Here Comes Trouble

by Anna J. Stewart

  “Who squealed?”

  “Please,” Morgan snorted. “You think I don’t know we intimidate the hell out of most people? But we’re like the mafia. Once you’re in, you’re in. No way out. I like you, Malcolm. Despite the fact you dumped my sister five years ago.”

  “I didn’t dump her,” Malcolm said. “Exactly. Things got . . . complicated.”

  “And now she’s happy again.” Morgan reached over and grabbed his arm, squeezed until he glanced over at her. “Because you’re here. And that’s all I care about.”

  “I have been sent to retrieve the corn.” Nathan stumbled in the back door just as a water balloon exploded against the back of his head. He shook himself off like a wet dog and slammed the door as howls of laughter followed. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend look so . . . relaxed. The beige Bermuda shorts, the flip-flops . . . he looked like a reject from Point Break. “Malcolm, buddy. My old friend—”

  “Warning, bullshit wading ahead.” Morgan hopped off the counter. “Methinks my brother has spotted your very single, very pretty lawyer.”

  “Veronica’s not mine to speak for,” Malcolm said, chuckling as Nathan swatted at Morgan as she headed outside. “You’re welcome to give it a try, but I’ve seen more confident men than you get shot down.”

  “You, my good man, underestimate my powers of persuasion. Not to mention my dazzling good looks.” He grabbed a beer out of the fridge, offered one to Malcolm, who declined, gesturing to the herbal iced tea he’d poured earlier. His stomach was doing the jumps again. “You, um, sure I’m not getting in the way of anything with you and Veronica?” Nathan asked.

  “You’re asking me that knowing I’m involved with your sister?”

  “Excellent answer.” Nathan toasted him. “And that was a big-brother test by the way. Tread carefully, my friend. For everyone’s sake.”

  “Sheila knows what she’s getting into.” Malcolm finished with the corn and shoved the last of the cobs into a metal bucket. “I’m not staying.”

  “Nothing stopping you, though. Just sayin’. Thanks for this.” He hefted the bucket and headed out to the grills. Sheila waved to him from outside, the smile on her face turning into a scream as she ducked under the force of three buckets being poured over her head. So much for keeping her snug cutoffs and blue peasant blouse pristine. He laughed, storing this memory away for later. When he needed to remember just how precious—and perfect—life could be.

  ***

  “April sixth.” Theresa Juliano clasped her hands together against her ample chest and beamed at her son and future daughter-in-law. Sheila stood to the side, fingers over her mouth to stop herself from laughing at the expression on her sister’s face. At barely five foot nothing, the amount of power this woman wielded was astonishing. “You know what this means?” Theresa’s voice carried enough to capture the entire backyard’s attention. Even the group playing a ruthless game of Twister courtesy of giant spray-painted circles on the grass froze in place as their ears perked. “Oh, we can start planning the wedding.”

  “You were not exaggerating.” Malcolm squeezed Sheila’s shoulder. “Morgan and Gage look like ducks in a shooting gallery.”

  “I’m getting out of the line of fire,” Nathan said and ducked behind Malcolm. “Dad?”

  “Right behind you,” Jackson agreed, clinking his bottle against Malcolm’s glass. “Watch yourself.”

  “Wh-what?” Malcolm watched them leave. “Sheila, what is he talking—?”

  “Relax.” Sheila patted his hand and tried not to giggle at the fear in his eyes. “This is one of Theresa’s calmer days. Hang on.” She wedged herself between Morgan and Theresa and felt her sister grab the waistband of her jeans as if ready to wield her like a shield. “The planning will have to wait a while. As duly appointed wedding consultant, I’m not available for another month at least.”

  Theresa’s shining face dimmed as if a storm cloud passed over her. “But—”

  “A deal’s a deal, Theresa,” Sheila said. “I was there that day in the kitchen, remember? I’m holding you to your part of the bargain. Plan all you want, but Morgan stays out of it from here on unless she decides otherwise.”

  Theresa’s eyes narrowed and darkened.

  Sheila swallowed, her stomach pitching as if she’d dived into the deep end of the pool without a life jacket. Theresa needed to travel with a warning sign.

  “But nothing. You’ve got months ahead of you,” Sheila reminded her, putting on her best “in-control” voice. “And don’t tell me you haven’t already been scouting out locations for the wedding.”

  Theresa’s face flushed. “Maybe.” She crossed her arms and focused her attention on Sheila, who for a moment wished she had her own shield for protection. Where was Malcolm? Or maybe she could use one of the kids . . .

  “You know Morgan.” Sheila lowered her voice as she heard Morgan’s whimper of approval as her sister pressed her forehead against Sheila’s back like they did when they were kids. “If it’s up to her and Gage it’ll be hot dogs and hamburgers right here. Or worse, they’ll elope.”

  “Over my dead body.” Theresa swung on her son. “Gage, you wouldn’t dare.”

  “Burger time!” Gage reached around Sheila and yanked Morgan free before he hoisted his glass in the air and joined his father and two brothers currently embroiled in a battle of grilling techniques. At any time Sheila expected them to draw spatulas at twenty paces. “Jon, I want mine rare,” Gage called.

  “I had her right where I wanted her.” Theresa aimed laser-hot eyes at Sheila.

  “You mean cornered?” Sheila countered. “Look, Theresa, I get it. You’ve waited a long time to marry the big guy off.”

  “Too long,” Daniel, Theresa’s husband, chimed in over his wife’s shoulder.

  Sheila chuckled at Theresa’s warning frown. “Morgan won’t be able to wrap her head around this wedding at least until after the gala. That’s two weeks away. Give us an extra couple after that to recover, to get her final footing on the center opening in the fall and then we’ll get the ball rolling first thing in August.”

  “Pull out that phone of yours,” Theresa ordered in the voice that had commanded the attention of six children all their lives. “August first. Nine a.m. Your office. I expect both you and Morgan to be there.”

  “Followed by monthly meetings until the end of the year.” Sheila added it to her calendar and made a note to make sure both Liza and Gina were there as point guards. “Then twice a month max starting in January.”

  “For Morgan or for you?”

  “For Morgan.” Thank God Liza reminded her to prepare for this. “She’ll be happier that way and believe me, so will you. You and I will give them the wedding they never thought they wanted. Deal?”

  Theresa pinned her with a look that made Sheila wish she’d chosen nuclear physics as a career. Surely that had to be less intimidating than working with Theresa Juliano on her eldest son’s wedding.

  “Deal.”

  “I’m putting this in writing,” Sheila said, ignoring the gasp of disbelief from her counterpart. “I’ll email you and Morgan a copy this week.”

  “Would you like me to get it notarized?” Theresa asked too sweetly, and made Sheila consider ducking herself.

  “I learned a long time ago that a Juliano’s word is their bond. If you say you agree, you’ll agree.” Sheila fought to keep her expression blank. “Even if it kills you.”

  “Ha. Smart girl.” Theresa held out her arms and Sheila walked into the embrace, bittersweet memories of hugging her own mother drifting through her mind. She never thought she’d be helping to plan her sister’s wedding without her. But Theresa was a good—if not overly vocal—substitute. “And you, Malcolm, is it?” Theresa pushed Sheila aside to get to Malcolm, who for a moment looked like a meerkat under attack.

  “Ma
’am?”

  Sheila’s hand shot up to cover her mouth. The power of Theresa Juliano knew no bounds. She’d never heard him call anyone other than Alcina ma’am before.

  Theresa took Malcolm’s hand between hers and angled her head as she examined him. “I’ve got my eye on you, understood?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he croaked, only to be jostled off his feet by two powerhouse little boys barreling into his legs at top speed. Malcolm spun and caught them before they crashed to the ground, holding one under each arm. “Whoa there, little guys.” He crouched and settled them on their feet. “Well you must be Aiden and Cedric. What has you two in such a hurry?”

  The two boys started talking at once, their hands gesturing wildly as enormous matching brown eyes widened against beautiful mocha-colored skin and under caps of tight black curls.

  “Well, he’ll do nicely, I think.” Theresa looked over her shoulder at Sheila, who was shaking off the shock of seeing the two children she only now realized she’d been avoiding. “Perfect in fact.” Theresa pointed a finger at Sheila. “You’re next.” She joined her husband at the grill.

  “I’m next for what?” Sheila spun around, searching for anyone who might understand. Why did she have the feeling she’d just experienced a fraction of the panic her sister had been dealing with for the last few months?

  “You’ve been tagged.”

  Sheila turned at the male voice behind her, coming face-to-face with Drew Palmer. The just-turned eighteen-year-old—and eldest Fiorelli foster kid—had transformed since the last time she’d seen him. While the young man maintained his edgy streak, the grunge boy had been replaced by well-fitted clothes, a decent haircut and ten-year-old Lydia Cervantes, one of his foster siblings, wedged firmly on his back as if he were her personal pack mule.

  “Hey, Drew. How are you?”

  “Good, thanks. Um, you?” She heard the unspoken concern in his voice. He’d been with her the day they’d taken Brandon out of the house on a stretcher. He’d stayed by her side at the funeral and even brought her a slice of apple pie, which they ate, together, sitting beside Brandon’s favorite flower box. Neither of them had needed words. Neither of them were good with them when it came to loss. Drew hadn’t been part of the Fiorelli household long when they’d lost Brandon, but it had been enough time for him to have formed his own bond to the little boy.

  Looking at him now, seeing the same traces of grief hovering, she realized they probably could have helped each other through the grieving process. “And Lydia.” Sheila reached out and stroked the little girl’s long hair when Lydia popped her head around Drew’s. “Have you gotten taller?”

  “Uh-huh.” She tapped Drew’s shoulder and he lowered her to the ground. Not so long ago the brain tumor that had developed as a result of a particularly virulent strain of AIDS had her in a wheelchair, but new treatments and a promising new drug regimen had her standing on her own two feet . . . for short periods at least. “A whole inch and a half,” Lydia pronounced as Drew steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. “I missed you, Sheila.”

  Sheila stooped down and hugged Lydia. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and kissed the top of her head. “But I’ll be around more often now, I promise.”

  “We’re having a family Monopoly tournament next Wednesday night. And pizza, too. Can you come?”

  “Monopoly and pizza?” Sheila cupped Lydia’s cheek in her palm as her heart squeezed. “Save me a spot next to you, okay?”

  Lydia’s entire face lit up and she scrambled onto Drew’s back. “Drew, can we go get my sweater?”

  “I’ll get it.” Sheila noticed Malcolm had vanished. As had the two newest additions to the Fiorelli family. “Kelley told me you’d made some changes to your room. Do you mind if I see?”

  “Nu-uh.” Lydia shook her head.

  “Okay, I’ll just be a few minutes.” Sheila carried her glass of wine into the house, left it on the kitchen counter as she headed toward the stairs. She gripped the banister tight, taking a deep breath before she started the climb and with each step, embraced the memories of laughter, of joy, trying not to focus on the image of the stretcher being carried out the front door, or of the sirens as they pulled away from the house.

  She stood on the landing for a good while, staring at the door to Kelley and Lydia’s room across from . . .

  Sheila pressed her fingers against the cardboard sheriff’s star on the door to Brandon’s room. She closed her eyes, her pulse heavy in her throat as the door drifted open.

  “So this isn’t your room?” Malcolm’s voice carried out of the room.

  “No. This was Brandon’s,” one little boy answered. “He’s the brother we don’t get to see.”

  “Unless we go to the cemetery. We took him some toys last week. I gave him one of my Transformers,” the other boy said. “Kelley cried. She really misses him, but then we told her we’d take care of her, because we know Brandon did.”

  “That’s very nice of you both,” Malcolm said.

  “We’ve never had a real family before,” twin one said.

  “No one wanted us,” twin two added. “Cause we’re sick.”

  “We were sick. We had surgery. See?”

  Sheila leaned her head around the door in time to see one of the twins hike up his shirt and expose the thin scar stretching from his throat to his navel. She must have made a sound because Malcolm’s head snapped around. After a brief moment, he held out his hand. She wobbled forward.

  “Boys, have you met Morgan’s sister, Sheila?”

  Those huge eyes looked at each other, then at the mural before grabbing for her. “You did that.” One of them said, excitement rolling off him in tidal waves as they both pointed at the wall.

  Sheila wanted to sit down. The Old West mural she’d created was a combination of town and sheriff’s office, complete with a pop-out cardboard box jail. She’d designed the entire room, from the sheriff star throw rug to the custom-made comforter on the twin bed. Her ears rang. Red, blue, and brown curtains draped the solitary window situated over a room-length craft-and-book case filled with art supplies.

  “Morgan told us. You painted this room for Brandon.”

  Her chest fluttered. “I did. He, um, he loved cowboys a lot.”

  “I wish we had this room.”

  “Shhh, Cedric.” And for the first time, Sheila could tell them apart. A dusting of freckles dotted Aiden’s nose, which crinkled, as if he knew his twin shouldn’t have said anything. “We know this is Brandon’s room. But maybe you could paint something for us in our room?”

  Sheila opened her mouth, closed it again. She’d put everything she was into this mural and since then it was as if that creative part of her had been drained. Copying was easy by comparison. Safe. Secure. There was nothing soul bearing about forging someone else’s work, but to create something from inside herself, from nothing to something . . . a solitary tear splashed onto her cheek.

  “See, you made her cry.” Aiden socked his brother. “We’re sorry, Sheila. You don’t have to paint us anything.”

  “It’s okay.” Sheila bent down so she could look each of them in the eye. Such beautiful, lively little boys. “You really like this room?”

  “It’s the bestest room I’ve ever seen,” Cedric announced. Aiden nodded, but was more reserved than his twin, giving Sheila a pretty good idea as to who the instigator of the two was.

  “Cedric. Aiden. Your hot dogs are ready,” Morgan’s voice echoed up the stairs as Sheila held out hands to each of the twins.

  “You’d better go. It was nice to meet you.”

  “You, too. Come on, Aiden. Hot dogs.” They raced out of the room without any realization of the power they held.

  Sheila’s breath shuddered out of her chest. Something broke—or maybe burst—inside her, like a dam that overfilled its capacity.

  She droppe
d to her knees, barely registering the pain of hitting the hardwood floor. The mural before her blurred behind tears. The pain in her chest, the weight that wouldn’t leave pressed higher, stronger, forcing its way free.

  Malcolm crouched beside her, folding her into him and holding her against his chest.

  “I can’t—” She tried to drag in a breath, but couldn’t. “He’s gone. Oh, God, he’s really gone.”

  “I know,” Malcolm whispered, tightening his arms and rocking her toward him. “It’s okay. I’m here.” He drew her close, pressed her face into his chest and finally, Sheila set the grief and pain free.

  ***

  “Is Sheila okay?” Morgan was perched like a mama bird on the bottom stair when Malcolm came down. “Cedric said she was crying.”

  “She’s better now. She wanted some time alone in the room.” He took a seat beside her and let out a long breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of one little boy affecting so many lives.”

  “Mmmm.” Morgan smiled, leaned her chin on her fist as she looked at him. “If it could have been bottled, he’d have been worth a fortune, which would have come in handy given he was hell on our appliances.”

  “I hope it’s okay that Cedric and Aiden showed me his room.”

  Morgan groaned. “I guess I’d better add lock pickers to their list of talents. I swear I think Brandon sent them to us so we’d stop missing him so much.”

  “Why lock it off?”

  “Because what needed to happen hadn’t happened yet.” She gestured upstairs. “That room is as much Sheila’s as it was Brandon’s. Her heart is there. With him. I’m not going to do anything with it until she’s ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Malcolm shot to his feet, feeling as if he’d been caught cheating on her.

  She walked down the stairs carrying a small pink sweater draped over her arm. “It’s a shame to waste a room that was meant to be enjoyed.”

  “Are you sure?” Morgan stood.

  “I’m sure. They’ll love it as much as he did. I hope. And even if they don’t, it’s the right thing to do.” She returned the embrace Morgan threw around her, rolled her eyes toward Malcolm who winked at her.