Keeping the Peace

by Linda Cunningham

  He squinted, and then, honestly curious, he crossed the room to look at the television. It was the visiting rock star, all right, complete with band members, singing a rock ballad unfamiliar to John. The sound was good, though, and he stood there watching.

  “Isn’t he gorgeous!” breathed Emmie.

  “He’s adorable. Ha! And he spoke to me! And he touched me, Em. He touched me,” Mia said, lording it over her friend. “You’re so jealous.”

  “Oh, yes I am,” said Emmie, “but if I had been there, he would have liked me better. Then what? You’d get stuck with the manager!”

  They both squealed, and Emmie, forgetting she was armed with a nail polish brush, accidentally painted a plum-colored streak across Mia’s bare foot. They both squealed again.

  “Argh! Get it off me, Em. Get it off me!” Mia continued to giggle as she waved her foot in the air.

  At that moment, Melanie and Peter came into the room, each dumping a huge load of wood into the wood box. John was surprised to see a third person, also carrying an armload of wood, with them: Michael, his oldest son.

  “Mike! What are you doing here?”

  “Power’s out at school. Classes canceled for tomorrow, maybe longer. I didn’t want to stay there and freeze.”

  John asked, “Did you drive here?”

  “Yes.”

  John rubbed his hand across his face. “Doesn’t anybody in this family do what I tell them? Mike, you see your sister. We’ve had one accident. You turn my hair gray!”

  Except for his coloring, Michael looked more like a Dearborne than anyone else in the family. His hair was longish, wavy, and dark brown. His eyes were nearly black. His coloring may have been Mediterranean, but he was built more like the Dearbornes, taller and thinner than his sister or brother. He was unlike them in personality as well, more reserved and cautious with his emotions than his sister or brother. “Look, I made it, didn’t I? I just went slow. It wasn’t that bad. Calm down.”

  Melanie pulled off her gloves and walked toward her husband. “Peter, fill that stove and put another log on the fire in the fireplace,” she said as she, as always, reached out her hand to John. They kissed, and Melanie said back over her shoulder, “Girls! Really, you sound like something from another planet.”

  “Why do I have to fill the stove?” groused Peter. “Make Michael do it. I’ve been doing it all day.”

  “You’re such a dweeb,” Michael said to his brother, but their quarrel was interrupted by their sister.

  “Look, Mom, they’re going to do another Ragged Rainbow video,” Mia said excitedly.

  John needed his wife’s attention. He was taking things out of the bags and asked her, “Want to be my sous chef?”

  “What’re we making?” she asked.

  He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Love,” he said.

  “You guys make me sick,” said Peter, plunking himself down on a kitchen stool.

  Catherine was putting things away in the refrigerator, pretending not to hear, and John and Melanie ignored him.

  Mia shouted, “Oh, Peter, shut up. Come watch Ragged Rainbow with us.”

  Michael sat down on the couch with the girls.

  “Not me,” Peter grumbled. “He wrecked our car, and I couldn’t go to the gym. I need to practice. There’s a competition coming up next month. If anybody cares.”

  At fifteen, Peter Giamo had not reached his adult height, nor even his eventual shape. Now, he was rather stocky. He looked more like his father than anyone else, but his eyes were truly green. He was a martial arts aficionado, and he was good at what he did, winning most of the competitions he entered. Peter had his first-degree black belt test coming up in two weeks, and his anxiety was making life difficult for the rest of the family.

  Purposefully, John turned his attention to his younger son. “Is your black belt test before this competition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the competition?”

  “I told you. Nobody ever remembers what I say.”

  Mia was on her feet now. “Peter, shut up. You’re just whining, whining, whining. Mom always listens to you. You always get whatever you want.”

  They were really bickering now.

  Melanie raised her voice. “Okay, that’s enough. We’re going to make dinner now. Mia, get back on that couch and stay quiet. Emmie, keep your BFF quiet. Peter, you—” But Peter was gone, stalking through the house to his room upstairs.

  “Really, Melanie,” said Catherine to her daughter. “You’ve got to do something about that boy. He’s downright rude. What’s his problem? You’ve spoiled him rotten.”

  “I know, Gram,” Mia said from the couch where Emmie was fussing, covering her with the light wool throw.

  “It’s true,” Michael injected.

  “Everybody, get off my back,” Melanie said good-naturedly. “He’s just upset about his black belt test. He’s always like this when the pressure’s on.”

  “He doesn’t need to inflict it upon the rest of the family. He’s got to learn some control,” the grandmother said firmly.

  “Oh, Mother, he’ll be fine. Are you staying for supper? John’s going to make something yummy. You can give Dad a call.”

  “No, thank you. Your father and I aren’t too fond of Italian food. No offense, John.”

  “None taken,” said John, rattling around for the proper baking dish under the counter. Years ago, it would not have been so, but then Melanie had said she would marry him and the dynamic had changed. Nothing the Dearbornes could say from that day forward could raise his ire again. He had what he wanted.

  Catherine pulled on her coat. “I’ll go along home, then. I just wanted to make sure you were both okay.”

  She crossed the room and bent over Mia on the couch. No matter what their opinion of their daughter’s choice for a husband, or the staid, antiquated Yankee standards they expected Melanie to adhere to, both Dearborne grandparents adored their three grandchildren. It was as though the loving emotions they had fought so hard to suppress while raising their own child had finally bubbled to the surface and spilled over, to be lavished on their grandchildren.

  Catherine cupped Mia’s chin in her long, patrician hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Do as your mother says, Mia,” she said. “Try to rest as much as possible. Grampa will probably stop up tomorrow. You’re not going to school, are you?”

  “I was planning on it,” said Mia, “if they have school. It’s still snowing.”

  “Oh,” her grandmother said, “I think school is out of the question for you, snow or no snow, for at least a couple of days.” Then the older lady bundled her scarf around her neck and head and turned to leave. “Good night, everyone.”

  “Good night,” chorused John, Mia, Emmie, and Michael.

  Peter sauntered back into the room. “Night, Gram,” he said pleasantly.

  “Drive carefully going down that hill,” Melanie called out as the door closed.

  Instinctively, those in the kitchen waited, looking through the windows until they saw the lights of the heavy Dearborne pickup truck shining through the snowstorm as it stalwartly made its way down the hill.

  “Your mother doesn’t like my cooking,” teased John.

  Melanie made a face.

  “What are you cooking for dinner, Dad?” Mia asked.

  “Baked penne with sausage and Parmigiano Reggiano, your mother’s fresh bread, and Caesar salad. Something warm for this cold night.”

  “And I’m making an apple pie,” Melanie chimed in.

  “Oh, wow!” Emmie clasped her hands under her chin. “I’m glad I’m staying tonight.”

  “Hey.” Peter was still peering out the window. “Grammie’s back.”

  The lights of a vehicle pierced the flying snow as it crawled up the road toward the house.

  “Oh, no,” said Melanie, going over and standing by her son in front of the window. “Maybe a tree is down across the road or something.”

  Michael joined them. “Th
at’s not Gram’s truck. That’s a smaller vehicle.”

  It was impossible to see through the storm.

  “Well, someone’s coming here,” said Melanie. “It can’t be through traffic. Not on a night like tonight. We’re the last place for two miles, and the houses at the other end are easier to get to from the main route.”

  “They’ve got to be coming here,” Michael said.

  John snorted. He didn’t want to face more drama.

  Sure enough, as they all stood there watching the lights, the vehicle turned into the driveway.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” said Melanie, going to the door. She went out into the mudroom to open the front door.

  Everyone waited, curious and just a little apprehensive.

  John heard the door open and a voice say, “Hello, Mrs. Giamo. I was wondering whether I could come in for a minute.”

  “Oh, my, what are you doing out on a night like this?” Melanie asked with surprise in her voice. “Of course, of course, come in, please.”

  Gabriel followed her into the warm living room, and Melanie closed the door behind them. Several things happened at once: the dogs started barking, the girls on the couch made a strange sound, and the knife that John had been using clattered to the floor.

  Melanie said, “Please, Mr. Strand, let me take your coat.”

  “Thanks, but please, call me Gabe,” said their guest over the ensuing mayhem. He handed her his coat and stood, looking around. “This is a great room.”

  The dogs swarmed him, barking, but he wasn’t disturbed. He held out his hand, and they both sniffed, then started to wiggle and jump, begging for attention.

  “Go lie down, you idiots,” John said harshly to the dogs as he crossed the room.

  The visitor extended his right hand. John shook it.

  “What brings you all the way out here in this storm? Is there more trouble?” Melanie asked.

  Strand looked away from John and smiled at Melanie. “I just had to make amends,” the musician said. In his left hand, he held two longish paper-wrapped packages. He handed one to Melanie. “I’m really very sorry for crashing into you this morning.”

  She took the package and looked down through the top. “Ooohh, flowers,” she said. “Thank you so much. They’re beautiful.”

  Mia and Emmie were standing, struck dumb, beside the couch. The Ragged Rainbow front man handed the other package to Mia. John noted with some shock that his daughter had somehow managed to shed her neck brace and her arm sling. They were nowhere in sight. He could see his daughter’s hand shake as she took the flowers. Emmie’s face was flushed.

  “Thank you,” said Mia, almost in a whisper. “Thank you so much.”

  “Did everything check out okay with you at the hospital?” Strand asked.

  Emmie nodded vigorously. She said rapidly, “Oh, yes! She’s really, really good. They gave her a prescription for Vicodin, but she won’t take it. She’s not in that much pain. She—”

  “I’m fine,” said Mia, cutting her friend off. “Thank you for asking. Thank you for coming. Really. Oh, this is my friend, Emmie Cohen.”

  “Nice to meet you, Emmie.” Strand extended his hand again.

  Only her mother’s good training and guidance throughout the years gave Emmie the presence of mind to shake his hand, John thought.

  Melanie stepped in smoothly. “She’s had some whiplash, that’s all. Please, Mr. Strand—”

  “Gabriel. I think Mr. Strand is my father,” the young man said, laughing.

  “Well, then, Gabriel,” said Melanie, “please join us for dinner. My husband’s cooking.”

  In the heat of the kitchen, Melanie had unzipped her turtleneck sweater. John saw the lace trim of her camisole and the gentle swell of her breasts. He also saw the musician’s eyes flicker over Melanie’s chest, but Melanie didn’t seem to notice.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Gabriel asked, a friendly smile playing on his lips.

  He snorted to redirect their guest’s attention from his wife’s chest. “That’s a very good thing. Baked penne with Parmigiano Reggiano and sausage. Homemade bread and apple pie.”

  “I’ll stay,” Strand said, smiling at Melanie. “Can I do anything?”

  “Actually, yes, you can,” John answered quickly, handing him a bottle of Chianti. “You can open this—” he took three wine glasses down from the cabinet “—and pour us all a glass of wine.”

  Chapter Eight

  OVER THE YEARS, Melanie had slowly come to realize the effect she had on men and, in turn, the toll it took on her husband. In the early days of their love, she had been unaware that he might be jealous or insecure. He came home every weekend from college, and when she started college the next year, he had traveled to see her. She had expected it; she enjoyed it. Young and naïve, she hadn’t been aware of his fear—fear that she would meet somebody else and leave him. It was Becky that first brought it up to her bluntly. “John’s crazy about you. You’ve got to stop flirting in front of him.”

  “I don’t flirt,” Melanie had insisted.

  “You just have to look at a guy, and they’re mush,” Becky had exclaimed. “You’re too pretty and, and, too something, to smile at guys. It’s just your manner, I guess, but guys take it as an invitation.”

  Sometimes, through the years, there was gossip to contend with, but John had seemed to settle his demons. She knew he trusted her, and he’d seemed to have come to the conclusion that there were things about his wife he would just have to accept. For her part, she made a conscious effort to let him know how much she truly loved him.

  Suddenly, the realization washed over her, even as she listened to Gabriel Strand while he answered John. That was what had been missing lately: that conscious renewal of their love every day. When had it weakened? What had dulled the delicious sharpness of the leap of her stomach each evening he returned home? When had he ceased to slide his hand up under her clothes, under her bra, to cup her breast? And worse, why hadn’t she noticed it before this? She felt the young musician’s eyes on her chest. It felt good to be noticed. She turned toward him and met his eyes.

  “I can handle that,” the mesmerized man replied. “Corkscrew?”

  Peter rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers and handed the smiling singer a corkscrew.

  “And your name is?” asked Strand.

  “I’m Peter.” Then, in a burst of civility, he added, “And this is my brother Michael.”

  The three shook hands around.

  Strand uncorked the bottle and poured the wine, handing a glass first to Melanie and then to John. The girls had not moved. They stood rooted beside the couch, their cheeks pink.

  Melanie said, “Girls, come put these flowers in a couple of vases.”

  At her words, the two seemed to find their sensibilities. They took the flowers and went about the task.

  “Let me propose a toast,” said the guest. “A toast to the fact that everyone’s in one piece, in spite of my California driving.”

  The glasses clinked, and everyone laughed.

  “What are you driving now?” John asked, stirring the sizzling sausage in the pan with onions and garlic. The spicy aroma filled the room. “That’s not your Mercedes.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Strand, grimacing. “The Mercedes wasn’t mine, either. It was a rental. Anyway, Bruce—Bruce Blake; he’s one of the promoters—had this local girl cornered in the bar at the inn. She’s a hostess there, I guess. She was coming on to him, and it looked like a hook-up to me, so I told her I wanted to see you, and she let me borrow her car. I think they wanted to get rid of me.”

  “Must be nice to be a rock star,” John muttered, only loud enough for Melanie’s ears. He added the crushed tomatoes and the cheese with another grumble. “Have a perfect stranger lend you their car. It’d be hard enough for me to commandeer one.” He finished the preparations, his little rant seemingly over, and said more vocally, “This is ready to go into the oven.”
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br />   Melanie stepped up and opened the oven door. The hot air blasted her face, and John slid the green enameled pan in next to her apple pie.

  “Twenty-five minutes,” he announced. He turned his back to the room, washing up some utensils in the sink.

  “Here, chew on these while you wait.” Melanie reached a mitted hand back into the oven and brought out a cookie sheet full of stuffed mushrooms. “There’s crabmeat in these,” she said to Strand, “in case you have allergies.”

  “Thanks. I don’t. They look very good. Let me help.” He took the spatula she had been holding, his fingers brushing hers ever so lightly.

  “Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, thank you. You can put them on this plate.” She turned abruptly away, saying into the room, “Girls, set plates and silverware out on the kitchen table. We can help ourselves buffet-style and sit in the dining room.”

  The girls were slowly losing their shyness. Mia said, “Where do you live, really?”

  “I live in Beverly Hills now. I just bought my first house,” he said. “It’s a nice one. I like it. It’s not too big, but it has a great pool and a pretty garden. My mother likes to garden.”

  “Oh, your mother lives with you?” asked Emmie.

  “And my sister. I grew up in a small town just outside San Diego. My father was in the Navy. I was an only child until I was twelve years old. Then, my sister was born! She’s fifteen now. After I had enough money and I bought the house, I brought them there to live with me.”

  “Are your parents divorced, then?” asked Mia.

  “My father died when my sister was five.”

  “Oh, I’m, ah, I’m sorry,” Mia stammered.

  “Food’s served,” interrupted John, elbowing through and setting the hot casserole dish on the trivet.

  Melanie followed with the salad bowl, and John sliced the bread.

  “Now everybody grab a plate and dish up. We’ll go into the dining room to eat.” Melanie handed a plate to each girl. “Michael, you sit at one end, Dad will sit at the other. Girls on that side. Gabriel, you sit between Peter and me.”

  As they helped themselves to their meal, a low sigh seemed to pass through the room. Gabriel looked up from the salad bowl, alert.