“Of course I understand,” I say through my teeth.
Snake sits behind his desk, and briefly rubs his face with the palm of his hand. “I felt like shit after it was done, you know. I know I hurt you. You didn’t deserve that. I know we can’t get back to how things used to be, just- I’m sorry, Sal. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long time.”
I know Snake well, and I can tell my old pal means every word he says. Despite myself, something rises up in me, an emotion, and not a negative one. I have the strange urge to tell Snake I forgive him. This has been happening lately, I’ve been feeling things, ever since I met Molly. But emotions cloud rational thinking. I have no use for them. Fortunately, I’m adept at shutting them down in an instant.
I clear my throat, straighten my jacket, and walk over towards him. He tenses up when I place my hand on his shoulder. I look down at his face, letting my hatred for him flood through my veins.
“This is a tough business,” I say. “I know that more than anyone. Don’t think another thing of it. The past is the past.”
Snake stands up, looking me in my eyes. He plants his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’m glad you’re back, man,” he says, then goes in for a hug. I bite back my nausea and let him. “But don’t forget,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m watching you.”
I smile to myself and think, I’m watching you too, asshole.
Chapter Fourteen
Molly
Greg and I take a couple of days to recalibrate the center’s budget. The last time we did this, it was a grim task, and we had to make some deeply painful cuts. It’s different now. With the influx of cash, we get to throw money around like Oprah. In fact, Greg keeps pretending to be her, shouting, “you get a raise!” “you get new carpet!” “you get a new chair!” as we allocate the funds. There’s even enough leftover to start the digital outreach campaign we always talked about. We’ll be able to get the word out, and sign up many more new clients.
Thanks to Franco’s donation, I feel more hopeful than I have in a long time. It’s such a relief. I’d thought I was close to having to shut the doors. It’s funny, and a bit sad, how money can make your problems disappear, poof, just like that. I know Franco and his family are flush with cash, and they probably won’t miss it, but I’m deeply touched by their generosity. They are helping so many people.
It makes me feel a bit guilty for rebuffing Sal. Sure, he can be difficult to deal with, but maybe that’s just him. As a counselor, I know it’s worth looking past someone’s troubling behaviors to their heart. I just don’t know if Sal will let me. He’s so closed off.
I want to send around a mass email informing the counselors of their raises, and the changes happening around the office. But Greg insists we announce it in person.
One morning, we call the entire staff into the break room. I stand with Greg at the front of the room. My counselors look worried. They aren’t used to good news, only bad. They probably think we’re going to announce the end of the center.
Not today, I think, smiling inwardly.
I let Greg take the lead, since he’s still possessed with Oprah’s ghost. He stands by my side, beaming brilliantly. It warms my soul to see Greg happy, truly happy. He’s an expert at managing expectations, and not getting too emotionally invested in the lows of nonprofit work, but this is what he truly wants, to be working somewhere that’s successfully changing people’s lives.
“Molly and I have a very exciting announcement,” Greg begins. He clasps my hand. “Thanks to Molly’s tireless efforts, she’s been able to secure a donation for-“ He pauses for effect, glancing around the room. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
The counselors let out a collective gasp. They cover their mouths, their eyes widen. They can barely believe this. No one saw this coming. Myself included.
“Each and every one of you will get a raise,” Greg continues. “We’re getting new carpet for the building, a new air-conditioning system, and everyone gets a new chair!” He raises his arms in the air, and the general spirit of the room lifts with them.
My counselors are tearing up and hugging each other. Slowly, they turn their heads towards me. Someone starts to clap, and the rest follow. I’m brimming with positivity. All of my problems are forgotten. It’s like they never existed in the first place. All is right with the world. This feels so good.
Greg raises his hand to silence everyone. There’s a coy look in his eye. “That’s not all. I have one more surprise up my sleeve.”
“You do?” I whisper to him. Whatever it is is a surprise to me too.
Greg turns his back on us, and opens the supply closet. He wheels out something on a cart, covered by a white sheet. He pulls off the sheet with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
I study the slick, elegant machine in front of me. It’s an espresso machine with all the bells and whistles. Joyful shrieks rise up from the counselors. Greg encourages them to try it out. They quickly line up to wait their turn, and chat excitedly while they wait. I’m thrilled to see them so happy. This might be a frivolous pleasure, but they deserve it.
I pull Greg aside. “You’ve reached peak Oprah.”
“Everyone’s dreams are coming true,” he says. The espresso machine sputters and gurgles in the background. The gentle whir of frothing milk puts me at ease. Greg puts his hands on my shoulder, turning me to look at our happy counselors. “You’re doing it, Molly. Your vision is coming to life before your eyes.”
My eyes well up with tears. He’s right. Everything I’ve dreamed of is right here within my grasp. And I can’t deny that it’s all because of Sal.
“Have you dumped your landlord yet?” Greg asks, sardonically. “Because I’d really like to shake his hand. Let’s double date.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to reject this idea. But with all the good vibes in the air, I decide to try something different. Just once, I’m going to say ‘yes’ to what I really want.
“I’ll talk to Sal,” I say. “We’ll try to set something up.”
Greg looks impressed.
*
Something’s come over me. I’m planning to talk to Sal, and I’m not scared, or nervous, or tempted to run in the other direction. I walk confidently down the hall, clutching his invoice, and the check I’ve just written, then knock solidly on his door.
Sal’s slow, deliberate footsteps approach the door. My breath hitches in my throat. I remind myself not to be intimidated. He’s just a man.
The door swings open. He’s wearing a dark smile. Before he can say anything, I shove the invoice and check into his hands. He studies them for a moment.
“So,” he says, his smile deepening. “Looks like we’re square.”
I inhale deeply, finding the newly sprung reservoir of confidence inside of me. “Sal, I’m sorry for being rude to you the other night. I was just taken off guard.”
He stares at me with his intense eyes, not giving me any hint as to what he’s thinking. I push a curl out of my face nervously, and continue.
“I’m so, so grateful for Franco’s contribution. I really am. And I’m grateful to you, for whatever you did to inspire Franco to give so generously.”
Sal slides his arm towards me and takes my hand. My heart pounds in my chest. I look up at his handsome face, realizing that this isn’t a tiny crush anymore. It’s something more. Still, I’m not sure if he feels the same way. He tugs my arm, pulling me a bit closer to him. A part of me wishes we would go inside of his apartment to be alone.
“You deserve it,” Sal says, his gravelly voice floating to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Do me a favor, and stop thinking you don’t.”
“My counselors were thrilled. They’re getting raises. And so am I.”
Sal drops my hand. His jaw muscles flex as he clenches his teeth. “Then you won’t need to do anymore favors for me.”
I shake my head. “I won’t. But I’m wondering if you can do one for me.”
There’s a flash in his dark eyes.
It stirs something deep in my belly. All I can hear is my breath reverberating in my ears.
“Oh?” he says, with a raised eyebrow.
“My partner at the center, Greg, he’s dying to meet you. To say thank you.” I clear my throat, reaching deep down to find my confidence. “Would you like to have dinner with us? Greg, me, and his boyfriend, Grant?”
“You can just say it, Molly. A double date.”
I bite my lip. “We could call it that.”
Sal chuckles softly, and lightly grazes my forearm with his fingertips. “Do we need to negotiate terms this time? How many kisses?”
“No,” I say, waving him off. “We can just…see what happens.” I cringe inwardly. What the hell did I just say?
But Sal seems pleased. He takes my hand and kisses it. “See what happens. I look forward to it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Molly
Saturday morning, the day of the double date, that’s either fake or real depending on my mood, I wake up early to begin dinner preparations. This past week, I felt invincible, so invincible that I asked Sal out on a date (or is it?), and committed myself to cooking dinner for everyone. And I planned a complicated menu; coq au vin, homemade bread, and baked Alaska for dessert.
With a cup of coffee in hand, I survey the ingredients laid on the kitchen counter. My newly discovered confidence ebbs as my stomach tightens with anxiety. What was I thinking? Why did I think I could pull this off?
I take a few deep breaths to quiet the nagging voice of doubt. I don’t want to fall back into my old traps. I want to be like Sal, someone who never doubts his place in the world.
I’m going to nail this coq au vin, I think, pumping myself up. I’m going impress Sal.
It’s a relief to admit my true motivations. I want to impress Sal. I was cold and rude to him in the past, and I want to make it up to him. And it’s okay that I want these things.
I put on a classic Aretha Franklin album, tie an apron around my waist, and get to work mixing bread dough. Whenever I start to doubt myself, I focus on the task, on the sensation of soft, gooey dough between my fingers. Before I know it, I’m full of good spirits, singing my heart out with Aretha.
Is this what contentment feels like? If so, I’ll take more please.
I cover the bread dough in a damp towel, and place it in a sunny window to rise. My next task is to make the chicken stock. As I’m preparing my ingredients, there’s a knock on my door. It’s still early. I’m not expecting my guests for a few hours. There’s no sense in wondering who it is. It’s him.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I walk to the door with my chin up, and open it. Sal stands in the hallway, dressed in his suit, holding a bottle of wine. He gives me a dark smile, making my knees weaken. His effect on me used to scare me. I stay calm, embracing it. Glittering sensations run down my limbs, and I welcome them.
“Good morning, Sal,” I say, blowing a flour covered curl out of my eyes.
He stares at me for a moment. He doesn’t speak, but his pleased expression says it all. He looks me up and down, devouring me with his eyes. His gaze settles on my flour dusted apron. The feeling between us is so palpable, I wonder how I could ever doubt that he wanted me.
“You’ve been working hard,” he says.
I wipe my hands nervously on my apron. “I’m just getting everything together.”
He holds up the bottle of wine, showing me the expensive looking label. It’s a burgundy, straight from the French town that it’s named after. “How does this look for dinner?”
“Lovely,” I say, a flash of joy showing on my face. “This will go perfectly with my coq au vin.”
“French food, French wine,” Sal says, raising an eyebrow. “Great minds think alike.” He goes quiet, squinting as he listens to my music. “Aretha Franklin? Miss Molly, you have great taste in music too.”
“Oh? What else do I have great taste in?” I bite my lip, reveling in my own bravery.
Sal chuckles softly. I step to the side, wordlessly inviting him in. He takes me up on the invitation. As he brushes past me, I get a whiff of his clean, sharp scent. It’s utterly intoxicating.
“You should chill this,” he says, sweeping into the kitchen and placing the wine inside of the refrigerator. “Take it out thirty minutes before serving. It should be at the perfect temperature then.”
“Got it.” I lean against the counter, placing my hand behind my head in a sexy pose, but quickly think better of it.
Sal lingers in the kitchen. I stare at his elegant form clad in his dark suit. I want him, I think. And I don’t feel guilty about it. I’m not afraid.
He stares at the vegetables laid out next to my cutting board; onions, garlic, carrots, celery, aromatics that will flavor my homemade stock.
“You’re busy,” he says in his low voice.
I shrug. “I am. But I love spending all day cooking. It’s a lot of work, but when I look at the finished dish, I feel accomplished.”
“Hmm, maybe I should try that.” He rolls up the sleeves of his suit. “Mind if I help?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Sal picks up my kitchen knife, testing the weight in his hand. He retrieves an onion and starts chopping it up all wrong.
“This is for stock,” I tell him. “A rough chop is all you need.”
He gives me a puzzled look, making me laugh.
“Like this,” I say. I place my hand over his, and show him how to cut the onions into quarters. His hands are cold, but his skin feels so good against mine. I take the onion pieces and drop them into the pot of water. “Just like that. Nothing fancy.”
“I think I’ve got it,” he says, reaching for a carrot.
Sal works while I retrieve the whole chicken from the fridge, and set about breaking it down with my butcher knife. He looks vulnerable, chopping vegetables with his sleeves rolled up. Maybe even normal.
But these coy, flirtatious games aren’t enough for me. I want to know the man inside this dark, handsome shell. I tell myself to think of him as one of my clients. One of my favorite, and most effective, strategies is to ask broad questions to get them to talk.
“Did you grow up in LA?” I ask.
“Born and raised.” Sal drops carrot chunks into the pot, and moves on to the celery.
“Oh? Do your parents still live here?”
Sal is silent for a moment. I sense that I’ve ventured into sensitive territory. Just when I think he’s not going to answer me, he does.
“They’re both dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, quickly.
“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug. “Mom died when I was young. My father died a couple of years ago.”
Grief. Fresh grief. That explains a lot. I’m overwhelmed by compassion for him. I’d reach out and touch him if my hands weren’t currently covered in chicken juice.
“Were you close to your father?” I ask, carefully.
There’s silence again, punctuated by the rhythmic chopping of celery. “Yes,” he says, his throat tight. “We were in business together. And growing up, he taught me everything I know.”
I want to ask how his father died, but I don’t want to bring up negative emotions. Not yet.
“What did he teach you?” I ask.
Sal stops chopping, and looks at me with a mischievous smile. “It’s funny you ask that. I was just thinking of something the other day, one of Monty’s famous lessons. I was maybe eight years old at the time.” He gazes into the distance, lost in the world of this memory. “We were driving down the highway, when we spotted a dog that had just been hit. It wasn’t dead, but it was close. Now, I fucking loved dogs, like any other kid. Most dads, what would they do? Shield the kids’ eyes, tell them not to look. Not Monty.” He shakes his head, continuing to chop the celery. “Monty pulls over, right? He says, ‘Sal, look at that dog there.’ By now, I’m starting to cry, but he makes me look. He says, ‘What are you feeling right now?’ I say, ‘I feel sad.’ That’s when h
e grabs me by the shirt and yanks me towards him. He says, ‘That sadness. Kill it. Swallow it down. Make it go away. You have the power to do that.’ And you know what? It worked. He was always doing things like that. He taught me to be tough. To be a man.”
Sal keeps chopping vegetables, like he’s just told me a sweet childhood memory. I realize that I’m squeezing the life out of the chicken’s legs. I’m horrified. What he’s describing is clearly emotional abuse. But Sal’s unfazed. No wonder he’s distant and cold. I can’t help but feel for him now, and the little boy that he was. It makes me feel closer to him. I want to poke and prod at this memory, like I would during a session, but it’s not the time for that.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say, quietly.
He shrugs. “No problem. What about you? What’s your deal?”
He stops talking and scrutinizes me with his eyes. He’s truly interested in my answer. We’ve never discussed our pasts before. This is a step in a new, and brighter direction. I only wish I had a happier story to tell him.
“I’m from Inverness. Heard of it?” Sal shakes his head. “Not many people have. It’s an hour north of San Francisco.”
He squares his body towards me, then gently pushes a piece of hair out of my face. “So that’s where you were hiding before I found you.”
I look away with a smile, blushing ferociously. “My dad worked for the post office. My mom was a teacher. I have one brother.”
“Where are they now?” Sal asks.
I carry the plate of cut up chicken to the pot and carefully slide the pieces into the hot water. “Spread out all over the place. My parents divorced right before I left home. Mom lives in Cincinnati with her boyfriend that she met on the internet. Dad moved further north like he always wanted to, to Washington state.” I stir the contents of the pot, then place the lid on to bring it to a boil.
“And your brother?”
My voice is stalled by a sudden rush of emotion. I rarely talk about Stephen when anyone else.
Beware the Devil (Mafia Soldiers Book 3) Page 9