by Tracey Lange
Denny had never wanted for girlfriends. As an adolescent he somehow managed a free pass on the painful phase everyone else endured—acne breakouts, voice wobbles, awkward growth spurts. He was always so comfortable in his body and his surroundings. Girls were drawn to his confidence, and he ate up the attention. But one night when he was a junior in college and bartending at a restaurant near campus, Theresa walked in and ordered banana daiquiris.
Sunday and Kale were sitting at the bar that Saturday night, sipping free drinks Denny was passing them, when a long-legged girl in short shorts and spaghetti straps came in with a friend and grabbed the last two open seats at the busy bar. Her untamed black hair, high cheekbones, and flawless skin caught Denny’s eye immediately. It was obvious, because as slammed as he was between the bar crowd and waitstaff drink orders, he made a beeline for her. But his winning smile hesitated when Theresa asked for two frozen banana daiquiris.
Sunday understood Denny’s reaction. A banana daiquiri was a huge pain in the ass to make. It meant pulling out the blender, squeezing copious fruits, and tracking down obscure ingredients, like coconut milk. So, Denny told them he didn’t have any bananas, to consider something else and he’d be back.
With great amusement Sunday and Kale watched Theresa look over to the fruit bowl behind the bar, which held limes, lemons, oranges. And two bananas.
Denny stopped back a few minutes later. “What did you guys decide on?”
Theresa leaned forward on the bar, chin in hand, big eyes on his. “We’d still like two banana daiquiris.” She pointed to the fruit bowl behind him. Sunday was sure Denny would just make the drinks then. He’d been totally busted.
Instead, he grabbed the bananas and threw them in the trash with gusto. “Sorry, those were bad. I don’t have any bananas.”
If Theresa had thrown the nearest drink in his face or demanded to talk to the manager, Sunday wouldn’t have blamed her. But she didn’t. A slow smile spread across her face. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks, anyway.” Then she turned and left, taking her bewildered friend with her. Denny’s eyes followed them all the way to the door, his expression one of mild remorse, as if realizing he may have won the battle, but he’d paid a high price.
Sunday wasn’t present the second time they met but it had been etched into Brennan family lore. Theresa returned to the bar alone the next night and settled on a stool.
“What can I get you?” Denny asked, with a big smile.
“I’d like a frozen banana daiquiri.”
He made a show of checking the fruit bowl, where no one had restocked the bananas. His hands went up in helplessness. “Sorry. No bananas.”
“That’s okay. I brought these.” Her hands lifted from under the bar and placed two fresh bananas in front of him.
The story went that Denny crossed his arms and considered the bananas for a moment. At this point Theresa always said she had no idea what he was going to do, but if he didn’t make the drink she planned to leave and never come back. But Denny shook his head with a grin and reached for the bananas. “All right.” And then, according to both of them, he’d concocted one of the best banana daiquiris ever made. Denny and Theresa had been together ever since.
The sound of Paul and one of the lunch cooks coming through the door drew Sunday’s attention from her phone. They headed toward the back to prep for their shifts. When she looked down she realized she’d flipped through several more pictures, ones she had deliberately avoided for a long time. The photo she’d ended on was her and Kale at the engagement party her parents had thrown for Denny and Theresa. They stood close together, his arm around her. How perfectly she had fit there, snug under his shoulder.
They had been engaged that night as well, though no one knew it. He’d told her he was going to marry her several times by then, the first on her eighteenth birthday. It always went the same way.
“I’m going to marry you, Sunday.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling, so you can’t say no.”
“You have to ask, but I won’t say no.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
It was such a given in their minds they felt no need to rush it or make it official with a drawn-out engagement, which would only give her mother the chance to barge into the planning. They even knew where they wanted to elope: Magens Bay in St. Thomas. Beautiful, tranquil, secluded. She’d tracked down a postcard, an overhead shot of a serene stretch of coastline, gentle waves lapping white sand, a few tall palm trees swaying in the breeze. She’d given it to Kale, after drawing two smiling stick figures in the bottom corner. They were holding hands, “Kale” above the male figure, “Sunday” above the female.
They’d just been waiting for the right time. Waiting for her mother to finish her cancer treatment and her dad to recover from his heart attack, for the pub to get off the ground, and for Shane’s meds to stabilize again so he was a little more self-sufficient. Waiting to save enough money so they could pay for the trip themselves. Then they decided to wait because they didn’t want to upstage Denny and Theresa.
But the night that photo was taken, just before they went to the party, Kale had led her to the fridge in his apartment, where the postcard was magnetted to the door. Without looking at her phone she would have remembered the light blue button-down that lit up his eyes, how he had given his face the rare close shave for the occasion. “This is the last delay,” he’d said. “After their wedding next year, it’s our turn. I’m taking you there”—he tapped the postcard—“and we’re getting married.” And Sunday knew they wouldn’t wait long after that to start a family. It was important to Kale to have kids while they were relatively young, a product of growing up with an older father who always seemed to be sick and frail.
That postcard had floated around the apartment for a couple of years, moving from the fridge to a bedside table to the dresser mirror. They played hide-and-seek with it sometimes, left it somewhere the other would come across it, a desk drawer or between pages of a book. Or they’d grab it and burrow back between the sheets on weekend mornings to get lost in their plans and each other.
Now he was married to someone else, and he had a son. Meeting his family had been brutal. When Sunday had first laid eyes on Vivienne, she wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Bruises, cast, frumpy clothes, and all. No one had mentioned Kale’s wife was so beautiful, like, model beautiful, and several years younger. Sunday couldn’t help feeling disappointed in Kale though. She just wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d been sucked in by the superficial, or because he sought out someone so different from her.
Then there was Luke. Nothing could have prepared her for Luke. Kale’s son. Who wasn’t much younger than Kale had been when she first met him. With his youthful purity and his dad’s sweet smile, the little boy symbolized everything she’d lost.
The phone screen became blurry and her eyes were in danger of spilling over. How had she and Denny both made such a mess of things since the night of that party? She couldn’t let what happened to her and Kale happen to Denny and Theresa. She had to find a way to get them talking.
After jabbing the Sleep button on her cell she slid out of the booth and went to work. But first she made sure to close the photo app so the picture wouldn’t be sitting there, waiting for her, next time she used the phone.
* * *
On Saturday morning Jackie and Sunday drove over to get Molly for the day because Theresa had a shift at the hospital. The truth was Sunday had been avoiding her sister-in-law because, frankly, she was a little pissed off. Every time Denny had to take Molly across town at night or go a day without seeing her, the question of how Theresa could put her family through that presented itself.
Though Jackie had come to Theresa’s defense when Sunday talked to him about it—Don’t be so quick to judge. You don’t know what it’s been like to live with Denny the last few months.
Theresa and Molly me
t them at the curb, Theresa in pink scrubs and Molly in a “Kick Like a Girl” T-shirt and her Strikers jacket.
Sunday smiled at her. “You know, your dad was a soccer star in high school.”
“I know. I’m gonna be one too. Right, Mommy?”
Theresa ran a hand down Molly’s long hair. “You can be anything you want to be, baby.”
While Jackie loaded Molly and her car seat into his truck, Sunday turned to Theresa and lowered her voice. “When are you and Denny going to figure this out?”
“You need to ask your brother that.”
“Whatever is going on between you”—Sunday waved toward Angie’s condo—“this can’t be the solution.”
Theresa crossed her arms. “Did Denny tell you Molly was home when your dad had the accident in the garage? She saw him right after, when he was disoriented and bleeding. And then Shane started banging his head against the wall.”
Sunday winced. When Shane felt his most out of control he resorted to that behavior. And watching it happen had to be traumatic for a four-year-old.
“She started having nightmares about both of them dying,” Theresa said. “She’d come to our room in tears. She was afraid to go to school unless she knew someone would be home with your dad.”
Denny hadn’t mentioned any of this. Sunday looked at Molly in the back seat of the truck. Jackie had climbed in beside her so she could show off her sticker book. It made Sunday’s chest hurt to picture her spitfire of a niece crying because she was afraid something might happen to her family.
“I didn’t want to leave,” Theresa said. “But I need to take care of her. It’s calm here. Denny and I aren’t bickering all the time. Her nightmares have stopped.”
“What’s Denny saying about all this?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “He just keeps saying the grand opening will fix everything. Whatever’s going on with him, he won’t talk to me about it.”
As soon as the thought occurred to Sunday, she knew it was true: Denny’s financial situation was worse than anyone realized. It made sense. The short-lived bookkeepers, the discrepancies in the bank account, his cagey answers about the ledger. He didn’t want anyone to know how bad he’d let things get because they’d lose faith in him. His desperation to hide his mistakes from Theresa was only driving her away.
And Sunday knew a thing or two about that: the terrible fallout that came with hiding shameful secrets from the people who mattered most.
* * *
She walked alone to meet Shane after his shift that evening because Jackie had signed up for an art class in Purchase. No one else in the family had ever encouraged his painting much, but she loved his work, how he captured movement and light in his portraits and landscapes. Soft visible brushstrokes, atmospheric touches. She sensed so much going on beneath the surface, just like Jackie.
Shane was perfectly capable of walking home by himself, but it meant so much to him when she showed up. He’d rush out to greet her with excitement. And relief, which made the guilt rain down. She’d been the person he counted on most in the world for a long time, and then one day she was gone.
Theresa was right, it wasn’t healthy for Molly to fret so much about everybody. Sunday had done too much of that growing up. She understood now that Theresa had made the tough choice to leave because her first concern was her daughter. She encouraged Molly, wanted to protect her from taking on worries and burdens that didn’t belong to her. If Molly ever went to her mother at her most desperate moment for help, Theresa would hold her, tell her it would be okay.
Sunday’s mother had been so different. She’d always been frail, and growing up there’d been lots of watching the noise level lest they bring on one of her “splitting headaches.” She suffered from insomnia, her joints ached, and when they didn’t, it was her back. She ventured outdoors less and less, preferring to sit on the couch and watch TV. On one occasion when Sunday suggested therapy, her mother had said she’d sooner run naked through the streets of West Manor—Have you gone soft in the head? What bloody good would that do my achin’ joints? When the breast cancer was first diagnosed, a small part of her mother seemed to take warped pleasure in it, like it served them all right for ever doubting her.
She had borne the brunt of her mother’s health issues. Her father and brothers bulldozed their way through colds and viruses, sprained limbs and broken bones, determined to recover and get back at it as soon as possible. When they realized her mother seemed to seek illness out, they scratched their heads and became useless. So by default Sunday took the lead, helped her mother through these bouts, put everyone’s mind at ease.
When she made a right turn onto Saw Mill Road, people were still making their way to and from restaurants or the frozen yogurt shop or the one-screen indie movie theater. She headed toward Newman’s Market at the far end of the strip.
The steepest price she ever paid for her mother’s health problems was giving up a trip to Ireland with Kale, Denny, and Theresa. It had been planned for months. They were taking her dad and Clare to see their family south of Belfast, and then visiting Kale’s extended family near Dublin. Jackie had a good handle on operations at the pub and would be left in charge, and Grail had offered to check on Maura, who was, by then, in remission from the cancer but not up to traveling.
Three days before they were supposed to leave, her mother informed them she was experiencing back and chest pains, shortness of breath, and weird spasms in her abdomen. Her doctor had scheduled a battery of tests over the next two weeks. When her dad asked her if they should be canceling their plans, she said heavens no, she wouldn’t dream of it …
“But I don’t know that I could do without you, Sunday,” she’d said. “Especially if they tell me the cancer’s back. My biggest concern is for Shane. If I take sick or they want me in the hospital overnight for tests? Well, you know how he gets. And you’re so good with him.”
They had all looked at Sunday then, her parents and Denny, and she offered to stay home and take care of things because that’s what she always did.
She could hear the music coming from Brennan’s before she stopped by the window and looked inside. It was hopping, the tables and barstools full, most people turned toward the far corner where a local guy played guitar. Kale was behind the bar, chatting and laughing with a customer. Super casual as ever, he wore jeans and a T-shirt. Denny had nagged him about stepping up his wardrobe a notch when they opened the business. But it was to no avail, and that had been just fine with Sunday.
He looked so at ease in the cozy pub, she had a hard time imagining him in the large restaurant in Mamaroneck. The song ended and he raised his hands to join the crowd clapping for the guitarist. The light caught his wedding ring and she figured it was time to move along.
When she decided to skip the trip to Ireland, Kale had been the only one to fight her on it. His reaction had surprised her. As a rule, he avoided conflict. He was easygoing, a natural mediator, whether it was between two hotheads in the pub or Denny and Sunday. He was happiest when everybody was getting along—especially the family—even if it came at the cost of what he wanted. But he’d been good and mad when she told him she was staying home.
“No way,” he’d said, pacing his small apartment. “You’re not staying home.”
“We’ll take a trip to Ireland later, just us. Besides, they paid for my ticket.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
They hadn’t been able to afford two tickets. Her parents had paid for hers, just like they were paying her college tuition. On top of the loan for the pub. It was a point of pride. He itched for the day he could take care of her without her family’s help.
“Kale, I’ve been worrying about leaving Shane alone anyway. And I don’t want to upset everything now, with the wedding in a couple of months—”
“No! You’re coming.”
She rocked back a bit on her heels, startled by his vehemence. Startled, but also something else. Hopeful, maybe. Perhaps he wouldn’t
just go with the family flow this time.
“We just need to get her through the wedding next month,” Sunday said. “That’s what this is really about for her, Denny’s leaving.”
His face, normally so relaxed, was unyielding. Not a side of him she often saw.
Maybe he was going to take a stand against her. Or, really, for her. If he did, if he insisted she go with him, she would do it. If Kale was willing to risk drama with her family, so was she.
But then he flopped in a chair and hung his head. And Sunday had told him how grateful she was, while she told herself the relief at his acquiescence outweighed the disappointment.
She arrived at Newman’s and waved through the window at Shane, who was wiping down conveyer belts at the registers. A few minutes later the glass front doors slid open and he came outside, waving over his shoulder to his coworkers. He gave her a warm hug and gripped the straps of his backpack as they headed home.
While they walked he told her stories about his day. She laughed and responded in the right places, but only half listened. Her mind was stuck in an alternate universe, one where she had gone on that trip to Ireland with Kale.
But when she really started playing out that scenario, thinking about how different her life would be now, she shut it down.
That was just too damn painful.
* * *
Kale was working on his laptop in a back corner booth when she arrived for their meeting a few days later. She wanted to help Denny get the financial chaos under control, and her convoluted method of trying to fill in gaps in the ledger was taking too long. So she’d asked Kale for help.
It was early. The pub was empty except for a prep guy working in the kitchen. Kale didn’t notice her right away so it gave her a second to get past the uncontrollable reaction that still kicked in when she saw him. What tugged at her most in that moment was his feet. He rested one sneaker across the instep of the other. He’d been sitting like that as long as she’d known him and for some reason it had always struck her as a little vulnerable.