by Joy Nash
A grandmother crams her grandkids full of cookies, buys them stuff they’re not supposed to have, and loves her little darlings like crazy. Sometimes, she’s a little crazy herself.
Nick pulled out his checkbook and slapped it down on the counter. “How much do I owe you this month, Mr. Merino?”
Vittorio Merino was a genial old shopkeeper who ran a five-and-dime in the Ducktown section of Atlantic City. Twenty-five years ago, Mr. Merino had been a genial middle-aged shopkeeper and Nick had lived two blocks away, on the same street as the twin house Nonna now refused to vacate.
Mr. Merino thumbed his way through a spiral-bound notebook. Stopping at a column of numbers, he added the figures faster than Nick could’ve punched “2 + 2 =” into a calculator.
“One hundred seventy-eight dollars and thirty-three cents,” he pronounced.
Nick looked up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. She’s coming in a lot. It’s all I can do to keep up.”
Nick swore softly as he wrote out the check. What was up? Nonna rarely stole more than fifty dollars’ worth of merchandise in a month. “I appreciate this, Mr. Merino. I really do.”
“Nessun problema, Nick. I know you’re good for it. Maria’s an old lady with a heart of gold. She’s always taken care of my family, so I take care of her. But I gotta tell you, I’m worried about your grandmother. The last few times she was in, she complained my merchandise was getting cheap.”
The old man sent Nick a meaningful look over the top of his bifocals. “I think she’s looking to ‘pick up’ something outside my price range, capisce?”
Nick shoved his checkbook into his pocket. “No way. Nonna would never pick up stuff anywhere else.”
Mr. Merino snorted. “I’m flattered, but you’d better watch her. Someplace else, they wouldn’t be so understanding. Like at that new big-ass mart.”
Nick felt a glimmer of apprehension. “No. That’ll never happen. Nonna hates big stores.”
“Just keep an eye on her, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Merino.”
Back in his truck, Nick didn’t have time to contemplate the disturbing possibility of Nonna branching out with her shoplifting habit. His cell jangled the opening bars of the Notre Dame fight song just as he slid behind the wheel. He adjusted his headset.
“Santangelo here.”
Joe D’Amico, the Bayview job-site foreman, answered. “Nicolo,” he said. “Got a problem.”
No shit, Nick thought as he eased into traffic. Joe never called when things were going well. “What’s up?”
“That pretty-boy architect—what’s his name?”
Nick’s jaw clenched. “Southerland.”
“Yeah, right. This Southerland, he’s running around the job site like a chicken with its head up its ass. You got time to come pull it out?”
Nick gave his to-do list a mental run-through. No, he didn’t have time. “I’ll be there in ten.”
He cut the connection, only to have the ring tone start right up again.
“Nicky,” Nonna said. “I’m cooking meatballs tonight. You gonna be home for dinner?”
“No, Nonna, I’m sorry. I’m working late.”
A beat of silence, then, “Who is she?”
Nick frowned at the phone. His grandmother was downright spooky sometimes. “What do you mean, who is she?”
“I been talking to Johnny. He said he’s been at the office every night this week and you haven’t been there.”
“So?”
“So, I figure you been out with a girl. That’s good, Nicky. You need someone. Bring her to dinner.”
Nick counted to ten before answering. Nonna knew perfectly well he didn’t bring women home. Ever. At first it had been because he hadn’t wanted Leigh to bond with a mother figure who wouldn’t be sticking around. Now it was because he liked his life the way it was.
God only knew he didn’t need another woman in the house. Especially not one like Tori Morgan. He liked her well enough, and the chemistry was definitely there, but a relationship between two people as different as he and Tori were was destined to be short-lived.
Which was only a plus, in his opinion.
“Tell you what,” he told his grandmother. “You promise to stop picking up stuff at Mr. Merino’s, and I’ll tell you where I’ve been all week.”
Silence. Then, “My doorbell’s ringing.”
“Nonna—”
“Listen, I gotta go. But, Nicky?”
“What?”
“Dinner’s at six. Bring your girl.”
Sure, Nick thought. Just as soon as hell freezes over.
Nick appeared on Tori’s doorstep at five thirty on the dot, a hardware store bag in one hand and a grocery store bag in the other.
“Here,” he said, handing her the grocery store bag.
“What’s this?”
“Basic necessities.”
He set the hardware store bag on his workbench and headed back out to his truck. Tori peered into the grocery bag. Tastykakes and Devil Dogs. About a billion calories’ worth.
Thirty seconds later, Nick came back through the door carrying two twelve-packs of Coke. The man had a serious sugar and caffeine habit.
“Make yourself at home,” she said, watching him stash the Coke in the fridge. She crammed the Tastykakes into a cabinet next to her organic rice cakes.
“Thanks.”
He popped the tab on a cola and took a long swig. He wore his usual white golf shirt, with the Santangelo Construction logo embroidered on the left side. Beige cargo shorts and tan work boots completed the uniform. To date, she hadn’t seen him dressed in anything brighter. Did the guy even own any clothes in a color? Or a pattern?
She pictured his bedroom closet: a long, boring parade of white and tan.
Not that he didn’t look great in white. He did. It set off his olive skin and dark hair beautifully. But he’d be even hotter in a purple-and-gold Indonesian batik camp shirt. She’d bought a few for the shop, and she thought she had one in his size. She’d have to search through the boxes in the spare bedroom.
Of course, he probably looked best wearing nothing at all.
No. Oh, no. She was so not going there.
Sure, Nick was hot and all—and, it seemed, willing—but Tori knew that if she were smart she’d keep her distance. She wanted a baby, desperately, and she just couldn’t see herself with someone like Nick Santangelo long-term. Anything she started with him would just delay her ultimate goal of motherhood. She couldn’t stop thinking of Dr. Janssen’s advice about getting pregnant before it was too late. And about Chelsea getting pregnant without a man in sight. Maybe that really was the way to go. One baby in nine months. No drama, no complications.
So why wasn’t she looking up frozen pops in the Yellow Pages?
“What did you get at the hardware store?” she asked Nick.
“A closer for your screen door.” He found the recycling bucket under the sink and pitched his empty Coke can into it.
“That wasn’t on the building inspector’s list.”
“Maybe not, but the slamming’s getting on my nerves. Don’t worry; I’ll get to the other stuff soon enough.”
She watched him fix the screen door. Maybe she shouldn’t have. Maybe she should have shut herself in her room, or gone out for a walk. But she didn’t. She sat on a box and watched him. His hands were deft and sure. She felt her heart squeeze.
When he finished, the door closed with a soft whoosh.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He slid her a glance as he adjusted the doohickey on the closer. “My dad, I guess. I used to help him when he worked around the house.”
She felt a pang of envy. “You must be close to him.”
“I was. But he died about fifteen years ago.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
He threw the broken closer in the empty five-gallon bucket he’d reserved for trash. “Don’t be. At least I had him while
I was growing up. That’s more than some kids get.”
He looked at her with an expression that was hard to read. “Doris told me both your parents died when you were young.”
“Yes.” She felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach, as it always did when she talked about her family. “At least, my mother died when I was eleven. I never knew my father at all.”
“It must have been rough on your mom, raising you alone.”
“It was, I guess. She was only sixteen when she got pregnant. Her parents kicked her out. She caught a bus from Oklahoma to California and never saw them again.”
“Is that where you grew up? California?” He collected the tools he’d been using and set them on his workbench.
“Yes. L.A., mostly.” She picked up his tape measure, weighing it in one hand. “We never stayed anywhere long. Mom lived with whatever boyfriend she could sponge off of.”
“That’s a rotten life for a kid.”
She slid the metal tape out of its housing and let it snap back again. “I used to wish my mother would give me up for adoption. Then, before I knew it, she was gone.”
“How’d she die?”
“Heroin overdose. I called nine-one-one, but she died once they got her to the hospital.”
“And you were only eleven?” His voice was tight. “No one took you away from her before it came to that? What about your grandparents? Didn’t they even bother to find out what your life was like?”
He was angry, she realized. On her behalf. His concern touched a painful spot inside her. Slowly, she set the tape measure on the workbench. She walked to the screen door and stared out into the street.
“My grandparents were killed in a car crash the year before my mother died, though I didn’t find that out until my mother was gone. Child services tracked down what was left of my family. One second cousin who didn’t want me, and Aunt Millie, who did. She was my mother’s aunt, actually, my grandmother’s sister, but they were estranged. Aunt Millie didn’t even know I existed until after my mother died.”
She started when Nick’s warm hand settled on the back of her neck. She stiffened, then felt herself relax into his touch.
“Your aunt must’ve been quite a woman to take in a little girl she’d never met,” he said quietly.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not without tears.
Nick turned her around anyway, nudging her chin up with his fist until she met his gaze. “Hey.” He ran his palm down her arm and caught her hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Sorry I brought it up.”
“It’s all right.” She looked down at their clasped hands. His was so much bigger than hers. A dark streak of grease ran over his knuckles.
“You’re left-handed.” She’d watched him working, but she’d only just realized it.
He smiled. “You noticed?”
“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Left-handed people are very intuitive, you know.”
He snorted. “That’s a load of crap if I ever heard one. I don’t have an intuitive bone in my body.”
She turned his hand over. His palm was calloused and smudged with dirt. She was pretty good at reading palms, and now she studied his. “You have a long life line.”
“Do I?” He sounded amused.
“Yes. And this…” She ran her finger across the top of his palm just below the fingers. “This is your head line. You’re a careful thinker. You don’t jump into anything.”
“That’s true enough, I suppose.”
“And your love line…” She traced her finger over the line that ran from the base of his index finger to the middle of his wrist. Dangerous territory. She’d never seen a love line quite so…
“What?” he asked.
She looked up quickly. “Nothing.”
“Oh, come on,” he joked. “Just give it to me straight. What do you see? Erectile dysfunction? Premature ejaculation? Because if you do…”
A laugh bubbled up in her throat. Nick seemed to have no problem with poking fun at himself. It was a dangerously endearing trait. “No. Nothing that dire. Just the opposite, if you really want to know. You have a very strong…um”—she blushed—“drive.”
He leaned close. “Really? Tell me more. I think I’m starting to believe.”
“Well…” She placed her palm over his, comparing the shape of their hands. His fingers were so much longer, so much more graceful than hers. “You have a ‘water’ hand. Rectangular palm. Long fingers.”
“Which means?”
“You’re an artist. Emotions are more important than reason for you.”
He chuckled. “Now, there’s where your theory breaks down.”
She forced herself to let his hand go. Truth be told, she was starting to feel a little light-headed.
“Palmistry never lies. But it’s true there could be stronger influences at work, obscuring the palm reading. Like something in your birth chart, for example. What’s your sign?”
He grinned. “Are you trying to pick me up?”
His hand glided up her arm, leaving a tingling path in its wake. Tori froze.
“Because if you are,” he continued in his low, sexy voice, “my sign is anything you want it to be.”
His hand settled on her shoulder, his fingers gently flexing.
She almost caved. She almost let him kiss her again. But just in time, she thought of Colin, and of Dr. Janssen, and of Chelsea and Lily.
And she moved out of reach.
The next day, Tori found herself driving over to the mainland with Chelsea.
“You really don’t have to do this,” she told her friend.
“Oh, it’s no problem,” Chelsea replied. Lily gurgled in her car seat. “Mags is covering the shop until three, and besides, the first visit can be a little intimidating.”
She was talking about Tori’s first visit to a sperm bank.
Tori had confided in Chelsea about her longing for a baby, and how the doctor had warned her that her pregnancy should be sooner rather than later. One thing led to another, the result being that Tori was now on her way to Choices, the same insemination clinic that Chelsea and Mags had used.
Tori reminded herself that the visit was purely informational. She was just checking out her options. But gazing at Lily’s round little cheeks and sleepy smile, her empty arms ached, and her heart felt as if it were floating out of her chest.
She couldn’t allow her chance to create a real family slip away.
Chelsea sped over the causeway leading to the mainland. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of a brick-and-glass office building. It looked…upscale.
Tori don’t know why she should be surprised at that. She supposed that, in the back of her mind, she’d assumed a place where guys got paid to jerk off would be lurking in a skanky back alley. In contrast, the Choices facility was clean and sleek, with shiny glass doors and bright masses of impatiens planted on either side of the entrance.
“I’m not sure about this,” she said. “It looks expensive.”
“You’ll drop a few hundred on the specimen,” Chelsea said, “but if you do the insemination yourself, you save money. The syringe is a little tricky, but it’s not like it’s brain surgery or anything.” She lifted Lily out of her car seat and plunked her into Tori’s arms.
“To remind you why you’re here,” she said.
Lily was happy today—the tooth that had bothered her had erupted, and was visible as a white dash in her pink gums. Tori bounced the little girl’s wriggling, cooing weight, as Chelsea took hold of her arm and dragged her up the walk and into the building.
The reception room looked like any doctor’s office, with year-old magazines (none, as far as Tori could tell, were porn). The framed art prints on the walls depicted nondescript beach scenes. There were about a dozen chairs, but only one was occupied, by a young guy whose head snapped up when they entered.
He looked quickly away.
“Do you think he’s a donor?” Tori whispered.
&n
bsp; Chelsea looked over at the guy. He jerked to his feet and moved to a brochure display rack, where he snagged a pamphlet and pretended to read.
“Probably,” she whispered back.
“He can’t be twenty!” Tori said.
“They prefer young ones.”
The nervous donor was called first. A woman in a white lab coat escorted him into the back. To a darkened room filled with back issues of Penthouse? Or would they have movies? Tori didn’t want to know.
“You think he’s doing it for the money?” she asked her friend.
“Don’t think of it like that. In fact, it works best if you don’t think of the donor at all. Just think of your baby.”
Her baby.
She liked the sound of that. And holding Lily in her arms made the whole thing seem more real. She rocked the little girl and babbled some baby talk. Lily grinned, showing her new tooth.
A few minutes later, Tori left Chelsea and Lily in the waiting room and braved Dr. Brenner’s office alone. The good doctor was tall, thin, and balding. He might have been a scarecrow dressed for Halloween. But his eyes were warm and friendly, and Tori was surprised to find herself liking him.
“We maintain the strictest confidentiality. Both for the donor and the recipient. But you’ll receive a full medical history that goes back at least two generations.” He paused. “Is there a partner involved?”
“No, I’m not married. Or even living with someone. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“Not at all. A good percentage of our clients are single. I’m only asking because often a woman will choose a donor who looks like her partner. But since you’re not in a relationship, you might consider choosing a donor with your own hair and eye color. That way the child will be more likely to look like you.”
That sounded good.
“You’ll fill out a detailed medical history, of course. That will help us eliminate any donors who may be genetically incompatible. Otherwise, you can have your pick of candidates from our database. We’re affiliated with several sperm banks nationwide, so there’s quite a selection.” He turned his computer monitor toward her. “Let’s do a search now.”
He clicked his mouse and a series of questions appeared on the screen. “Race…Caucasian. Hair…black. Eyes…” He peered at her. “Yours are green, very unusual. An identical match would overly limit our search, so I’ll just deselect brown. Let’s see…complexion, fair. Ethnicity?”