He pointed his racket at me. “You can meet him when he gets out of the joint.”
With a huff, I lowered my racket. That was likely never.
Truth be told, I had a healthy dose of apprehension about meeting Toby’s older brother. Al Faye Junior had been convicted of manslaughter. But he was still a part of Toby’s life. If we were going to make a future together, I wanted to know everything there was to know about him. Even if that meant a trip to prison to meet his brother.
“Seriously, I want you to consider it.” I puffed out, winded from running after a series of Toby’s misdirected missiles.
He sent the next ball high. It flew over my head and the fence and sailed into the parking lot behind us.
“Home run!” he shouted.
I twisted my mouth around a smile and bent to scoop up the two balls that had survived our first round of tennis. “I think we’re done here. I can’t run anymore! You’ve exhausted me.”
“I can think of a better way to exhaust you,” he said.
I groaned and rolled my eyes.
* * * *
People said my mother and I looked alike, a compliment I suppose—as I thought of my mother as beautiful. We had contrasting hair colors, mine brown, hers blonde, but were similar in height and shared the same oval-shaped face and round eyes. My eyelashes swept against the glass as I pressed my forehead to the mirror that magnified every feature on my face: my blue irises, the disorganized parade of freckles across the bridge of my nose, and pores that refused to minimize no matter the promise of every beauty product my mother touted.
I rolled my head to the side, and instead of my face, I stared at the reflection of my bedroom—the same childhood room my mother had decorated for me when she still lived under the same roof. It was such a girly room—butter-yellow walls, shelves full of useless bric-a-brac, remnants of moments in my life up until two years ago when I’d left for college. Everything in the room, from framed inspirational quotes and photos of award ceremonies to an array of medals, certificates, and trophies, was strategically placed to inspire me and propel me forward. My room was a shrine and testament to my goal-oriented life. I’d spent the majority of my twenty-two years preparing for the next project, the next challenge, the next award. My life was a succession of aggressive goals I instituted for myself. It was there I’d carved a niche as the girl who not only got it done, but did it all like she was born to do so.
I was not the kind of girl who spent a lot of time looking in the mirror, but sometimes seeing what was looking back was important. I was looking now. And I was looking hard.
For a long time, as long as I could remember, I’d felt justified, and even oddly fulfilled, at pushing away emotional entanglements—socially and romantically. The day I stepped into the Faye house, fate if you want to call it that, shifted my course. The Faye family was unlike any I’d ever known. Toby and I had gone to school together, from elementary through middle, parting ways when my parents enrolled me in a Catholic high school. Our lifestyles and upbringings were as different as summer and winter, but somewhere between all of our differences, we’d fallen in love.
I smiled when I thought of Toby. Being in love with him was like stepping from deep shadows into the sun, like I’d traded a perpetual coldness for warmth. The discovery of him—each look and touch—breathing new life into every single cell in my body. Now that I’d experienced the warmth of the sun, my previous life with its many accolades had less appeal.
I pulled a brush through my hair, then tossed it on the dresser, and marched over to the shelf of awards. The medals, ribbons, and certificates clinked and clanked as I scooped them up and dumped them into the top drawer of my desk.
It was time to let that girl go. Time for this girl to set her focus on less tangible goals, the ones far more likely to produce a fulfilled life—a life full of people and relationships instead of self-driven accomplishments.
The drawer collided with the desk frame as I slammed it shut. The solid thud marked the beginning of the new, liberated me.
My cell beeped with an incoming text.
Dinner at 6 pm. Can’t wait to see you ~T
It’d only been an hour ago since we’d played tennis, but the thought of being with him again made my belly dip like a ride on a roller coaster. Love was wonderfully ridiculous. I put on a belted floral-print fit and flare dress and strappy wedge sandals and gave my long hair one final brushing before floating downstairs. I still needed to frost the cake I’d made for our dessert.
With the volume cranked up on Dad’s Bluetooth speaker, I tapped the first song on my sing-along play list and belted out “Let It Go” along with Idina Menzel. It was the theme to a kid’s movie, but whenever I heard it, I was impelled to sing along. My apron flared out as I twirled to the cabinet for ingredients and flounced back to the counter, all in time to the beat.
I wasn’t the tidiest baker, but I loved working in the kitchen. By the time I’d finished, a dusting of sugar and cocoa powder coated the countertops and floor. Still singing, I stood back to admire the chocolate frosted cake. It was perfect. Toby was going to love it.
“I didn’t know my daughter was such a dancer and so vocally gifted.” My father stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, a wide grin on his face.
My face grew warm with embarrassment under my smile. “You spoiled my big finale.”
He came forward and peeked over my shoulder, surveying my dessert. “You missed a spot.”
“Where?” I inspected the frosting for my oversight.
Dad held out his hand for the spatula. “Here, let me fix it.”
I didn’t really need his help, but my father liked to be involved—in everything.
“Since you’re obviously a full-fledged member of the frosting police, by all means,” I teased and surrendered the utensil to him.
“I hope that boy appreciates what you’re doing for him ’cause I’m certain he’d be just as happy with a packaged cake from Target,” Dad said as I wiped up the counter.
I consulted the cake photo on my laptop refusing to be drawn into combat. “Despite what you think, Dad, Toby actually likes quality things. He likes me after all. And I’m not just doing this for him. It’s our one month anniversary.”
“Really? You’re celebrating a dating anniversary? That’s a little high school, don’t you think?” The unkind twist of his mouth was not a flattering look. “Claudia, you’re not going to make this all about a guy, are you?”
My father’s cynicism wasn’t surprising when you factored in my parents’ nasty divorce.
“That’s unfair. When have I ever made it all about a guy?” Feeling the distinct jab of his disapproval, I reclaimed the spatula from him. “Besides, you like Toby.”
“Enough to watch sports and have a beer with, sure. I hardly expected you to get back together with him.” That crumb of approval was all I was going to get. I was not merely the daughter of a Suffolk County police officer; I was an only child. It wasn’t exactly a selling point that Toby was the quintessential guy from the wrong side of town, one a father warns his daughter about. And my father had absolutely warned me about Toby. Repeatedly.
“Look, Claudia, have your fun. Just make sure you keep your priorities in order. You’re a smart young woman and capable of anything you set your mind to. Don’t let this boy get in the way of all the plans you’ve made.”
His disapproval hurt. I knew it was a bit silly to celebrate a dating anniversary, but as far as Toby and I were concerned, it really was a big deal. We’d dated briefly two years ago—a world wind love affair, my first ever—but after his mother’s traumatic, unexpected death, Toby mentally detonated. His distance and over-the-top erratic behavior had irrevocably torn our relationship. The lovely warmth of the sun had flared up and burned me, and I had retreated to the shade of self-preservation disguised as education. I left Long Island to finish my bachelor’s degree at the University of Southern California. It'd been a hard decision to make
, but at the time, the right one.
When Dad stepped aside, I shot him a glance over my shoulder. “What about you? When’s the last time you asked a woman on a date?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I hope you’re not avoiding the dating scene as some kind of grand gesture to me. It’s been over five years since the divorce. I’d be fine if you expanded your social circles.”
“No need for that when I have such a wonderfully entertaining daughter.” He winked at me and took a swipe of frosting from the bowl.
His tone said he was joking, but it worried me.
“What happens when I move out?” I supposed it would happen one of these days. “This house is kind of big to live in all by yourself.”
“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” he said. “I’ll worry about it when you start dating someone remotely eligible to marry.”
To my father, moving out was synonymous with marriage. While I could’ve argued his thinking was severely outdated, it wouldn’t change anything. Tradition ran thick in my father’s Italian blood. I could’ve debated Toby’s merits with him, too, but I’d lose that argument as well.
Despite what happened that summer two years ago, I still cared about Toby and wanted him to heal. Even after I’d left for school, I’d kept in touch with him, though I was vigilant to not let him confuse my intentions. We’d been navigating the friend zone fairly well up until a few months ago. In March— just before my birthday—I spent a week with him and was amazed by all the changes. He’d been seeing a psychologist and working on a set of goals—both work and relationship oriented—rebuilding bridges that had long since been burned. I was one of those bridges.
Even though I had steeled my heart against Toby, a yearning for what we’d had remained curled inside me. It only took Toby a matter of days to make me fall completely in love with him again. But on the morning of our last day, he still couldn’t voice those three important words. It was a line he toed but refused to step over. And, I refused to move forward without it. I laid out a condition: He had to clear that one last hurdle before I would try again.
A month ago, for the very first time, he told me he loved me.
It was obvious my father hadn’t forgotten how Toby had joyfully and infuriatingly pushed his buttons whenever he could. Dad had softened toward to Toby when his mother died, and during the two years I’d been away at school, the sworn enemies had patched together a semblance of what could be construed as a friendship.
Although Toby had turned his life around, it was difficult to forget what he was like at his worst.
It remained a folded page in my father’s memory.
“All I’m saying is you should keep your prospects open. I’m not going to live here with you forever, and you’re not getting any younger,” I said. “There’s someone out there for everyone even for grumpy ol’ bears.”
My father’s features hardened into a mocking scowl. “Who’re you calling old?”
At forty-eight, Dad was still in good shape. He hadn’t thickened much around the middle like most men his age. However, there were other visual signs of aging. His once ebony hair and mustache were heavily salted, and a few crinkles had crept around his eyes and mouth. And there was that ever-present stern, yet tired, set of his brow. It had taken the time away from home to be able to see it as clearly as I did now.
“Did I say old? I meant… mature ... and handsome bear.” I plated a large slice of my cake, kissed his cheek, and handed him the dish. “I’m headed out to Toby’s for dinner. The house is yours tonight.”
He took the plate but didn’t move. “When will you be home?”
Being in the house with my father again, it was easy to slip into our old father/daughter routine, the one where I bowed, bent, and obeyed implicitly to anything he said. Having been away though, had changed me and our relationship, too. I wouldn’t let him pull us backwards.
“I’m not sure, but I have my phone. I’ll be careful. I always am.” I grabbed one of the brown bottles of beer from the refrigerator and held it out to him. “Here, eat cake, have a beer, and watch some baseball. And don’t worry.”
Dad swiped a second bottle of beer from the fridge, took my offerings, and left the kitchen, grumbling mostly, I was sure, for the show of it. I covered the cake, grabbed my sweater and wristlet, readying to leave, but I paused at the door to glance at my father.
I remembered that first night after my mother left. The house, even the neighborhood seemed to have gone quiet. I’d come into the room and found my father sitting in that very spot, crying. I’d never seen him cry before. Not ever. He’d wept silently, and I remembered how my teenage self was torn by the sight. How I wanted to comfort him, maybe even find a little comfort in return, but even then, I had known that my father needed his dignity more than he needed to be consoled. And so, I had tiptoed out of the room with a hardening in my heart. To keep from seeing the pain on my father’s face, I never openly mourned the loss of my mother.
Work, T.V., and then bed had become my father’s daily routine the last several years. Anybody looking in from the outside would see him sitting in front of his large screen television and assume everything was fine. The house was neat, neither an extra pair of shoes nor a stray personal item left about. Family photos uniformly lined the walls, but not one featured my mother. She had been purged from the house.
However, tonight, seeing him in that spot, understanding awakened in my consciousness.
My mother’s absence lingered here—in my father’s aloneness. This self-inflicted solitude had become his new normal, and worse, he was convinced he was content within it.
As many visual traits as I shared with my mother, I was often characteristically inflexible like my father. I couldn’t force my father to listen to me, but I simply wouldn’t let myself be like him. I’d do everything in my power to avoid it.
I wouldn’t let myself end up alone with nothing but infomercials and my pride to keep me company.
Chapter 5 • Toby
I covered the pans to keep dinner warm. I’d made chicken Marsala and rice. It had been one of Julia’s favorites and one of the few meals I knew how to make well. Claudia would’ve made something more decadent, something I’d never had before, but I wanted to have dinner at my house so chicken and rice it was.
Except the kitchen, which I’d redone myself a few months ago, the small old house I’d grown up in needed major updating. But at least here we’d be alone. There were no overbearing family members to intrude.
I glanced at the counter. I might have gone overboard. Balloons, three different kinds of chocolates, a card, and a huge bouquet of flowers all sat positioned perfectly so Claudia would see them as soon as she walked in. When I heard her key in the door, I grabbed the balloon strings and stood in the doorway, the Mylar balloons buoying behind my back—two red heart-shaped ones and a pink one with a bold Happy Anniversary wish across it.
“Hello!” Claudia called. Holding what looked like our dessert, she came into the kitchen and rose up on tiptoe to kiss me. Her scent hovered in the back of my throat, smooth and reassuring.
“Happy anniversary, baby.” The balloons popped forward as I stepped aside and swept my arm towards the loot on the counter. “For you.”
She lifted the flowers to her nose. “What is all this?”
“Julia wanted me to bring you all this stuff on our first date, but I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, like I liked you that much.” That day, I’d talked to my mother in the same spot we stood now. “Which of course was the truth, and she knew it.”
In the short time Claudia had taken care of my mother, Julia had come to adore her.
“She wanted us to be together,” I said.
“I miss her every day.” She held my chin, her soft gaze wandering over my features. “Sometimes I look at you, and I see her.”
“Yeah?” A warm sensation wiggled in my chest.
“Yeah.” She pressed a ki
ss to my lips and pulled away. Tantalizing fingers raked across my belly as she left me, moving to the refrigerator. She bent over to put the cake inside, her short blue dress rising up the back of her legs. If only she knew how much I wanted to whisk her upstairs.
She moved sideways unaware of my thoughts and peeked under the lids of the pans on the stovetop. “Something smells heavenly. Wha’cha got cooking, good looking? I’m starving.”
Right. I steeled my thoughts. Food first.
“Dinner was delicious. Good job, Chef Faye.”
I leaned back in my chair feeling good that I’d fulfilled one of her basic needs.
“A memorable meal to end my last free week. My internship starts Monday.” Claudia leaned her elbows on the table.
“Not having a schedule drives you cuckoo, doesn’t it? You can’t wait for that first whiff of old people and disinfectant.”
“First of all, the residents of Sterling do not smell. It’s a senior residence, not a medical facility.” Controlling her smile, she stood and stacked our dishes. “And secondly, it’s never been easy for me to be idle. I enjoy being busy.”
It’d had been nice having her around without time constraints—the brief lull between graduation and her new schedule. Whenever I wasn’t working, we were together—movies, dinners out, going to the beach. In the fall, she’d begin classes in pursuit of a master’s degree. I was already missing the freeness of our days.
“You’re starting a new job the same day I start working over at Fire Island. One of my bosses has a rental home in the Pines he’s looking to fix up and sell,” I said. “I’ll be there for the next few months. Mind if I park at your house and walk to the ferry?”
“Do you have to take all your tools and equipment over, too?” she asked.
“No, my bosses and the foremen and a few others will drive the four-wheel work trucks on the beach. The rest of us are crossing the bay.” I liked the idea of working on the barrier island. “Commuting to work by boat doesn’t sound so bad, but parking near the terminal will be expensive.”
Keeping Claudia (Toby & Claudia Book 2) Page 4