by Becky Melby
“Does he drink?”
“No. He…carouses. It’s embarrassing. When I got old enough to know what was going on, in my early teens maybe, he reminded me of some of the kids at school. Living for the moment, you know? I always thought my dad would grow up when I did. He didn’t.”
“Have you ever thought about striking out on your own?”
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth then disappeared. “Millions of times. But I couldn’t stand watching ninety years of family history fade away.”
“Why don’t you buy it from your grandfather? If your dad isn’t interested—”
“It’s not that simple. My dad has a brother. They aren’t talking to each other, but someday my dad and Uncle Sal will inherit the place together.” He tossed a chicken bone onto his plate and wiped his hands on a napkin. “So what did you find across the street? What’s this secret meeting all about?”
“It’s not secret.”
“You just didn’t want anyone else to know about it. Or was it just the guy you were with at the funeral who shouldn’t know about us. This.”
“The guy is just a friend, and I don’t want too many people hearing about this”—she tapped her bag with the toe of her shoe— “until we know more.”
“The ‘this’ is in there?” Nicky nodded at her bag.
“Yes. Can’t take it out till I wash my hands.”
“They teach you that in school? To give your reader just a nibble so they want more.”
“It’s called a hook.”
“It works.” He held her gaze. “I’m hooked.” Dani stopped breathing. He pointed at her bandaged arm. “How’s that feel?”
Delicious. “The arm? Sore.”
“You gonna stop pretending you’re a teenager?”
No. “Guess I’ll just have to brush up on my street smarts before I do it again.” She tore open a towelette pack as she watched his mouth set into a rigid line. When’s the last time you laughed? She picked up her cup of root beer. Two bees crawled around the inside edge. She dumped the rest of her soda into the grass and tossed their plates into a trashcan. She handed the diary to Nicky. “I found this behind the house across from the restaurant. It was in a basket with China’s school notebooks. I thought it was hers, but it’s not.”
Nicky opened the front cover. “1924. Osseo. That’s up by Eau Claire, isn’t it?”
Dani nodded.
“It looks interesting, but what’s this have to do with me?”
She sat beside him and turned to the page in the middle of the book she’d marked with a sticky note. She pointed to the entry at the bottom of the page dated June 24, 1928. Nicky’s eyes widened. His lips moved with the words. Busy but fun night at Bracciano again. He turned the page then several more. His finger landed on an entry dated July 30, 1928. “Did you see this?”
Dani’s arm pressed against his as she leaned over the book.
“Renata. That’s my great-grandmother.” His tone held a reverence that seemed completely out of character for Nicky Fiorini. “Look at this. ‘Renata helped me find a way to hide the things T left. They are safe. I don’t think I will ever see him again, but I’m afraid to believe we are finally free.’” He looked up, eyes dancing with questions. “What does that mean?”
Dani shook her head. “I’m still in 1924, and I hate reading the end of a book first, but I had to show it to you. I thought maybe we should…” The heat from Nicky’s arm spread through her veins, melting her thoughts.
“Start from the beginning? Together?”
She nodded.
His eyes locked on hers. “I think you’re right.”
“Is she blind?”
Nicky rested his chin in his hands and stared at Dani next to him on the picnic table bench.
“She’s fifteen. She’s never been in love before.”
“I thought girls were born with antenna to pick up those signals. Guys are supposed to be the obtuse ones.” He shifted the church bulletin Dani had laid on the page to keep their eyes from wandering away from 1924. He ran his finger along a line of rounded, girlish script. “‘Theo can have dreams of moving to India, but I’m just a girl. I shouldn’t trouble my empty little head over a silly notion like a career. I should only worry about embroidering luncheon cloths for my hope chest. Theo doesn’t say such things, of course, but I know he thinks them. Men!’”
“I so agree.” Dani looked up at him with laughter in her eyes. “Keep reading. Maybe she catches on.”
“‘Sheriff Bakke came today. Mama shook so bad I had to pour coffee. Mama doesn’t know that daddy’s reputation for not watering down his product makes him popular with more than just the farmers. Mama knows the sheriff’s car. She doesn’t recognize his horse when it’s tied outside the barn!’” He tore his gaze off the page. “This is priceless.”
“Any idea what kind of trouble Francie’s dad would have been in if the sheriff hadn’t been one of his customers?” Dani reached in her bag, pulled out her phone, and typed in a question.
“I’d like to know what would have happened to the sheriff if he’d gotten caught.”
“This says a thirty- to a hundred-dollar fine and or a night in jail and confiscation of your liquor. I wonder how much money a guy like this could make in a week?”
“It was da big guys what made all da mooo-lah, ya’ know.” Nicky doffed an invisible cap. “Da Big Fellow, my buddy Al—Capone, ya know? He had it figured out. Get the little people to do all da dirty work and you rake in da dough.”
She laughed. “You’re related to him, right? That’s what Todd meant about you being descended from criminals.”
“Best keep that to yourself, doll face.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, messin’ wit’ us Italians.”
Her lips pressed together. Tiny divots formed in her cheeks. “You forget. I’ve seen the soft side of this one.”
“I beg your pardon.” He flattened his hand against his chest. “I don’t have a soft side.”
“Tough guys don’t rescue shoes.”
The wells in her cheeks deepened. He folded his hands to keep from touching one.
“So true. Tough guys”—He changed his mind and gave in to the temptation. The tip of his finger covered the dimple perfectly— “only rescue dames.”
Her seventh-grade math teacher had a favorite cliché—“Don’t check your brains at the door.” Why did it come to mind now, and not fifteen minutes before agreeing to a picnic lunch with Rudolph Valentino?
Dani squinted at the diary entries and pretended she was sitting alone. She’d read of people lowering their blood pressure by visualizing tranquil scenes. If the pressure in her head and the choking sensation were any indication, she’d be suffering a massive stroke in a matter of seconds. I am alone in this peaceful park. There is no gorgeous man next to me. No tanned, muscled arms. No burning hole where he touched my cheek…
The offending fingertip landed on the page. “‘Suzette has a little boy. I still can’t believe it. She wants me to come and help her. Mama and Daddy don’t know I overheard. They burned her letter and said they’d never let me go to Chicago. But I will. It’s not New York, but there are fashion designers there, too.’” Nicky yawned and rubbed a hand across his face. “That gets her a little closer to Kenosha.”
“She’s a fifteen-year-old farm girl. How’s she going to manage in Chicago?”
“Is it bugging you that you can’t give her advice?” The glint returned to his eyes.
“Yes. I want to fix her before she does something stupid.”
“Save all that repressed fixingness for my sister.”
She laughed. “I’ll work on that.”
Nicky went back to reading. “‘Today began with my hand in Theo Brekken’s on the way to school and ended with my hand in a fist on Earl Hagen’s nose, blood spurting everywhere.’”
“Go, Francie! What did the guy do?”
“‘He told everyone Daddy’s a bootlegger. So I pun
ched him. My hand still hurts, but I feel good. Theo walked me home. I tried to tell him I’m going to Chicago.’”
Nicky stroked the stubble on his chin. “Feisty kid. Not too bright, but gutsy.” His shoulder tapped into hers. Not by accident.
“Gutsy is good.”
“Not always.” His expression hardened, and he turned back to the diary. “You want to read for a while?”
She silenced the questions begging to be asked and turned to the next entry. She ran her fingers through damp bangs. The spot of shade they’d found an hour ago was now dappled with sunlight. “Should we keep going or are you getting tired of it?”
“I’m tired but not tired of it.” He glanced at his watch. “We won’t get to the part about Bracciano today, but let’s read a couple more.” He stretched both arms out straight. Muscle shadows landed on the open pages.
Dani averted her eyes. She focused on the aspen leaves turning lazily over their heads. When the stretch was over, she swallowed hard and went back to reading.
“‘Applejack is sick. Daddy says something’s twisted or blocking his intestines. He’s tried everything. I’ve been helping him all day, but we can’t get him to stay on his feet anymore. I’m so scared. Mama’s downstairs on her knees. I tried praying, but I can’t.’” She turned the page. The top lines were blank. She flipped through page after page. “The next entry for 1924 is November 8.”
“What happened?”
Keep them wanting more. Mitch’s motto flitted through her head. “Maybe we should stop here, with a cliff hanger.”
“That’s cruel.”
But it will give us a reason to get back together. Soon. She closed the book. “You have to get to work.”
“You can’t look ahead without me. No cheating.”
She rested her left hand on the diary and raised her right. “No cheating. I solemnly swear.”
“Thanks for the ride.” Nicky grabbed the car door handle as he watched a platinum strand drift lazily across pale, freckled skin. Would a quick kiss, just a brush of his lips across that cheek be out of line? Probably. Maybe he’d just squeeze her hand. “Maybe next time I’ll pick you up.”
“Don’t know how you live without being able to hop in your car whenever you want.”
“If my Javelin were parked here I’d be hopping into a car without wheels. But I have a bicycle and rollerblades and a delivery truck. What more can a guy ask for?” Twenty-four hour access to a sleek black car. And a gorgeous blond in the passenger seat. “It’s not a problem if you don’t have a life outside of work.”
“We have that in common. But we can live vicariously through the adventures of Francine Tillman.”
“When do you want—”
“Nicky!”
Heels clacked on the sidewalk. He turned to see Gianna, shopping bags and massive purse looped over both arms, heading toward them. He turned to Dani. “Do you have a minute? I’d like you to meet this lady.”
“Sure.”
They got out of the car and met Gianna on the sidewalk next to the side door. Her lipstick matched orange pants absurdly tight for a woman her age. Long gold earrings with red stones swung beneath huge hair. She set the bags down and pulled him into a smothering hug. She smelled, as usual, like the cherry-scented deodorizers used in public restrooms. He kissed her cheek.
“Gianna, I’d like you to meet Danielle Gallagher.”
Dani held out her hand. “It’s Dani. Nice to meet you.”
Nicky put his arm across Gianna’s shoulders. “This is the amazingly tolerant woman who raised Rena and me after our mom joined the gypsies.”
Dani shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Gianna.”
“So who are you, Dani, and how do you know my Nicky?”
“I’m a reporter for the Times. I was working on a story one night, and Nicky called the cops on me.”
Gianna laughed. “Hope I get to hear the rest of that story someday.” She nodded toward the restaurant. “He home?”
“Nah.”
Gianna turned to Dani. “Don’t judge my Nicky by his crazy relatives. Whatever you’ve heard about us, it’s all true. Not that I’m family by blood, but I’ve invested enough tears and prayers in this boy to count as DNA, you know? You ever hear of a generational curse?” She didn’t wait for Dani to answer. “My boy’s breaking it. He might look mean on the outside, but—”
“Gianna.” Stop scaring the girl. Nicky put his hand on her arm. “What’s in the bags?”
“Sheet sale at Target. I got plaid for you and…” She pulled a set of sheets from one of her bags. It looked like a used drop cloth. Gray background with splotches of orange, green, and blue. “I know she’d prefer black, but I thought this might appeal to her inner artist.”
Nicky picked up the bags. “You know you don’t have to—”
“Shh.” Gianna touched an orange-nailed finger to his lips. “Don’t be a blessing stealer.” She winked at Dani. “You two going inside?”
“No.”
“Well then I’ll leave you alone and get to work. So nice to meet you, Dani.” She picked up her bags and shot a finally-you-bring-home-a-girl look over her shoulder.
“Sweet lady.” Dani brushed stray hairs off her neck.
“She’s a saint.” He ran through his next move. Grab both hands in his. Look into her eyes. I’ve had a wonderful time, Dani. Let’s get together—
Bicycle brakes squealed. He turned to see Rena and her best friend half a block away. Rena’s mouth opened wide then closed. She turned to Trish and said something requiring a lot of hand gestures. Trish took off in the opposite direction. “Dani! Hi!” Rena’s smile seemed somehow off-kilter. “How’s your arm? And what are you doing here?”
Dani’s face reddened. “I was just—”
“Picking up a spinach calzone,” Nicky filled in the blank.
“Cool.” Rena hoisted her bike onto her shoulder.
Nicky held the door open for her then turned and took just one, not two, of Dani’s hands in his. “Thanks for today.”
She’d already turned the corner when he realized he didn’t know when he’d see her again.
October 2, 1926
Francie pulled her cloche low over her forehead and raised her fur collar to cover most of her face. She scanned both sides of the street for a two-toned Alfa-Romeo. Tag went to visit his mother in Aurora on Sundays, which meant Sunday was her day off. She was free to go anywhere as long as she didn’t take Franky. Or get serious about another man.
Turning in the leather seat, she gazed through the square rear window, searching for headlights. “Kiss me quick.” She leaned toward the driver’s side of the Model A.
“That, my sweet, will require more self-control than this man possesses.” A lock of blond hair fell across Albert Hollanddale’s temple. His lips touched hers, but he didn’t linger. “Next Saturday?”
Francie’s throat tightened. Once again the dizzying tightrope feeling swept over her. With each passing week, the game grew harder to play. But if she didn’t get out, didn’t have some fun, she’d go crazy. She clasped the lapels of his trench coat. Behind the tan fabric, she crossed fingers on each hand. “It’s my day to mind Franky.”
“You take care of that boy more than his own mother.”
If Albert only knew the half of it. “How about a picnic on Sunday?”
“In this weather?”
“We’ll bundle up. Together.”
He sighed, long and loud. “If I must wait until Sunday…”
“Peachy. Be here at three on the dot in knickers and a polo shirt.” She opened the door and stepped onto the running board. Bending down, she kissed the tips of her fingers and blew the kiss across the seat. “We’ll make believe it’s spring.” She hopped down and ran onto the porch of the bungalow without a backward glance until the car sped away.
Skin prickling, she looked up the tree-lined street, then searched the opposite way. Nothing out of the ordinary. She turned the handle and stepped inside. Fr
om the kitchen radio, Marion Harris crooned “The Man I Love.”
She clicked both locks then hung her coat on the tree by the front door, petting the black fox fur as she stuffed her gloves in the pockets. “I’m home,” she called, soft enough not to wake Franky.
The rattle of a cup and saucer answered her.
“Good movie, Suze. I was rooting for Jean Hersholt’s character, but he didn’t win the girl.” She set her hat on the side table. “Pola Negri’s part was a bit overdone, I thought, but she wore this hat that was ab-so-lute-ly delish. I have to make one just like it.” She kicked her shoes off. Swinging them by the heels, she padded in chiffon stockings toward the kitchen. “Did you know ‘The Secret Hour’ was originally a play called—Tag.” Her pulse thundered in her ears. “H-how was your mother?”
Diamond cuff links caught the light as he folded his arms across his chest. Cold green eyes nailed her. “Who is he?”
Francie blinked into character with a vampish flutter of her lashes. “The boy? Don’t be silly.” She leaned forward, letting her rope of pearls brush his knee. “You’re not jealous, are you, Tag?” Straightening, she put one finger on her chin. “Oh my, I believe you are. I think I rather like that.”
The eyes didn’t change. “Who is he?”
With a move calculated to be alluring, she skimmed her hands along the pale blue crepe flowing over her hips. “His parents own the diner in the South Bank building.” No need to mention that Albert’s parents owned the bank, too. “We made a Sunday visit to his poor grandmother.” Albert’s poor grandmother had not seemed to take note of them as they’d snuggled in the car near her headstone at Mount Carmel Cemetery. “Just doing a favor for his mother.” But he’d heard the part about the movie. “Thought we’d stop and catch a movie on the way home.”
“I give you everything you need.” His eyes roved to the opposite end of the kitchen. Suzette stood with her back pressed against the refrigerator, anger glowing in her eyes. “What do I ask in return? You stay true to me. I don’t mind a little hanky-panky. I’m a tolerant man. But this—”
“He’s just a friend.”
Tag stood. Blazing eyes locked on her as he reached for his coat on the back of the chair. “Don’t lie to me. I got eyes everywhere you go.” He stepped toward her, bent down, and picked up Franky’s fire engine.