Say Yes

by Celia Juliano

  “He came to work drunk.” Lorenzo eased himself into his chair and leaned back. His father remained standing.

  “Even drunk he’s a better bouncer than anyone else. You’re losing your edge.” He leaned over the desk, his face a foot away from Lorenzo’s. “You think moving into Nick’s and making up to some young woman is going to save you from yourself?” He chuckled.

  Lorenzo crossed his arms and stared at his father.

  “I know you better than you know yourself. You’re twenty-seven. Time to accept the fact that all you care about is having good food, fine wine, expensive toys, and beautiful women. Your mother tried to make you soft. Those damn DeGrazias. Think they’re better.” His father’s face reddened as his voice became louder. “Take what you want and make no apologies. You think they don’t? Ha. And that Nick…no one is innocent. At least everyone knows where they stand with me.” He jabbed his finger at his chest then waved it at Lorenzo. “Your mother and Nick weren’t just friends. Ah, you guessed, did you?”

  “She should have left you.”

  His father laughed. “You wish he was your father.” His tone mocked in a sing-song. “That would be some revenge, eh? All these years pretending you’re mine, molding you, keeping you from your true family.”

  Lorenzo gripped the edge of the desk and stood. “Bastard.” Vincenzo patted his cheek, like Lorenzo’s mom used to. Lorenzo grabbed his hand.

  “You’re not.” Vincenzo wrenched away his hand. Sweat beaded across his forehead and dampened his upper lip. “I had a test when you turned twelve. You’re mine. They all tried to take you from me, but they can’t. You’ll never escape who you are. Ask Nick, Enzo, ask them the truth. They’re no better than we are. Take what you want, no apologies. So people get hurt. They’re adults. They know what they’re getting with us.”

  “I’m not you. I quit.”

  His father’s laugh turned to a barking cough. “And live on what? Your mother was too weak to make sure to leave anything to you. And you’re too weak to stand on your own.”

  Lorenzo strode to the door. “I quit. I know what I need.” He could get a job somewhere. He had a business degree, years of managerial experience. Once he proved himself worthy of her…

  “You need this!” His father shouted, waving his arm before he clutched it to his side. He crumpled against the desk. Another ploy. Lorenzo scowled.

  “Go to hell, old man.”

  His father slid to the floor. His head thumped against the desk. Vincenzo Calabra lay prone and unmoving. This was no act. Lorenzo ran and knelt beside his father. His throat closed. His father still had a pulse. Pulling his cell from his pocket, he dialed 911. As he spoke to the dispatcher, he grasped his father’s hand. Vincenzo squeezed Lorenzo’s palm but didn’t open his eyes.

  “You’ll never escape.” Vincenzo’s face paled, grey like the ash of a snuffed, smoldering fire.

  Lorenzo dropped the phone. No breath. He checked again before starting CPR. As he compressed his father’s chest, he gritted his teeth.

  “Not now. You won’t die now.”

  He was still trying to resuscitate his father when the paramedics arrived. Dead. His father was dead. At some point, Pete drove him to the hospital. His father already had everything arranged, like he knew.

  A few hours later, Lorenzo sat in his office at the club, the almost empty bottle of vodka still open on the desk. He drained his glass and stood. He should talk to someone, though why he wanted to talk about his father’s death puzzled him. He couldn’t possibly be sad about it. Probably it was the newness of it. Maybe he could find Lee, maybe Lita would be there too. Just to see her would help. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t seen her. A knock rapped loudly. He picked up the bottle and drained it as his cousin Pete came in, the noise following him. Always so much noise.

  “Please tell me you didn’t just drink all that.”

  “No, it was over half gone, mother dear.”

  “Shut up. You need me to drive you to Grandpa Enzo’s?”

  “No, my friend Lee’s.” He told Pete the directions as they got in the car. He rolled down the window to cleanse himself of the odors he’d walked through: sweat, booze, cheap cologne. The house wasn’t Lee’s home anymore, but he might be there with Lita. He hoped Jane wasn’t there.

  He knocked on the door, wondering if anyone was up. He needed to talk. He shook his head. He needed to see Lita. She opened the door. Low light glowed behind her, illuminating her fresh face, almost as pink as the light pajama bottoms and fine knit tee shirt she wore.

  His dreams about her flooded in on him. He stood still a moment, queasy. Lorenzo said hello and walked into the living room. He sat on the couch. The room was quiet. The old refrigerator buzzed in the kitchen and a sofa spring creaked when he leaned back. Sweet smells drifted in the air: vanilla, cinnamon, peaches, buttery pastry.

  “Sorry, know it’s late, but is Lee here?” He studied his palms.

  “No, he’s at his place.”

  “Oh. Your mom in bed?”

  “No, she’s in Peru with my Aunt Cass and Uncle Tim. Didn’t Lee tell you?”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. He pressed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He remembered now. They were alone.

  “Is everything okay? It’s not like you to come over this late.”

  “Everything’s great. I’m finally free of my bastard father. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “Oh, Lorenzo.” She sat beside him and put her hand on his arm. Her touch was gentle, as it was in his dreams of her. Maybe he dreamed again. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? He was a lousy husband and father who managed to yoke me to a business I hate.” He cradled his head in his hands as he bent forward. Lita smoothed her hand up and down his back. He shivered, his body awakening.

  “I know you didn’t always get along, but I’m sure he loved you and you love him,” Lita almost whispered. She leaned toward him, her inviting scent enveloped him.

  Lorenzo pressed his hands to his eyes again and sat up. The shabby room faded and all he saw was Lita. He grasped her other hand in both of his and gently traced her fingers. They would just hold hands. Her small smooth hand in his was enough. But when she squeezed his palm, the pressure of her touch coursed in his veins. He turned his body toward her, encircled her in his arms, and told himself to stop. But his arms wouldn’t release her. They prickled like they’d been asleep.

  She met his gaze and tensed, as if she held her breath, but anticipation and longing lit her eyes. She’s a woman, she won’t break. He pressed himself to her and kissed her with the fierceness and force of the years’ yearning for her.

  Her hands slid up his thighs onto his chest. The sharp, awful need rose in him. His fingers twitched as he eased them over her hands. The sleek heat of her skin stilled his movements. She glided her hand over his neck and cupped his chin. Their lips explored each others. Her kisses made every pore and hair on his body tingle. Yet something was different, not just her angelic sweetness or her stirring softness or her gifted kisses, but some feeling in him.

  Lorenzo followed with a long, slow kiss, an unspoken question. Her warm, silken lips, her eager response to him, filled him with unfamiliar heat and surety. He shuddered in the chill of the unknown. She slipped her arms around him, closed the last inches between them, and stretched her arms up his back, returning his embrace. Lita pressed herself impossibly closer to his chest. Her softness revitalized him. He teased open her lips with his, moaning when her tongue, playful and pliant, met his. Yes, her answer was yes. What was the question?

  He pulled away slightly. Lita studied him, a serious, tender expression on her face. He returned her gaze, caressed her cheek and arm, so like a newly picked peach. She held a miraculous beauty and promise he couldn’t understand. No, he had to say no. She smiled and started to lean in for another kiss, but he extricated himself from her embrace, stood up, and concentrated on the door.

  “I need to go,” he said. He felt nothing, he didn’t bel
ieve. He would destroy her. No. Sweat prickled under his shirt and a whiff of the sour stink of alcohol struck.

  “Wait.” Lita rose and reached for him, as if to steady herself.

  He backed away, turned away. His eyes stung, but they were dry. Nothing, he could give nothing, take nothing, when she offered everything.

  “Why don’t I make some coffee? You shouldn’t drive, you can stay here. Please, let me help you.”

  “No. I’m fine.” He couldn’t see her or he would stay. “Pete’s outside with the car. Tell Lee, I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I shouldn’t have…” His throat strangled, as if his own body wanted to betray him by not letting him say the words, the sensible lies. He jerked his hand onto the doorknob.

  “I--” Lita tried to speak to him but he opened the door and forced himself to face the shadowy street.

  “Goodbye, Lita. Be happy.”

  “Please stay,” she called after him.

  He got in the car and told Pete to leave. Lorenzo didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could close his eyes and see Lita, even when he didn’t want to.

  “Where to now?” Pete asked as they pulled away from the curb.

  “Do you love your girlfriend, I mean, really?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I…never mind. Take me somewhere I can get a drink.” He slumped in the seat.

  “You’ve had enough. Grandpa Enzo will kill me if I let anything happen to you. We all know you’re his favorite, besides Janetta. I’m taking you home.”

  “I just left my home.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be alone. You can come stay in Gianni’s room. He’s still visiting our dad in Florida.”

  “I thought he didn’t like the wife.”

  “She’s better than the angry older brother of his last girlfriend.” Pete chuckled. “I swear, Gianni wants to be you, but we keep telling him you don’t date younger women. He doesn’t want to hear that one.”

  “He can have my life. Except I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even your brother.”

  “You need some sleep and we’re going to Aunt Sophia’s for dinner tomorrow.”

  “You should marry that girl of yours. You’ll be a good husband.”

  “I plan to, thanks. But now I know you need some rest. You’re creeping me out.”

  “I’ll give you a hard time tomorrow,” Lorenzo said as Pete parked the car.

  They went upstairs. Pete threw his keys on the table by the door while Lorenzo walked to the small kitchen, where he knew Gianni kept the liquor.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep?” Pete said. “Grandpa Enzo’ll expect to see you tomorrow.”

  Lorenzo shrugged and waved his hand. Silence, then Pete’s footsteps trod away. A door shut. Lorenzo’s ears hurt--hell, he hurt everywhere. He prepared an Americano, shook together the Campari and vermouth, poured it over the ice, added a dash of Pellegrino. He held the glass up-- the garnet shimmer caught his eye, like Lita’s dewy lips. But he was cracked, fissured, like the ice which clinked as he swallowed a swig.

  He shut his eyes. He could almost taste her, sweet and minty, feel her tender kiss, her softness, her passion for him. In those moments with her, every part of him eager and invigorated, he knew. He knew what Sophia’s Carlo and his great uncle Enzo tried to tell him: when you love a woman, it changes everything, even a kiss. He’d thought himself in love a couple times in college, but he’d been wrong.

  He downed the last of his drink and set the glass on the counter. His hands trembled. He ran them over his hair. Wrong, that’s what it all was, what he was. One kiss could hurt.

  4

  Lita sang along with “Once Upon A Dream” as it hummed from the old stereo in the living room. Twirling, she dusted then danced around the vacuum.

  The small carriage clock on the mantel clicked eleven a.m. when she reentered the room after putting away her cleaning supplies. Her rosy-cheeked reflection smiled back at her from the mirror hanging on the narrow wall by the open doorway. She fluffed her full black skirt and admired the pedicure she’d given herself last night before Lorenzo had come over.

  If only she could tell someone about him and his amazing kisses. But the only person she’d trust was Emma, who didn’t really like Lorenzo.

  No one had ever kissed her like he had—as if he spoke a thousand whispered endearments with each caress of his lips, as if she answered his brooding questions, as if he’d woken her from a dream with the promise of true love.

  A knock echoed. She ran to the front door and peeped out. Her feet plopped to the carpet with a soft thump. She opened the door and hugged Lee, avoiding his eyes as they greeted each other.

  “Lorenzo called me earlier,” he said as he hung his brown jacket in the hall closet.

  Lita’s cheeks burned. “Everything okay?”

  “His dad died yesterday. He’ll be leaving for Italy soon so his dad’s ashes can be placed in the Calabra family tomb.”

  Lita picked at imaginary lint on her black cashmere sweater. Lorenzo hadn’t said he’d be leaving town. He hadn’t said much at all. And he still hadn’t returned her call. She’d left him a brief message almost two hours before.

  “He’ll be okay, sweetie. You know they weren’t close. He did fine after his mom died. He must’ve been more upset then.”

  But Lorenzo wasn’t fine. He hadn’t acted himself last night. Maybe that’s why he’d kissed her. She rocked onto her heels. “I know.” She didn’t know anything. Lately, her life swayed like a boat on choppy seas, ready to either throw her into the chill, murky water or navigate her into a safe harbor.

  Lita shrugged and slid on her kitten heels. “I made a peach pie.” She glanced at the pie basket by the door. Her stomach cramped. What if Lorenzo called while she was out?

  Lee rubbed his hands. Pie was his favorite dessert.

  “You ready, then?” Lee said.

  Lita nodded and he picked up the pie basket, peeking inside. He smiled his lopsided smile at her and she laughed. Everything would be fine. It had to be.

  Once they reached Aunt Cass’s, where Emma was having a small party, Lita regretted coming. Emma’s friends were so Berkeley: young, hip—in a hippie, arty way—professionals and students where Lita was just…Emma said she was a nineteen fifties throwback, but Lita was sure Emma’s friends weren’t so nice about it. After attempting to mingle, Lita wandered into the kitchen, where at least she could make herself useful.

  As she washed dishes, Lita smiled, remembering how Lorenzo had held her, told her he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. What was she doing here? She should be with Lorenzo, being there for him as he had for her. But she was stuck, unless she wanted to face a BART ride back into the city and then a bus ride into North Beach. She figured she’d already been accosted one too many times on public transit. Besides, one reason they’d come over was to pick up Emma, who was going to stay with Lita for the week—Emma was taking a vacation and Lee would be out of town on business. She shivered. Lee didn’t want her to be alone since all this stuff with Rich happened. But from what she’d heard, he’d left town. And she could take care of herself. It just got lonely sometimes.

  “Hey,” Emma called as she burst in the room. She snagged some cheese and crackers left on a platter and leaned on the counter. “Hiding in the kitchen?”

  “Someone needs to clean up.” Lita grabbed the platter, the last thing that needed washing.

  “Always so tidy. Let loose!”

  Lita splashed water at Emma before turning off the sink.

  Emma laughed. “What’re we going to do with you? You need to have sex.”

  Lita rolled her eyes. She and Emma had been arguing about this since Lita was sixteen.

  “And not with the likes of Lorenzo Calabra.”

  Lita’s face felt hot. “Shush. Lee will hear you.”

  “So you do want to have sex with him?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Was she that obvious? Great, who else knew? “Just drop it. Or you can stay here for your
vacation.”

  “All right. But I’m taking you out this week.”

  Lita waved a hand at her cousin and followed her back to the party.

  ***

  A few days later, Lita sat at home alone, waiting for Emma to return. They’d gone out the night before, and Emma’d hooked up with some guy she knew. Emma tried to get Lita to do the same, but Lita didn’t want hook-ups. She wanted…now all she wanted was Lorenzo. But he still hadn’t returned her calls. She should’ve gone to see him, but she’d been busy with Emma. Today she was free but she felt too nervous. Some cleaning might settle her enough to find the courage to go to Lorenzo’s.

  She ambled into the small L-shaped yard, where the tomatoes and herbs grew high in their late summer abundance. Lita brushed her fingertips over the soft, fuzzy leaves of the tomato and sage, the smoothness of the basil, their strong scents wafted around her. She smiled; maybe later she’d make a batch of marinara sauce. She looked at the basement. Cleaning it would be a good project for the afternoon.

  Lita swept and dusted, washed the windows and reorganized the earthquake supplies on the shelves. She ate a late lunch upstairs, cleaning the kitchen again before she returned to the basement. There were only four boxes to go through now, two of which were full of Lee’s high school memorabilia. She pulled out his yearbooks, finding all the pictures of him and Lorenzo, on the track and tennis teams, a few candids, the portraits from each year.

  Lita wiped away a tear and sniffled, the smell of past years, musty and strong, nearly overpowered her senses. She remembered how carefree she’d been, how much happier Lorenzo had seemed, though he’d always had his dark moments, even then. She placed the boxes back with a sigh and pushed them in place before opening the other two, marked “Christmas.” She thought all the Christmas decorations were in the hall closet upstairs.

  Papers and photos filled these boxes, though. It appeared Jane had reused some boxes to throw the jumble into. Lita separated the papers and photos before she put each back into its own box. She ignored the papers, but looked at each photo before putting it away. Mostly, they were of Aunt Cass and her family, a few of her grandma and grandpa Lawson before they’d passed away, some of Lee and Jane when they’d still lived with Aunt Cass in Berkeley before Lita was born. Picking up a photo different from the others, Lita’s hand trembled. It was of Jane and a slight, attractive, bookish, obviously Mediterranean man in front of an Italian bookstore. Lita glanced at the back, nothing, but she knew he must be her father.