by Petrova, Em
Shrugging, I resigned myself to traversing the city and taking the interstate paralleling the Ohio River. At nearing two o’yawn, traffic was light.
Cordie’s place was a tudor tucked in the vee of two roads that dead-ended against the hillside. The driveway wound through the trees, light snow dulling the edges of the headlights.
Bless my sister. Like Motel 6, she’d left the light on for me.
She greeted me with, “You look like shit,” followed by, “I made a pot of coffee,” which I could smell the minute I entered the house. Then she said the magic words, “I made you some waffles, they’re warming in the oven.”
“Have I told you I love you?”
Grinning she said, “Not often enough,” and further secured my affection with a sky high plate of Belgian waffles dripping with butter and real maple syrup. Warmed syrup.
“Have I died and gone to heaven?”
“See you got in alright. Any trouble finding the place?” The Fink padded into the kitchen wearing faded pajama bottoms and a ragged tee-shirt. He settled across from me and accepted a mug of coffee and a smaller stack of waffles, inhaling appreciatively. “Your sister can cook.” He winked at me and said, “It’s why I married her.”
Cordie grinned and asked her husband, “What time do you have to be at the hospital?”
He looked at the kitchen clock and mumbled over a mouthful of waffles, “Five-ish.”
Worried that I’d gotten the man out of bed too early when he should have been getting his beauty sleep, I apologized profusely.
“Not a problem, Rob. I wanted to get a head start on the weather anyway. I’ve got a full day of surgeries starting at seven.” He finished his breakfast and left to the room to get ready to head into the city.
Cordie let me eat in silence, cleaned up the plates and topped off the coffee mug.
“Do you want to talk now, or grab a couple of hours first?”
There were so many questions swirling around in my fog-addled brain that finding a starting point seemed fruitless so I said, “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Thought so.”
She kissed my forehead and led me to a ground floor spare bedroom. All I saw was a queen sized bed with a down comforter. I think I was asleep before the color of the blanket even registered.
***
By the time I dragged myself out of bed it was close to noon and my belly growled at the aroma of soup wafting down the hallway. After a quick shower and shave, my nose led me back to the comfort of my favorite room in any house: the kitchen.
Cordie greeted me with, “Hey, sleepyhead. I have a Panini ready to go on the grill and some cream of broccoli.” Waving toward the window, she informed me, “Six inches and still falling. Please tell me you don’t have to leave right away.”
Did I? Not really. It was another five hours or so to East Lansing, a relatively easy drive and something I could do the next day and still be at the university in plenty of time to get settled and to find Jackson’s contacts. Laying over at my sister’s and pumping her for information about the O’Brien woman until the roads cleared wasn’t a bad idea, not at all.
Cordie ladled a generous amount of soup into a ceramic bowl and laid it on the counter, along with oyster crackers and a soup spoon.
The soup burned my tongue but felt like warm velvet going down my gullet.
“You should have gone to cooking school, Sis.”
She laughed and said, “Well, one of us should have. You’re no slouch either, kiddo.” The Panini grill steamed as the sandwich toasted and gurgled.
Asking, “Ham and cheese?” as I kept an eye on the grill, Cordie nodded and added that there was smoked turkey and Russian dressing also.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and tried not to remember watching Taylor suck on the dill pickle as I fantasized about her doing that to me.
Crude, yes. Rude, definitely. Especially since she was almost family, being my sister’s best friend.
I wished to hell I’d taken her back to my place rather than dragging us to the bar. Damn my insecurities. Paddy wouldn’t have found me with his scoop and I might be, right this moment, doing something naughty with a six foot goddess. Blissfully unaware of her marital status.
“Shit.”
Cordie took a sip of coffee, then spoke softly, eyes boring into mine, her expression somewhere between sad and unreadable. “Is this about Tay?”
Nodding yes and reverting to my compulsive urge to organize silverware, I acknowledged that this was the reason I’d come, to get the facts. The problem was, my sister seldom looked serious or concerned; sitting across from me, with our sandwiches cooling between us, she had the look of doom on her face and I wasn’t sure I could handle the truth.
I ate while she reviewed what I already knew: Taylor’s history up to and including the offer to play overseas. Until that point in time it was all aboveboard and a normal career transition for women basketball players at that time.
Cordie didn’t give a rat’s ass about sports, but she did about her friends so she paid attention and learned … and remembered more than I’d have given her credit for.
“We kept in touch as best we could, but it was difficult, you know?”
I did know. Cordie’s marriages were none of them made in heaven, with the exception of the Fink. For the first three, my sister had been on an emotional roller coaster. That she’d kept her wits and her good humor was to her credit. Each succeeding contribution to her financial independence made the last divorce less than amicable but not conducive to first degree manslaughter.
“I expect you’ll be able to find out more about what went on in Italy than I know.”
“I’ll ask Angie…” Oops.
She gave me a rueful smile and we digressed for a few minutes on her wayward daughter’s flight across the continent, leaving broken hearts in her wake. Cordie seemed to lack some pertinent details, but I figured what happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam. I wasn’t Angie’s favorite uncle for nothing.
“So where does this O’Brien come in?” Meaning Michael O’Brien, the once and still spouse.
“Tay was locked into a contract, playing for a lower level,” and she lifted her eyebrows questioning if that was the right term to which I muttered ‘uh huh’. “Well, by her own admission, she sometimes runs hot and cold,” and stopped, clearly not sure what that meant.
I assured her it happened to the best players and waited for her to continue.
“Anyway, things were beginning to take off, she was playing more and getting talked about. What she wanted was to move up but she couldn’t.”
My sister led me into the den where we curled into comfortable recliners and watched the snow falling lightly onto an expansive wood deck.
“The next I heard from her, she’d gotten married to this Michael person who was now also her manager. Supposedly he was negotiating her contract to get her moved to a better venue. The problem was that the team owner wasn’t willing to let her go and she had two years left to play for that team.”
“In Milan?”
“Um-hmm.” Cordie leaned forward and clasped her hands, her brow furrowed. “She never went into specifics, but my guess is that Michael was taking kickbacks from both sides, with Tay caught in the middle.”
“So, let me guess. The media found out and laid the blame at her feet?”
“Something like that. But here’s the worse part.” I braced myself. “She tried, she really did. To salvage the marriage, even though the bastard had ruined her life. Then her parents died and she didn’t have any close family, just a few cousins and elderly aunts, so she stayed over there.”
“What happened then?”
“O’Brien’s a hustler. Tay had let him take over her finances when they first got married.” She held up a hand to stop me from making a comment, because I knew damn well what was coming and my gut ached for the woman. “He dragged her all over the continent, gambling. I dunno, maybe conning people? Anyway, this went on for a few
years until all her money was gone and they were in debt up to their ears.”
“That’s when he left her?” Of course that’s when he left.
Cordie went on for a bit longer but I was barely paying attention. Instead I stewed over how I’d manhandled her, shoving her against the wall and scaring her half to death. No wonder she hadn’t said anything, about what she felt or … well, anything.
Damn.
The explanation about Italian divorce laws and what happened when the asshole had contested, insuring a long legal battle, had me finally breaking through my sister’s stream of consciousness with, “Tell me, Cordie, how much longer does she have on the clock?”
“I don’t understand, dearest.”
“I mean, when is this damn divorce final?”
She got that cagey look and wiggled around the question. My sister was up to the something. If it helped Taylor Richardson, I was all for it.
For now, I needed to attend to business and work myself out of the hole I’d dug. I had no intention of approaching the woman I might be falling in love with empty handed.
No way in hell.
Chapter Fourteen
Tay
My thesis advisor took me out to an early dinner, mostly to distract me from slitting my wrists. She was good that way, on the motherly side, and when I’d let slip just enough for her to fill in the spaces with presumed boyfriend trouble, I didn’t bother to correct her misconception.
Robert van Horn was no boyfriend, yet I’d managed, over the course of a couple days, to let my imagination run wild with anticipation. So badly so that I spent time between classes meandering down 47th Street not looking in the display windows at the engagement rings.
I’m not looking, not looking…
Such was my level of desperation and hope.
“He probably just forgot. Men do that, you know, dear.”
Of course. That explained it. He had more pressing matters on his mind: drinking with his buddies, a career, a pickup game at the gym, a cheerleader. Oh hell’s bells, make it two cheerleaders for a ménage, which made me wonder if he smoked, and that made no sense because all I’d smelled was clean cologne, barely there, and a natural kind of scent that I could almost taste.
And then he’d been in my mouth and the flood of coppery iron, the sting of my own blood mixing with his passion still had me reeling. I’d seen the Aegean in a storm, darkling grey on smoky blue, violent and untamed. His eyes had been like that. Possessive. Hateful. And beyond control.
“He’ll call, you’ll see.”
Except he wouldn’t, or make that … couldn’t. Not unless he called Cordie for my number because at no time did he ask me for it.
“You’re right. He forgot. Men do that, don’t they?” I agreed, sounding vaguely like I believed that lie, because just the faint possibility that it was nothing more than an oversight put me in the every girl category, awash with company sharing the same dismal fate of being worth less than the price of a text message.
And it was true. Men did a lot of things, things that were far worse than forgetting to make a phone call. Things like stealing all your money or abandoning you on the streets in Prague with not a penny to your name, not knowing the language or which direction was home.
Except there was no home, just the guilt of former teammates who never believed me capable of all the heinous allegations, yet they never spoke up on my behalf.
Mrs. Harkness stood and giggled, both of us swaying just a little. We’d finished off a bottle of red wine between the two of us, not a lot for my body mass, but a fair amount for an older lady who cleared no more than five-three. In sturdy, sensible heels.
She gave me a hug and a ‘call me if you need me’ look that I appreciated more than I could ever say. We moved in opposite directions and I played my game of touch me if you dare all the way to my building.
The best part of my day was about to happen…
Hey, where’ve you been?
I’ve been worried sick.
I’ve been waiting hours for you.
I brought take out.
Let’s go out for a bite.
Let me show you how much I missed you…
Every step was a harp string plucked with strong, masculine fingers, thick and rough padded, capable of circling my throat and tilting my chin until that notch hollowed out for his tongue to prod and tease.
By the second landing, I’d broken out in a nervous sweat: on my brow, drizzling down my spine and pooling between my breasts. I was wet everywhere. The ready kind of wet that ladies never mentioned, certainly not where I’d grown up. The kind I’d never, ever expected to experience again.
Of course, he wasn’t there. I could see that halfway up the last flight but each step was hope pressing on the sole of my foot.
He’s waiting inside for you.
And he’ll take you, against the wall, like a savage, rough and demanding.
I told you I’d come back.
It’s Wendesday.
I’m back…
***
Friday night Cordie emailed with instructions to meet her at an office in lower Manhatten on Saturday afternoon to converse with Mort Finklestein, Esquire and his lovely wife, Rebecca, a divorce attorney with a reputation for sticking it to miscreant spouses of either gender.
Rebecca being ‘lovely’ wasn’t nearly as compelling as the ‘stick it to’ label. There are those in life who seem capable of such generosity of spirit that the failures and foibles of their fellow man, or spouses, go unremarked or forgiven.
I wasn’t one of them.
Michael O’Brien skewered, his head mounted on a flagpole, his entrails spread throughout Washington Square Park for the poodles and teacup pups to munch on, his man parts…
Taylor Richardson O’Brien did it with a carving knife in l’orto…
No, not the garden.
The bedroom? Hmm, maybe not. There were too many fond memories of seductions and pretty promises. Some fantasies never see the light of day, those that do eat at your soul.
How sick was that?
Steady, girl.
Taylor Richardson did it with a criminal conviction…
Italian divorce law was dicey at best. Other than watching the early sixties film: Divorce, Italian Style, I was woefully unprepared to embark on that journey of separation anxiety. If I’d just up and left the country, returning home the minute he dumped me, the clock would have started ticking and I’d be nearly done with him and the nightmare I’d been living.
Instead, I’d stayed to undo the damage, unsuccessfully.
Apropos of nothing, I asked the still empty fridge, “How is it I’m always stuck on the wrong side of right?”
The real question was: why was I always falling for the wrong man?
***
Cordie looked a lot more encouraged than I felt. Miz Finklestein had reiterated what I already knew: to short circuit the jail term, a conviction for fraud, misappropriation of funds, or (wink, wink) bribery would give me leave for a divorce, effective immediately. Allegations, rumors, hints, sly asides during interviews—none of that mattered.
And while the thought of Michael-the-asshole-O’Brien behind bars in a cold, dank Italian prison warmed the cockles of my heart, the sad fact was the burden of proof rested on my narrow shoulders. Proof that would require another sojourn in a country I’d learned to love and hate with equal fervor.
Proof that required an outlay of megabucks. Inflation was always a heady aspect of the Italian economy, a fact that impacted how a has-been sports celebrity could garner enough evidence to make any claims to misdeeds stick. Palms needed greasing as my cousins in central Pennsy would say. Greasing with funds I didn’t have and wouldn’t until I finished my degree and got a job paying more than minimum wage.
Right now, Michael was Teflon, everything sliding off him and sticking to me like Velcro on fleece.
Stomach growling loud enough to catch Cordie’s attention, I decided to leave the fabric
metaphors and focus on food instead.
She asked, “Are you hungry, dear?”
Answering in my down home fashion, “I could eat,” I let her steer me to a cab and a ride back to midtown, accomplished mostly in silence as my dearest friend mulled over possibilities.
The sorority sisters had never acknowledged the keen intellect my friend kept hidden most times, seeing her as a vacuous, albeit fashionable catch. She’d parlayed looks and a mean soufflé into three disappointing marriages. It had taken nearly twenty years for her to find the man who saw past the finger-licking-good into the kind heart and pure soul of a woman more deserving of love than all of us put together.
What I liked best about my soul-sister was her willingness to get down and dirty. She steered us into a hole-in-the-wall Irish pub wannabe on Ninth Avenue and parked her butt on a stool in a dark corner.
Not that there was a light corner anywhere. The place was, if anything, atmospheric to a fault, with smoky walnut paneling and bottles of Jameson lining the mirrored shelves.
The bartender came over and gave us a classic Gaelic wink and a grin, aimed mostly at Cordie who caught the eye with her petite frame and buxom curves. I still looked like something she’d plucked off an outdoor basketball court in Harlem, the ‘do in tight knotted splendor and sporting a body only a forward could love.
I said the first thing that came to mind, “If I wasn’t flat-chested, I’d be poking eyes out,” sort of in keeping with my stream of consciousness and apparently not at all disconcerting to the woman sitting across from me.
“We need to work on that self-image problem, dearest.”
The barkeep laid a plate of something fried swimming on a bed of a lemon-colored sauce between us and inquired about drinks. Cordie nodded graciously at the plasticized wine list but went with my choice of whatever was on tap.
“What is that?” I pointed to the appetizer.
“I’m not exactly sure. Colin suggested we try it.”
Colin.