by Liz Talley
Her gaze was frosty...but wasn’t it always now? “Tell yourself that, Graham, but anyone can see the writing on the wall.”
“This isn’t revenge, Monique. It’s about a job. Not allegiance. In case you didn’t get the memo, I need this...and I can’t return to Upstart, now can I?”
Her bitter laugh was answer enough.
“Exactly.” He closed the door and faced his ex. Monique didn’t step back as he crowded her slightly. No, not Monique. Small, delicate with dark arched eyebrows, a bowed mouth and wavy hair, Monique was a fiery ballbuster. Even as Graham despised her for what she’d done to him, he admired her ability to stand her ground...all five feet one inch of it. “This isn’t war, so don’t don the armor.”
“I’ll do whatever I wish to do, Graham.”
“Of course you will, but I’m asking, for all of our sakes, don’t make this personal. There is plenty of business for both Ullo and Upstart.”
“You didn’t used to feel that way,” she murmured, an almost savage look in her eye. “You hated Frank Ullo. You hated that he controlled the market and squashed smaller businesses trying to take a piece of the pie. That’s changed now because he signs your paycheck?”
“Upstart is no longer in the position it once was. Frank Ullo isn’t, either. You know that.” He wanted to get out of there before he and Monique started shrieking at each other on the street. Dealing with her had become more and more contentious in the past two months...ever since she learned he intended to come home to New Orleans. Monique liked having control and the agreement they had over Emily would change.
Josh walked out wearing a pair of dark jeans and a weirdly patterned shirt with a hot pink tab collar. Tall, lanky with a soul patch on his chin, Graham’s former best friend had a wicked sense of humor, a badass restored Harley and a shitty sense of loyalty to a friendship started back at Jesuit. He’d been too weak to resist Monique...probably still was.
“Hey, Monique, we gotta jet,” he called, not even meeting Graham’s gaze.
Irritation flashed in Monique’s eyes. “We’ll go when I’m ready, Josh.”
Emily knocked against the window, pressing her button nose against the glass smudging it. Graham smiled and nodded, dangling the keys.
“We’re going to head out, Monique. Text me when you’re through with your fundraiser and I’ll bring Emily back. I’m guessing it won’t be too late since it’s a school night?” Graham started around the front of the car.
“I’m not finished talking about this, Graham,” Monique said, smoothing the lines of a dress that was too short, but still looked incredible on her. Monique’s beauty had never been in question. Even as slight as the woman was, her essence screamed “lush” and “sensual.” It was her heart he questioned. As determined as she was to create an empire she could control, she had one fatal flaw—her ego. Often Monique valued her own worth above the truth. This inability to see the writing on the wall was the main reason Graham didn’t fight for Upstart. Well, that and the fact Monique and Josh had started sneaking around sleeping together.
“Well, I’m finished discussing this. Everything will work better if you shut down whatever you’re working up inside yourself about me running Frank Ullo. I’m not competing with you. I’m trying to take care of Emily.”
“You could have done that with another company. You could have done that from Houston.”
“But I didn’t want to,” he said, before sliding into the car. “Don’t forget to text me.”
Shutting the door, he shut out the dissonance Monique always created in his life, and instead focused his attention on the only reason he’d done Monique and Josh a favor tonight—the bouncing, wonderful Emily. “Ready to roll, squirt?”
“Can we go to the pet store and see the kitties?” she asked, ignoring his question.
Graham pulled away from the curb, unable to resist glancing at Monique who stared angrily after them. He wished he didn’t get satisfaction in needling her. He’d have to be very careful to keep the fragile peace between them for his daughter’s sake. Wouldn’t be easy because Monique had never been easygoing or amiable to anyone’s opinion but her own. Once he’d teased her, calling her his little general, but now that moniker wasn’t teasing. “Fasten your seatbelt, Em,” he said, slowing and pulling to the curb.
“I want a kitty, but mommy says ‘absolutely no.’” Emily clicked her belt into place, and though the child looked big enough for the seat, Graham made a mental note to check the laws regarding child safety and cars.
“Well, pets are a big commitment, Emily,” Graham said, pulling out and winding his way toward Veterans Avenue so he could take Emily to dinner and the arcade.
“I’m old enough. I can pour out its food, get it water and take care of it when it’s scared.”
“What about poop? You think you can scoop out a litter box? What about the vet? Pets cost money.”
“I have some money. Grandy Pete gave me ten dollars last week for dusting his room and brushing Pumpkin, his big ol’ cat.”
Grandy Pete was Monique’s irascible grandfather. Graham couldn’t imagine the older man caring for a cat much less a little girl—the man had spent much of his life on the bayou, shucking oysters and shrimping. He now lived in an apartment behind a convent in the Lower Garden District, a place between Upstart headquarters and Monique’s digs in Metairie. Graham had helped him find the place and move in, something that had proven easy since the eighty-year-old man had exactly two trunks of clothing, a guitar and a memory foam pillow. Colorful only halfway described Pete. “It will take more than ten dollars, Em. But we’ll talk to Mom about the possibility of a pet.”
“I can keep Muffin at your house,” she said, brown eyes peeping over the gray leather seat.
“Muffin? Oh, no. I see your game here, missy.” He laughed, deciding it felt good. The past few days had been tense, and he needed the lightness his daughter gave him. “And sit back in your seat.”
“Please,” she wheedled, sinking back as instructed. “She can keep you company when I’m not there.”
“I don’t need company.” At least not that of a cat.
“Yeah, you do. You need a kitty.”
“Wrong.”
Emily crossed her arms and gave him a look that was all her mother. “I knew you’d say no. Just like Mommy.”
Something inside him moved. He wished it hadn’t. He wished he didn’t have such guilt where Emily was concerned, but he’d missed so much in moving to Houston and going to work for NASA. At the time it had felt best for all concerned—best for him, certainly—but he’d left the raising of his daughter to Monique, being Daddy only in the summers and on a rare holiday. “How about a truce?”
“What’s that?”
“It means you walk my way, and I’ll walk yours. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Emily made a face. “We’re in the car.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Huh?”
He laughed. “Never mind. I have an idea. There used to be a place by a supermarket that sold fish. How about an aquarium for your room at my townhouse? Do you like fish?”
“Not as much as kitties,” she said.
“We’ll start with fish and see how you do then we’ll work up to something fluffy with claws.”
“Like Nemo?”
Turning off busy Veteran’s Highway into the parking lot housing a specialty aquarium store, Graham decided an aquarium was something he could handle. Not sure how much company fish would be, but he needed things to fill up space in his near-empty apartment. And maybe he could find an actual person one day, too. He’d wanted to move forward in his life, and that meant not spending his nights alone.
Tess’s face popped into his thoughts making him feel both guilty and lustful at the same time—a hard to accomplish feat but Graham obvio
usly had that particular talent.
He should have called. But what would that have changed? Might have made it worse instead of better when he’d discovered who she was...when she’d discovered who he was and for what job he’d interviewed.
Too late to worry about it.
Fate had handed him his cards and he could play only what was in hand.
“I want three fish,” Emily said, unfastening her belt as soon as he shifted the car into Park.
“Let’s get four,” he said.
“Cool,” his daughter said, bouncing on the backseat, reminding him the present was where he dwelled. No time for past mistakes—over Tess, Monique or his failure as a father—to haunt him.
He had fish to buy.
* * *
FRANK ULLO WATCHED his wife as she rolled out the pasta, hands moving deftly as they’d done many times before, knowing the right texture, careful not to add too much oil or too much flour. Making perfection as she did each Sunday.
“I love to watch you make the cannoli,” he said, sliding slowly toward her, mindful of the dressing on his side. The stint placement hadn’t been bad, but he was still tired and tender. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he laid his head on her shoulder.
Maggie’s deep sigh seeped into him much like the sadness that had permeated their life over the past two months. It had all started with the jaundice and stomach pain. Frank had thought it was an ulcer, but the medicine his internist prescribed hadn’t touched it. It was then he’d contacted a headhunter. Somehow he’d known the prognosis wasn’t good. He’d known he needed help. Not an easy thing for a man like him.
“You never watched me make cannoli before,” she said, her hands never ceasing as she rolled the edges between her fingers and thumb, but she tilted her head so it rested upon his.
“Meh, I never stopped to see things before. Knowing death has caught hold of you by the neck changes what you see in life.”
“Shush, Frank, don’t say things like that. I hate when you talk about dying. You’re not dying. We’re fighting this.”
He didn’t have the words to protest. Maggie had set her foot down, defying the reaper to touch him. She was a tough opponent. Old Grim didn’t realize what he was up against.
“The kids will be here in half an hour. Frank, Jr. is never late.” Frank looked around the place his wife felt most comfortable in. Maggie had returned the emerald earrings he’d given her for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, taking the money to an appliance center and custom ordering the huge Viking range. He’d laughed because he could never convince his Maggie she was worthy of jewels...not when she’d rather be barefoot and making his grandmother’s red sauce. Maggie may be as Irish as the Blarney Stone, but she cooked like she was a fifth-generation Italian.
“Tess is coming,” Maggie murmured, picking up the sharp knife and cutting the dough.
“It’s Easter,” he said with a shrug. “Family is family.”
“She’s angry and hurt, and rightly so.”
Frank stepped away, picking up the flour and sealing it into the large storage container, helping Maggie where he could. But he had no words to say regarding Tess. His youngest had been difficult from the moment she’d entered the world, screaming and impossible to console. As wonderful as Tess was, nothing was easy with her. From her being allergic to disposable diapers, formula and gluten to her choosiness over schools, clothes and hair bows, Tess overwhelmed any space she occupied.
“You have to talk to her, Frank. You have to make her go back to work for the company.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not doing that, Maggie. Tess molds everyone to her, arranging her life so it fits her needs, her demands. She hasn’t had much set against her and I think it would be a mistake to fix this for her. She needs to understand my side of this. She needs to see I’m not doing this capriciously or with any intention other than doing what is best for the company.”
“She’s your daughter.” Maggie turned and prodded him with her gaze. They’d had this same conversation over and over in the past week, but Frank wasn’t easily moved. On this he would stand firm.
He knew to some degree he’d failed Tess. His only girl, his last baby, she’d gotten all the petting and doting he’d held back from his boys. Whatever Tess wanted, Frank made sure she got. He’d been so proud when she’d declared she’d follow in his footsteps, even as he worried about her ability to handle a business like Frank Ullo. Tess thought she could handle everything thrown at her. Thing was, life hadn’t thrown much at her. She’d lived a golden existence, and as Frank thought about his company and his daughter, he could see his child had never been tested in any way.
Tess needed to learn more than what he could give her. She had to be challenged, had to live outside of the bubble she’d been so safely ensconced within.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was playing God, testing his daughter much like God had tested Job.
But he knew his Tess. She would not only survive, she would thrive.
“Yes, she is my daughter, and so I know she will make her way.”
“Make her way? Frank, she’s a hard worker and loves the company. Sure, she’s young, but you should have made her the CEO and hired this fellow to work for her.”
“I know what the company needs, Maggie. Trust me on this—it’s the right thing. The rubber is meeting the road and time will tell us where we go. You understand?”
His wife of forty-five years shook her head. “You’re a stubborn goat.”
“Like my daughter...and my sons.”
“I don’t see this as you do, but I will trust you. I have always trusted you. But tread softly, Frankie. These are strange times for us.”
He sighed. “Times I don’t wish on my enemy, but this is what we’re left with, Maggie.”
“Are you going to tell them about the cancer today? Tell them about the operation this past week?”
“It’s the wrong time. People want to feel joy at Easter.”
“It’s always the wrong time,” Maggie said, turning to the bowl containing the mascarpone cheese, stirring with a furrow between her lovely green eyes. Maggie meant business when she cooked for the family. “But you don’t have much more time. Next week you’ll start the chemotherapy. We’ve already hidden all the tests, and I don’t know how we managed that as nosy as this family is.”
“Easy to do when your kids are busy living.” Frank looked out the window at his shady backyard. Everything bloomed—the huge azaleas clustered around the sprawling live oak anchoring the landscape. A beautiful waterscape tumbled water over the stones mined from a quarry in Arkansas. Birds darted through the canopy and the world looked soft and beautiful...as if something as ugly as cancer couldn’t exist.
And it made Frank angry.
Why had this happened to him? Why now? At the end of his life when things should be simple...when he deserved to sink into his recliner and put his feet up?
He’d worked so hard his whole life, pouring blood, sweat and tears into creating something worthwhile, something good. He’d come from humble beginnings, born the year after the U.S. entered World War II, his father dying that same year in the Pacific. He’d been raised by a working single mother who married a man who drank hard and hit harder. Eventually, Frank dropped out of high school and went to work sweeping a warehouse owned by a celebrated early float maker. Soon after he put down his broom and learned how to build the floats rolling for some of the earliest parades like Comus and then Rex.
Years later after a stint in the army, Frank returned and bought a warehouse with his savings and a loan from Maggie’s father. He’d started Frank Ullo Float Builders, and because he loved what he did, it had grown into the international business it was today. Finally, he’d been thinking about taking it easy, traveling to Italy for the summer, duck-hunting with his sons and watc
hing his grandkids play soccer every Saturday morning.
Irony bit a man in the ass sometimes.
A sound at the door told him his reverie must end.
“Papa Frank?” Max bellowed, feet slapping the wood floors as the five-year-old headed for the kitchen.
Frank spun as Maggie wiped her hands on her apron. “Sugar, I told you about running in the house.”
Their grandson skidded to a halt in front of his grandmother who smiled through her fussing. “Sorry, Gee, but look what the Easter Bunny put in my basket.” He waved a lacrosse stick in the air.
“Jeez, Max. Put that down before you break something,” Frank Jr. said, entering the kitchen, snatching the stick from his youngest son’s grasp and dropping a brusque kiss on his father’s cheek then turning to Maggie. “Happy Easter, parents.”
Maggie started the hugging and kissing as Max’s older brothers poured in, looking for snacks before dinner. Finally Frank Jr.’s wife, Laurie, stumbled in with a casserole dish and a tired smile.
Frank watched this part of his family, soaking in every detail, brushing away any annoyance he’d normally feel at the boys tussling over the remote or snitching too much chocolate from the candy dish. Then Joseph arrived with his quiet wife and even quieter twin girls. Michael showed up with a bottle of Cabernet and an Easter lily for his mother. And finally, Tess rushed in to good-natured ribbing from her older brothers about being late as usual.
Frank’s mother, Bella, plodded in behind his daughter, sharp-eyed and grumpy about being late to dinner.
“She shows up ten minutes late. Ten minutes I had to listen to Ira Messamer complain about his damned gout. I didn’t know a man could whine so much about swollen feet.”
Tess, dressed in trim pants and a cotton shirt that hugged her figure, rolled her eyes. “I told you I had to stop for rolls. You said it was okay.”
“A little late, you said,” Bella, otherwise known as Granny B, muttered. “Not a whole ten minutes.”