by Joy Nash
“Irish,” Tori said. “At least my mother was. I don’t know about my father.”
“I’ll choose Anglo-Saxon. What education level do you prefer?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want your donor to have a college degree?”
“Oh!” Tori had barely made it through high school. It seemed snobbish to insist her child’s father have a college diploma. “A high school graduate will be fine.”
The doctor clicked the search button. A few seconds later, a list appeared.
“Twenty-six candidates,” he announced. “Sperm from any of these donors is available immediately.” He clicked again and a printer started spitting paper.
Tori left Choices with a bulging file. A medical questionnaire, a sample contract, release forms, a brochure outlining insemination options, and, of course, the all-important donor profiles. Once home, she spread all twenty-six donors on the kitchen table and considered each one.
It was worse than cruising a bar for a pickup. How could she choose her child’s father from a few pages of cut-and-dried genealogical facts?
She needed a little deeper insight. Once again, she found herself sifting through the bag of candle magic spells.
Chapter Eight
Middle children often find themselves running interference between older and younger siblings, and between siblings and parents.
“ You look like shit,” Nick told his brother Alex as he slid across a duct-taped vinyl booth seat at their favorite Atlantic City diner. It was barely six thirty, but the early morning crowd was already out in force. The place reeked of coffee, bacon, and the occasional cigarette that hadn’t been taken outside.
“Yeah, well, you look like a drowned rat,” Alex said.
“I just got done swimming laps.”
“Jesus. What time did you start?”
“Five.”
“Christ. I’d never get up that early to exercise.”
Nick examined his brother more closely. Get up? From what he could tell, Alex, an Atlantic City homicide detective, hadn’t gone to bed the night before. “On a case?”
“Yeah.” Alex took a long pull of coffee. “But it cracked early this morning, so I’ve got today to crash. What did you want to see me for, anyway?”
“It’s Ma.”
“What about her?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? For that you’re buying me breakfast?”
The waitress approached, pad and pen in hand. Nick ordered an omelet, hash browns, and coffee. Alex asked for more coffee.
“More caffeine? I thought you said you were headed to bed.”
“Got paperwork to file first.”
Nick eyed him. “You know, you haven’t been by the house in ages. How’s Sophie?”
“She’s great. I’m getting her for a couple of weeks. Leslie’s going to Bermuda with her new boyfriend. Think Leigh’ll babysit if I can’t get enough time off?”
“No problem. Leigh loves Sophie. And don’t forget Ma and Nonna. Between the three of them, the kid won’t know what hit her.”
“Johnny said he’d take her to the boardwalk, but you know how he is.”
Nick’s jaw clenched. “Don’t get me started on Johnny.”
Alex snorted. “That bad, huh?”
“He ducked out on an important meeting for a soap opera audition.”
“Really? Which show?”
“Franklin Hospital, or something like that.”
“Franklinville Hospital?” Alex pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and started doodling on his napkin. “Wow. That’s big.”
Nick set down his coffee cup. “Don’t tell me you watch a freaking soap.”
Alex colored a little. “I might’ve caught an episode or two in between cases.” He fell silent as the waitress delivered Nick’s breakfast. “Think he’ll get it?”
Nick took a knife and fork to his omelet. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Johnny’s a good actor,” Alex said, sketching a few more lines on his napkin.
“Doesn’t make up for being a lousy contractor.”
“He’s only twenty-four. How good could he be?”
“I took over Santangelo Construction at twenty,” Nick pointed out. “You entered the police academy at nineteen. Zach shipped out with the navy at eighteen.”
Alex drained his second cup of coffee. “Johnny’s not like the rest of us, Nick. He’s—”
“Irresponsible.”
“I was gonna say free-spirited. Give him a break. He just needs someone to keep his feet on the ground.”
“Well, count me out of the running for that job. Damn it. I knew I should’ve said no when Ma asked me to hire him.”
“Like you had a choice.” Alex sketched a few more lines on his napkin.
Nick grunted and returned to his breakfast.
“So what’s this about Ma?” Alex asked after a moment. “You know, come to think of it, she hasn’t called me in…damn. Three weeks? Four? What gives?”
“She’s not herself. She’s distracted. Spacey.” Nick put down his fork. “She’s out every Thursday night and won’t say where.”
“So what?” Alex added a curl to his napkin doodle. “She’s an adult. Maybe she’s taking a class or something.”
“Then why be so secretive? She even lied about it. Said she was going to a church meeting, but Nonna says she’s not.”
“But Nonna doesn’t know where she’s going?”
“No.”
“What does Leigh think?”
Nick scowled and forked another bite of egg into his mouth.
Alex laughed. “Oh, so it’s like that with Leigh, too, huh? Not talking?”
Nick swallowed his eggs. “Can we talk about Ma, please?”
“Sure.” Alex added some shading to his drawing. “Where do you think she’s going?”
“I think she’s seeing someone.”
Alex looked up. “A man, you mean?”
“No, freaking Rosie O’Donnell. Of course a man.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Alex said.
“I wish I were. But it fits. New clothes, a dye job, contact lenses. I even heard her singing in the shower, like she used to before Dad died. What else could it be?”
“Could be a lot of things,” Alex said, shoving his napkin across the table.
Nick picked it up. His brother’s doodle had morphed into a caricature of their waitress—all hips, breasts, and big hair. He couldn’t suppress a grin.
“You’d better not let that waitress see this,” he said. “Or I fear for your next cup of coffee.”
Alex crumpled the napkin and plucked a fresh one from the holder.
“Ma out on a date,” Alex said, chuckling as he started a new doodle. “You know, Nick, if it’s true, I don’t blame her for not telling you. She’s probably afraid you’ll give her Leigh’s curfew.”
Nick drained his coffee cup. “If Ma has a”—what the hell did you call a guy your mother dated?—“a boyfriend, I want to know. It could get out of hand. She could get hurt. She hasn’t even gone out to dinner with a man since Dad died.” He eyed Alex. “Look, do you think you could come over for dinner some Thursday night and tail her when she goes out? See where she goes? I know you’re busy, but…”
Alex twisted his pen and slid it into his shirt pocket. “Never too busy to spy on my own mother.”
Nick pulled out his wallet and dropped a couple bills next to his plate. “Thanks. It’ll help me sleep at night.”
“You worry too much. Ma’s a grown woman. She’s sensible. She can look out for herself.”
“I’m just trying to keep things from getting crazy.”
“As if that’s possible.” Alex slid out of the booth and handed his napkin to Nick.
The caricature was of Nick this time, dressed in medieval armor, driving an enormous bulldozer over a tiny house that looked suspiciously like his own.
He snorted. “Nice.”
Ale
x answered him with a grin from their childhood. “I just draw it like I see it, big brother.”
On Monday morning, Tori returned to Choices.
A spell involving a clove-studded yellow candle set in a bucket of sand had promised clarity of mind in making an important decision. Upon extinguishing the flame, Tori had managed to narrow the field of potential donors from twenty-six to seven without too much angst. Taking a deep breath, she now passed the pages to Dr. Brenner, and handed him a nonrefundable deposit.
In return, the doctor printed out expanded profiles of her finalists. Pages and pages for each potential father.
Tori brought the profiles home to read. She discovered each man’s IQ, his blood type, his shoe size. His school grades. She flipped through his baby pictures.
She met his family. It wasn’t exactly Sunday dinner with the folks, but pretty darn close. She read descriptions of his parents, siblings, and children, if he had any. Met his aunts and uncles. Grandparents. If anybody close to him was dead, she found out why. For living relatives, she got a chronicle of every ache and pain.
She didn’t know anything about Nick Santangelo’s family.
But why was she even thinking about that?
Eventually, she took the whole pile of papers over to Mags and Chelsea’s. The three women went through the profiles one by one. Tori found herself looking for a reason to reject each candidate. One man was too heavy, the next too short. The third was a Republican.
“This guy looks promising,” Chelsea said. “Twenty-four and in med school. Volunteers at a free clinic in his spare time.”
“I don’t know,” Tori said, looking him over. “He likes country music. I don’t think I could handle that.”
“You’re not looking to date him,” Mags pointed out.
“No, just to have his baby! What if the kid takes after his father, and his father is a guy I would’ve hated?”
Mags snorted.
Chelsea sighed, flipping to the last of the seven. “This one’s a Democrat, at least. A journalist.”
“Black hair, green eyes, Irish—just like you, Tori,” Mags read over Chelsea’s shoulder. “Six feet tall, one eighty. Runs marathons. No family history of cancer or heart disease.”
Tori’s interest perked up. “He likes folk music and watches classic black-and-white movies,” she read, stunned. “Oh! And he writes poetry.” She stared at the picture of a handsome young man wearing jeans and a wild red print shirt.
He was perfect.
Chelsea turned the page. “He’s gay. Does that bother you?”
“Really?” She looked over and saw it was true. Sexual orientation: homosexual. “No, I don’t mind. It only figures. All the best men are gay.”
“But you’re not looking to date him,” Mags reminded her. Again.
Tori looked first at Mags, then at Chelsea.
“No,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “I just want to have his baby.”
“You know, Nonna, you really gotta stop with the shoplifting. I mean it this time.”
Nick used the sternest voice he could muster. Which, granted, wasn’t all that severe. Christ, the woman was eighty-six. She’d changed his diapers.
Nonna didn’t answer.
Instead, she tipped the spout of her old-fashioned watering can, releasing a gentle rain on her garden. Nick stood in the center of Nonna’s postage stamp–size back patio, eyeing this year’s crop of tomato seedlings. The shoots marched like sparse soldiers along the garden wall. But he knew, come August, they’d be a tangled jungle, laden with bushels of ripe fruit.
“Mr. Merino told me you’ve been complaining about his merchandise,” Nick said. “He’s afraid you’re gonna steal more expensive stuff somewhere else.”
Nonna snorted. “Ah, Nicky, no one cares if an old lady picks something up once in a while.”
“Mr. Merino doesn’t care because I pay him.”
Nonna set the watering can under the hose faucet. Nick cranked the tap, filling the can. Why Nonna couldn’t water her tomatoes directly from the hose was one of life’s little mysteries.
Another mystery was his grandmother’s penchant for petty theft. You’d think a woman who hadn’t missed Sunday Mass since the Kennedy administration would pay a little more attention to the Ten Commandments. But no, number seven—“Thou shalt not steal”—eluded her.
“Another shopkeeper won’t be as understanding as Mr. Merino.” Nick was starting to have a really bad feeling about this. “Just promise me you’ll stick to Arctic Avenue Gifts, okay?”
He hefted the can and watered the next plant.
Nonna watched him. “Remember when you were little? You watered for me every Saturday.”
“Yeah.” Nick smiled. “You used to give me a quarter. I’d think I was rich.”
“Those were the days. I miss them sometimes.” Nonna’s eyes grew misty, but only for a second. Then her shoulders lifted in an old-country shrug. “Ah, well, what can you do? Don’t forget that one in the corner.”
Nick gave the corner tomato a good shower.
“Stay for lunch, Nicolo.”
“I’d like to, Nonna, but I can’t. I’ve got a meeting.”
“Another meeting. There’s more to life than meetings, you know.”
“Maybe, but the meetings pay for the rest of my life. Not to mention Ma’s and Leigh’s.”
“I’m worried about you. You work too hard.”
“I’m fine, Nonna.”
“Ha. You ain’t been fine since that wife of yours left you.”
In the fifteen years since Cindy had left him and abandoned their daughter, Nick had never once heard Nonna refer to his ex by name. It was always “that wife of yours,” or, less frequently, “Leigh’s mother.”
“You shouldn’t be alone, Nicky.”
“I’m not alone,” he said. “I’ve got Ma and Leigh.”
“You know what I mean.”
He sighed. “I know you mean well, Nonna, but I like my life the way it is.”
“Who you kidding? The way you live, it’s only half a life. You’re the kind of man who needs a woman. Like your grandfather.” She made a gesture of annoyance. “He was another one who worked too hard.”
Nick grunted.
“Don’t take that attitude with me. You know I’m right. I’m tired of waiting for you to come to your senses.”
The watering done, she took the empty can from Nick and set it in the corner. Turning, she wiped her hands on her apron.
“You know what I’m gonna do, Nicky? I’m gonna light a two-dollar candle at St. Michael’s and pray you get married.”
Nick laughed outright at that.
“Nonna,” he said. “Please. Save your money.”
Tori wondered if Nick would try to kiss her again.
Not that she wanted him to. In fact, now that she’d decided to get pregnant on her own, her life would be much simpler if she could keep her contractor at a professional distance. She’d already chosen Nick’s polar opposite to be the father of her child. What would be the point in hooking up with a man whose donor profile she would’ve flat-out rejected?
Still, it would be nice if he’d at least try to kiss her. Just so she could turn him down.
But for the last week, Nick had been nothing but professional. He’d shown up every day at five thirty and kept his head down, working his way through the building inspector’s list. The fire separation was almost done, the handrail on the porch steps didn’t wobble, and she was the proud owner of a new emergency exit sign. But that wasn’t all. Nick kept slipping in extras.
The bathroom faucet no longer dripped, the toilet no longer gurgled, and the electrical outlet in the front room had stopped spitting sparks. Even the annoying roof leak in the back hall was gone.
It was amazing. His big, sexy hands could fix anything.
It made her feel safe. And that made her feel anxious. She couldn’t get used to him. He wasn’t staying.
On Friday he showed up with
a new CD player. He pitched the old one—duct-taped cord and all—into the Dumpster in the driveway. Tori barely managed to rescue her favorite New Age meditation CD. Only to have him crank up Bon Jovi, of all things.
Apparently, the two of them were worlds apart in music preference, too. No surprise there.
Tori sorted through a box of merchandise in the living room, but her gaze kept drifting to where Nick was working, just a few feet away. His shoulders flexed as he positioned the new fire door’s metal frame in the opening he’d cut for it. Try as she might, she couldn’t drag her eyes away. Nick was buff; that was all there was to it. There wasn’t one soft thing about his body. She’d found that out firsthand when he’d kissed her.
He turned to get some kind of tool. His toolbox was an enormous affair with about a zillion separate compartments. A place for everything and everything in its place. What, was he afraid his wrenches would do the dirty with his screwdrivers when he wasn’t looking? There were even little niches for screws, nuts, bolts, and washers. He had each and every fastener sorted by type and size.
The setup was so organized it was sick, that was what it was. That toolbox was clearly the product of a disturbed mind. She’d noticed that his truck was clean, too, inside and out. The man was pathologically neat.
She thought of her bedroom and winced.
The night was warm. Nick had been working an hour or so and his white shirt was already damp with sweat. His hair was rumpled, and he had streaks of dirt on his normally pristine khakis. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to touch him in the worst way.
Grimly, she plucked a paint scraper from his toolbox and headed toward the front door.
He shot her a look as she passed by. “Where’re you going with that?”
“I thought I’d scrape the peeling paint around the front door.”
“You don’t have to. It’s on my list.”
Ah, yes. The List.
She’d found out that anything on the List was as good as done. Which was an interesting concept. Just this morning, she’d found herself fantasizing about stealing the List and adding make love to Tori in between install door and sand spackle joints.