through my hair the way he used to when I was a kid.

  “Shh,” Dad intoned.

  I turned into his touch and looked up to see him gazing down at me, with several streams of tears also falling. He sniffed as a few caught in his mustache, but kept his good hand where it was. We stayed where we were as our mutual tears dried up. Then I sat up slowly.

  “Oh, Pips,” Dad said softly. He looked down at his cast, then back up at me. “Okay, Pips,” he croaked. “I’ll go.”

  Before I could reply, a knock on the open door interrupted our conversation. Dad pulled his hand out of my grasp to wipe the tears away while I turned to greet our guest.

  “Mr. Crosby?”

  A man who couldn’t have been much older than me stepped into the room and hovered with his hand still on the doorknob.

  “Can we help you?” I asked, turning awkwardly in my chair.

  “I’m Matthew Zola. I work at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

  I glanced back at Dad, who clenched his blanket with his good hand. Zola openly assessed the nose brace, the bandaging over his hand, and the rainbow of bruises. I appraised Zola right back and raised my eyebrow.

  “What is it you need?” I asked sharply.

  “It’s probably best that it stays between me and Mr. Crosby, miss,” Zola said in that same placating tone Kieran used every time she spoke with a client’s family member who was ignorant of the legal situation.

  I crossed my arms and frowned.

  “It’s fine,” Dad said. “She’s my daughter. She’s also my lawyer if I need one. She’s graduating from Harvard next month.”

  I traded a small grin with Dad—he couldn’t help but brag about my education, even when his face was so beat up he could barely speak. Zola’s gaze flickered back at me with obvious, if wary, curiosity. I was the definition of inexperienced, of course, but at least he understood I could follow the conversation. Without asking, he took a seat in the second chair facing the bed.

  “All right, sir,” he said, although now his appeal was clearly being directed at both of us. “I work at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office, and we’re preparing a case against the Messina crime family.”

  “What are the charges?” I asked.

  “Oh, they’ve got their hands in all sorts of things.” Zola eluded the question easily. “I’m sorry to bother you, but when I caught wind of what had happened, I thought you might have something to say.”

  “And what would that be?”

  My response was cold—this was highly irregular. Dad had flat-out refused to give a statement to the police called upon his admission to the hospital. I suspected Dr. Carraway had been involved with their appearance, but why would the D.A. connect a basic assault to the Messina family?

  “It’s your hand that made me think of it,” Zola said, answering my unspoken question. “It’s sort of Victor Messina’s calling card when dealing out the, ah, consequences to people who don’t meet their end of a bargain. Very painful to have your hand messed up, as no doubt you know, Mr. Crosby.”

  All three of us stared at the bandages mummifying Dad’s hand. Dad still didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes as if incredibly fatigued. I turned back to Zola, who just kept looking squarely at my father as if he could stare a response out of him.

  “I was wondering if you could say anything about the after-hours gambling operations the Messina family has been running out of Brooklyn nightclubs,” he said. “Specifically, a jazz club called Nick’s over on Ditmas Avenue.”

  I could feel, rather than see Dad freeze—whether it was at the mention of gambling, the connection between him and Nick’s, the idea of being a witness against Victor Messina, I didn’t know.

  “My father doesn’t know anything about how the Messinas run their businesses,” I said, summoning up as much authority as I could muster. “He’s a sanitation worker, not a hustler.”

  “He’s also a musician and has been seen several times handing envelopes of cash to Victor Messina and his associates in and around Nick’s,” Zola shot back calmly, keeping his eyes trained on Dad, who winced. “Mr. Crosby, I’m not looking to cause trouble for you; I was just curious if you could shed any light on the situation.”

  “Did you have a record of the gambling, sir?” I interrupted Zola as sweetly as I could. He still hadn’t looked directly at me, and I was getting tired of being treated like a piece of furniture when it was clear my dad didn’t want to talk. “Or anything illegal beyond sharing mail?”

  Zola’s brown eyes blazed with irritation, but the rest of his admittedly handsome features settled into a blasé expression. He studied me for a moment before answering.

  “No,” he admitted. “I’m sorry if I offended. We’re not…you’re not in any danger from us here, Mr. Crosby. But Victor Messina has done you a very serious wrong, and saying something about it might help us make sure he can’t do it to anyone else.”

  When Dad remained silent, Zola gave an audible sigh. He stood up, and the hospital chair creaked. Zola set his business card down on the bureau by the door. “If you think of anything you’d like to share, please give me a call, day or night. Mr. Crosby. Ms. Crosby.”

  With a curt nod at each of us, he left. I turned to Dad, who was staring at the empty doorway with a look of pure terror.

  “Are you okay?” I patted my dad’s leg to pull him out of his trance.

  Dad shook his head, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply out of his nose. “I…it’s been a long goddamn weekend, Pip. I just want to go home. Would you mind turning off the TV?”

  “Sure.” I did as he asked.

  But something was bothering me. On a whim, I grabbed a small cup with a few hurried words about getting some ice and jogged to the elevator.

  “Mr. Zola!”

  As the young attorney turned from the elevators, I was momentarily reminded of the opening scene of the James Bond movies where Bond turns and shoots toward the barrel of a gun. He had that look of the classic Bond actors—the dark, shiny hair, and the slight smirk on his chiseled features.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  I stopped as the elevator door rang open. Zola motioned for the people to leave and allowed the doors to close before looking at me.

  “You mentioned that Messina has a calling card that’s reserved for the people who don’t pay their debts. You’re right—he needs to be behind bars. But you saw my father, Mr. Zola. Did you really think he would speak up two days after he had his stuffing torn out? If a busted hand is his late fee, what do you think Messina does to a rat?”

  Zola rubbed a hand over his chin.

  “He won’t necessarily know it’s your dad,” he said weakly, to which I responded with an eye roll.

  He and I both knew that as soon as the evidence was gathered and charges filed, it would have to be sent to Messina’s representation as part of a fair trial. After that, it would only be a matter of time before Dad and Bubbe had thugs knocking on their doors again.

  “I haven’t passed the bar yet, Mr. Zola, but I’m not an idiot,” I said. “You’ve got to do better than this.”

  Zola studied me again. “What are you going into? Criminal defense?”

  I frowned at the sudden change of subject.

  “Are you staying in Massachusetts or coming to New York?” he continued. “I’m guessing you�
��re either taking a job at a criminal defense firm or you’re going to the public defender’s office. Am I right?”

  I chewed on my lower lip. “Actually, I haven’t completely decided where I’m going yet.”

  Like anyone who knew anything about the stresses of exiting law school, Zola balked.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, willing the flush not to rise up my neck. “But that’s neither here nor there.”

  Zola dug around in his interior jacket pocket for another business card. “Well, bully for me, then. I already left one of these with your dad, but you should have one too. I happen to know the domestic violence bureau at the Brooklyn D.A.’s office is hiring, if you’re interested.”

  I accepted the card and stared at the stark black lettering.

  “If you can cross-examine anyone the way you did me, they could probably use you. But, Ms. Crosby?”

  I looked back up. “Yeah?”

  Zola looked toward my dad’s room, and his bright eyes flashed. “If your father has something to say, I hope you’ll help him say it. The D.A.’s office will offer him whatever kind of protection we can. Victor Messina is a bad man, and the sooner he’s off the streets, the better.”

  Zola pressed the down button for the elevator again. Seconds later, the bell rang.

  “Please think about it,” Zola said as he stepped inside. “And if you want me to pass your resume on to the DV unit, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, slightly stunned as the doors closed.

  I looked at the business card again. It wasn’t what I was expecting when I’d run out to meet him, but it was certainly something to think about.

  34

  It took ten more days for Dad to get a private nurse settled (against Bubbe’s very vocal arguments against it, which quickly quieted down once she realized that Annalisa made excellent Cuban-style coffee), have his hand surgery, and feel well enough to move around again. When I left, he was getting around the house with relative ease, his newly bionic hand packed against his chest in a sling.

  I arrived back in Boston on a Thursday morning, courtesy of an early morning, first-class plane ticket messengered by a certain pushy tycoon who made no secret of wanting me back. While his concern for my father hadn’t waned over the last week and a half, Brandon’s calls had become more frequent, his tone slightly more irritable, and he was rarely willing to say goodbye. I might have found it annoyingly clingy if I didn’t miss him just as much.