by Merry Jones
Wait a minute, I told myself. This is your home, not theirs. It’s not even Nick’s yet. They are all merely guests here. And they have no right to crowd you or make you a prisoner in your own home. Go on downstairs and, if they bug you, tell them to back off. Since when have you been shy?
On the other hand, since when had I had family? Never. As an only child, I had no idea how to coexist with siblings. What were the rules? These men were Nick’s brothers, and I wanted to become close to them. I wanted them to accept me, even love me, so I hadn’t complained once since they’d arrived. Not made one peep. Not about the way they were taking up every spare minute of Nick’s time. Not about how both Sam and Tony kept using my private home office repeatedly for hours at a time without even asking. Not about Tony spilling coffee on my purple velvet sofa, not about them repeatedly letting Oliver out of his crate so he kept peeing on the floor, not about the clutter Tony left in the living room or the raised toilet seats or the shaved-off whiskers lining the bathroom sinks—
Wait, whoa, I told myself. Stop. Do not go down the list-of-resentments path. I reminded myself that Sam and Tony were family, that they would be there only for another week and that no mess, no inconvenience, no invasion of privacy could compare to the joy their presence brought to Nick. Besides, Molly was getting to know and adore her uncles. I needed to stop being a sulky spoiled brat and go join them.
And so, smoothing my hair, taking a deep breath and putting on what I thought might pass for a sisterly smile, I got out of bed and winced as my bare foot land on something hard and rectangular. The remote control—good. I’d found it.
I knelt to pick it up, but it fell apart in my hands. The plastic was demolished, the case all mangled and rough-edged. Damn it. Oliver. He’d struck again, had chewed the thing to smithereens. Shoes, chair and table legs, books, wallets, wires, purses, underwear, socks, key chains, pillows and now a remote control. It was no big deal, I reminded myself. It was just another casualty of the puppy
Even so, tears flooded my eyes. I bit my lip, scolding myself. Stop it. You can get another remote. They’re cheap. They are only pieces of plastic, nothing worth crying about. Still, the tears welled up. What was wrong with me? I hadn’t cried at the sight of a carved-up woman, but I was bawling about a broken TV remote?
From downstairs, the brothers’ voices rose, overlapping, interrupting each other in heated, animated conversation. I listened, suddenly jealous. I needed Nick. I wanted to be with him, and I didn’t want to share him with Tony and Sam. I wanted Nick’s undivided attention.
I was being childish, and I knew it. Nick loves you, I reminded myself. He’s going to marry you; his brothers are no threat to you. You don’t have to isolate yourself. Nick wants you there with him; so do Tony and Sam. Join them. You’re not alone. You belong to a family now. Go be part of it.
And so, drying my eyes, I stood up and marched down the steps. I continued along the hall to the living room, and without hesitation, I walked in to join the group.
And as I did, Tony nudged Nick; Sam shifted his eyes and cleared his throat. Nick stopped talking mid-sentence. The conversation abruptly stopped; the faces became blank with feigned innocence, as if I’d caught them stealing cookies. All three turned my way, fumbling a welcome, smiling awkwardly, probably wondering how much I’d heard.
“Zoe.” Nick finally greeted me. “Finally. Come join us.” He patted an empty spot on the sofa beside him.
Obviously, they were excluding me. But, because I ached for Nick’s company, I did join them.
TEN
LATER, IN BED, I asked Nick what the three of them had been talking about.
“When?”
“When I came into the living room. You all stopped talking. It was like you didn’t want me to hear.”
He half-smiled and kissed my forehead. “Don’t be so sensitive. Probably, they were just telling me how hot you are.”
I wasn’t amused. “I’m serious, Nick. What was going on?”
He sighed. “Nothing. You surprised us; that’s all. Nobody heard you coming and, suddenly, you were just standing there.”
I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. I’d seen the alarm on their faces. “Why won’t you tell me?”
He released a long, tired sigh. “What’s this about? Do you think I’m lying to you? There’s nothing to tell.” He looked at me, all innocent and offended. His eyes were so blue and steady, so impossible to read. He rolled over and held me. “Look, Sam and Tony think you’re way too good for me. Maybe that’s what they were saying when you walked in.”
I didn’t believe him. But why would he hide the truth?
“Anyhow, it’s been a hell of a day. I’m wiped—you must be, too. You had a hell of a time. How about it, Zoe? Hang on to me and let’s go to sleep.”
His breath smelled of beer and toothpaste, and his voice was fading. Nick was already half-gone. I lay in his arms as he fell asleep, and I stayed there until the baby monitor broadcast Luke stirring. He was almost an hour early but probably hungry again. Gently, I lifted Nick’s arm, rolled away from him and went to feed the baby. When I came back to the bedroom, Nick was sound asleep. I climbed in beside him, tucking myself under his arm. Finally, even though he was unconscious and rattling the room with his snores, it was just the two of us, snuggled up together, peaceful. And, best of all, alone.
ELEVEN
SATURDAY MORNING WAS STILL unnaturally warm, still gray. I woke up sluggish and aching and, seeing that Molly was already up, plodded through the process of getting Luke fed and dressed, letting other people answer the endlessly ringing phone. When I came downstairs, Nick was pouring milk into Molly’s cereal, ending a call. “Yes, I’ll tell her…No, no…Thanks.”
Sam’s face was buried in the newspaper even as he was talking on his cell phone, assuring somebody that everything would be fine; things didn’t always go as planned, they’d work out; he’d take care of it himself.
Tony was pacing, complaining. “I just don’t see how they can do that without a person’s permission.”
“You were there. It’s news. That’s how.” Nick sounded tired. His phone rang; he reached for it.
“But what about my privacy? I’m a private citizen, not a celebrity. They have no right to plaster my face all over the papers—” He saw me in the doorway and stopped mid-sentence. “Zoe, you won’t believe this. Look—”
He grabbed the newspaper from Sam, who interrupted his conversation to slap at Tony’s hand. “Hey, I’m reading that—”
“Guess what, Mom?” Molly jumped out of her chair, arms out to embrace Luke. “You’re famous!”
“I am?” I looked at Nick, who, ending his phone call, glared at Tony.
“I’ll call you as soon as it’s done. I promise.” Sam ended his call and went after Tony. “Give that back; I was in the middle of a story.”
“Chill, Sam.” Tony shuffled the pages, searching for something.
Molly, meantime, began kissing Luke, tickling him and cooing. “Hello, Little Lukie; good morning, sweetie pie.” She was all over him, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Sit down, Molls. Finish your breakfast.”
“Give it back,” Sam growled. “I’m serious, punk.”
But Tony paid Sam no mind, too busy reassembling the paper.
“Can I hold him, Mom?” Molly reached out for Luke.
“Your mom said to finish your breakfast.” Nick motioned for Molly to sit down.
“So then, when I’m finished, then I can hold him.” Molly wasn’t giving up.
“We’ll see.” It was an absentminded answer; my mind was on the newspaper. The house phone rang again. Looking haggard, Nick picked it up, covering his ear so he could hear the caller. Sam stared, fuming, as Tony rustled the pages apart.
“You mean I can’t? Why can’t I?” Molly sat, but she was digging in. She wasn’t going to drop the subject until she got her way. “Emily holds her baby cousin all the time.”
“Emily has not
hing to do with it.”
“Please, Mom. Pleeeeeze.”
“Maybe. After you eat.”
Suddenly, moving faster than I’d have imagined a man of his bulk could, Sam stood and darted behind Tony. In a single swipe, Sam grabbed the newspaper—or most of it—out of Tony’s hands.
Instinctively, Tony whirled around and took a fighting stance. “What the hell, Sam.” The two faced each other, nostrils flaring like angry bulls. I glanced at Nick, but hanging up the phone, he seemed distracted, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Molly and I, though, watched the brothers, amazed. Silent and stunned, we waited for one of them to charge.
Thankfully, neither did. After a couple of seconds, Sam snorted and turned away, arms filled with rumpled pages.
“What the hell’s your problem?” Tony taunted him, trying to save face. “I was going to give you the whole thing back in a second.” Muttering obscenities, Tony plopped the remainder of Section A onto the counter and smoothed out the front page.
“Take a look at this, Zoe.”
Nick finally joined us. “Sit down, Zoe. Let me take Luke—” He reached for the baby.
I sat and looked at the paper. The headline screamed: “Ripper Slaying in Queen Village,” and beneath it, taking up the right central portion of the front page, sat a photo of my house. A police officer, Tony, Sam, Luke and I clustered on the front steps.
“See, Mom?” Molly hopped out of her seat again, pointing to my picture. “There you are. And Luke and Uncle Tony and Uncle Sam. I told you.”
I nodded, felt the blood drain from my head. “You’re right. Eat your cereal, Molls.”
Nick patted Luke’s back, scowling at Tony. “I said this should wait till after breakfast.”
“Well, I thought she should see it.”
I sat back in my seat, staring at the story. Behind me, Tony was complaining about our pictures being out there, in the public eye where anyone could see our faces, and Sam told him to stop being so damned vain.
“Trust me on this, little brother. Nobody, not one fricking soul, cares about seeing your pretty face in the damned paper.” He turned to me. “Can you believe this guy? He’s been going on about his photograph all morning.”
“Actually, I think you look pretty good, Tony.” He did. He looked like Nick. “You’re very photogenic.”
“Are you kidding? Look at his nose. It looks huge.”
“Huge? Like an elephant’s?” Molly giggled and squinted, studying Tony’s nose.
“Oh, by the way, Sam.” Tony pursed his lips. “The airline called. They want to bill you for both the seats your fat butt occupied during your flight.”
Ouch. Sam was sensitive about his size. Tension soared as we waited for his reaction. I held my breath. “You’re an asshole, Tony,” Sam growled. “Point is, you don’t hear me crying about my fat picture being in the paper. Because it doesn’t matter. Nobody cares. By tomorrow, nobody’s even gonna remember you or your ugly mug. They’re gonna run another picture, another headline, and you and your freakin’ nose will be forgotten fish wrap. Now can you quit your whining?”
Tony faced Sam and leaned over, chin-to-chin. “My ugly face is not the point, Sam. Neither is your fat butt. The point is privacy I don’t like having my picture taken, let alone having it published in a newspaper, let alone published without my permission.”
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Sam began to stand. Tony didn’t budge. Eyeball-to-eyeball, they stared at each other, breathing heavily. Sam’s hands tightened into fists. No question, this time, he was about to take a swing. Tony wouldn’t back away. Oh God.
“Settle down, kids.” Nick didn’t raise his voice. He sat on a stool, holding Luke, calmly playing with his toes. “Or I’ll kick both your asses.”
Nick was the oldest. He took his authority for granted, and so, apparently, did the others. Without another word, Sam warily sat and Tony backed off, slunk across the kitchen and out of the room. I resumed breathing but couldn’t get enough air.
I began to read the article, but suddenly Molly shrieked.
“Wait—” She dropped her spoon onto the table. “Uncle Sam— I have one! An elephant joke.”
“Shoot.”
“I made it up myself. Listen; here it is. Why does an elephant have a trunk?”
“I have no idea. Why?”
Molly started giggling before she gave her answer. “To hold everything it nose. Get it? Everything it knows?”
“You made that up? By yourself?” Nick was half-grinning.
“Yup.”
“It’s good.” Sam winked at her. “Here’s another one. What’s the difference between eating peanut butter and eating an elephant?”
“Ewww. That’s silly. Who would eat an elephant?”
“You give up?” Sam looked at Nick and me, waited for guesses, got none. “The difference is: An elephant doesn’t stick to the roof of your mouth.” Sam wheezed with laughter, tickled with himself.
“Good one, Uncle Sam.” Molly smiled, held up an empty cereal bowl. “I’m finished. Can I hold Luke now?”
Nick took her to the living room where she could sit in the wingback to hold Luke, and I skimmed the article about the killing, about the victim’s still-unknown identity, the police suspicion that drugs might be the motive. And then, while Sam slurped his coffee and commented about stocks, I studied the photograph, confused and oddly light-headed. How had a photographer gotten those shots? And when? Had a photographer gotten past the police barricade? I had no idea. And something else concerned me. Despite Sam’s vow that, tomorrow, nobody would remember us, I agreed with Tony. I wasn’t at all comfortable being seen by thousands, my home and my face spread across the front page.
TWELVE
IT WAS SATURDAY AFTERNOON, and Susan sat beside me out- side the dressing rooms at the bridal shop, where we were waiting for Molly to emerge after the final fitting of her flower girl dress. Molly, Susan’s daughter Emily, and Anna, our wedding planner, had been back there for over twenty minutes, long enough for me to tell Susan that I’d been over the top with anxiety and considering asking the doctor for medication. But the medication would show up in my breast milk, so taking it meant weaning Luke. And Susan was adamant that I needed to nurse Luke for a year, at least. And while I hadn’t planned to do it for that long, I agreed that eleven weeks was probably not enough.
“Look. In a week,” Susan went on, “your life will be sane again. No more triplets. No more pre-wedding jitters. Even the murder will be a fading—granted a nasty one, but a fading memory. But the point is: Luke. Luke will still need you. It’s a known fact that babies who are breast-fed do better all through their childhood. They’re healthier, more resistant to sickness. There’s no substitute for mother’s milk. How could you think of weaning him so young?”
How? Because I was a wreck, that was how. Susan made it sound so clear-cut, I felt like a criminal for even considering weaning Luke. I cleared my throat, kept my voice low. “But maybe I have postpartum depression.”
“What? You? No way. This is not postpartum. You’re always this way.”
I was? Did I always feel like I was about to have a heart attack?
Susan twisted to examine my face, then sat back again. Did she think depression showed like a pimple? “Okay. If I were you, here’s what I’d do. I’d wait a week before seeing the doctor, and I’d see how I felt after all the commotion dies down. I mean, what’s the harm in that? What could happen in a week?”
Was she joking? I considered how much could happen. One week ago, I had my life in order. I hadn’t met Sam or Tony. My babysitter hadn’t lost her car and taken off in a fit. I hadn’t found a woman with entrails strung across my patio, and Bryce Edmond hadn’t—
“Mom? Are you ready?” A voice from the fitting room. Molly was about to make an entrance.
“Ready.” I tried to refocus, to think about clothes, not calamities.
Anna came out first, dressed as usual in three-inch heels and a too-tight
iridescent aqua suit that contrasted too sharply with her red hair. Her hands clasped in front of her, bracelets jangling, she stood in front of the curtain like the glitzy emcee of a beauty pageant and gestured widely with one arm. “Drumroll, please.” She paused, laughing way too hard. “Sorry, our drummer must be out to lunch.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “Good God. Where did you find her?”
“Shh.” I couldn’t afford to offend the event organizer a week before the ceremony. Besides, Susan knew very well where I’d found Anna. Anna had done a wedding for Tim’s niece; Susan’s own husband had recommended her.
“Zoe Hayes, bride-to-be, it is my sincere pleasure to present: Your flower girl, Ms. Molly Hayes.” Susan’s elbow jabbed my ribs. I didn’t look at her, knew she was making gag-me faces. I didn’t blame her. In Anna’s hands, the planning process had somehow escaped me, gone out of control. Over her shoulder, Anna whispered, “Molly, you may come out now.”
For a moment, nothing happened. We sat, eyes riveted to the dressing room curtain, waiting, wondering what little tomboy Molly would look like in an ankle-length dress of ashes of roses silk and antique lace. Molly, who refused to wear skirts or dresses to school, who insisted on sweatpants or jeans so she wouldn’t look like a “girlie girl,” was as rough and tough as any of the boys her age, excelling in kick-boxing, gymnastics, swimming, soccer, football—any sport she’d tried. I hoped she wouldn’t complain too much about having to wear such a frilly dress. No matter. She’d have to put up with it, just for a day. I’d promise she’d never have to wear it again. I’d bribe her, if necessary. And no matter how awkward or uncomfortable she looked, I was going to rave about her grace and beauty.