by P. Dangelico
“Brotha, it’s been years. Either do something or move on. Because frankly, I’m sick of hearin’ about it.”
I grab a ratcheting box wrench and go back to work. “Doesn’t your wife have any errands for you? Buying tampons or some shit?”
“Nah, man, had to get out of the house. Something’s going down with the sisters and I didn’t want to get caught in the crosshairs.”
“What about?”
“You know my nephew Terrell?”
I look up from the bolt I just loosened. “The one that plays QB?”
“That the one. My sister-in-law caught him with a girl in his room.”
“No shit.” My mouth curves into an unexpected smile as my mind replays all the times I snuck Maren into mine.
“Kids were only making out but the girl’s sixteen.”
“So?”
“Terrell is fourteen. Boy a straight up playa. Nyla and her sister are going crazy, calling the girl’s mother…” He shakes his head. “J junior got an earful.” He takes a long drink of his water. “Had to get out of the house before she found a way to blame me for it.”
J and Nyla have been together since we were all in high school and only grew tighter over the years. Theirs is the kind of relationship everyone envies. One to always know his mind, Jermaine put a ring on it the minute he signed with OU on a full ride scholarship and took Nyla with him. He didn’t fuck up like I did. He doesn’t have a monkey called regret riding his back.
He pauses and I know more pearls of wisdom are coming my way because for some reason every married guy thinks he’s an expert on women when in fact he’s only an expert on one woman, his own.
“You feel me?”
“No,” I answer, playing dumb.
“My fourteen-year-old nephew’s got more game than you. I say this with love––quit being chicken shit.”
I wipe my hands on a rag and slap it down. “What do you expect me to do? She hates me. Still pissed. For all I know she’s still datin’ that British dude.”
I knew seeing her would be hard. Damn near broke me last time she was in town visiting––when Rowdy’s health took a turn for the worse. She doesn’t know it but I saw her outside the hospital. Watching that dude she’s dating holding and kissing her as she cried in his arms was one of the hardest things I ever had to bear. I drove straight home and got wasted. The first time I’ve done that since she left.
“I expect you to move the fuck on. But since you and I both know you ain’t gonna do that then I expect you to beg for mercy, eat a whole mess’a shit––which she’s right to expect after what you did to her––and find out once and for all if this is done for good.”
J’s phone rings. He fishes it out of the pocket of his shorts and answers.
“Whatup…” His dark eyes scan me from head to toe. “Hmm, yeah, he alive…”
I shake my head, knowing who it is.
He pulls the phone away from his face. “Dane says answer my calls, boo…and he says you better tell her before it’s too late.”
* * *
Maren
The car pulls up to my parents’ house, a modest two-story gray farmhouse with white trim. There’s only so much frustration and humiliation I can handle in a day, and having reached my quota, I hightailed it out of Walters’ office as soon as he handed me the dead rodent, err, letter without a single glance at Noah.
Considering our history, I think I rocked it…somewhat. Kind of.
The driver deposits my bag on the front porch and leaves. I walk through the unlocked front door and head to the kitchen.
“Be, is that you? Did you remember to pick up the eggs?” my mother calls out.
Hunched over the kitchen sink with her back to me, her attention is on whatever she’s doing.
“Not Bebe.”
At the sound of my voice, my mother whips around, a smile already spreading across her face. “Maren!”
She dries her hands on a paper towel, and arms outstretched, charges me. My mother is not a small woman. At five ten and one hundred and forty-seven pounds neither am I but she beats me by a whole bunch.
In seconds I’m assaulted. My mother is a major hugger and I let her go through her full routine because it’s easier just to let her.
“It’s so good to have you home, honey.”
She rocks us side to side, squeezes me tightly before pulling away. Then holding me by the shoulders, she conducts a thorough examination of my person. I watch her sage-green eyes take a detailed inventory of everything she finds wrong.
“Are you wearing sunscreen?” Her full lips thin in disapproval. “You don’t look like you’ve been wearin’ sunscreen, Maren.”
“I’m in this house two minutes and I’m thirty going on thirteen.”
“Don’t sass me, young lady. You know cancer runs in this family.”
“Yes, I’m wearing sunscreen, but I just played a tournament in the middle of summer.”
At the mention of the tournament she frowns. “How’s the wrist?”
“Broken. Didn’t Be tell you?”
The question hangs between us nine months pregnant with all the old hurt feelings we never discuss. My old hurt feelings, that is; she doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. A spot in the middle of my chest starts to itch and I unconsciously scratch it, then wince when a current of pain zips up my injured wrist.
“Not the details.”
Last thing I want to do right now is rehash that loss. Automatically, I pull out of her hold and make my way to the stairs that lead to my old room.
“Where are you going, honey?”
Halfway up the stairs, I stop and turn to face her. “To take a shower.”
My mother’s face twists in discomfort. “Oh…”
“What?” Dread trickles into my gut.
“He forgot to tell you.” My mother makes another face. This one says she’s mad at my father. Practically on cue, the man soon to be in the doghouse walks through the front door and grins widely when he spots me.
“Cupcake!” my father shouts with cheerful exuberance.
When I was eleven, I overheard the father of the girl I was playing in a summer tournament tell his daughter that she was going to beat me soundly. His exact words were, “You’ve got this one, sweetheart. That girl’s nothin’ but a cupcake.”
I won without breaking a sweat. And as I was walking off the court, I shouted, “I ain’t no cupcake.”
Needless to say, my father will never let me live it down.
“When did you get in?” He smiles broadly. Save for the silver threaded through his wavy, strawberry-blond hair, he looks exactly the same. Same blue button-down. Same khakis. Same sturdy brown shoes.
“A couple of hours ago. What didn’t you tell me?”
Judging by their matching blank stares, it’s a good bet I won’t like it. Two minutes later I’m standing in the doorway of what used to be my old bedroom, the bedroom that now resembles somebody else’s Ritz Carlton presidential suite.
“We figured…” My mother hems and haws. “Well, since you hardly ever come home and when you do, you always come with Owen––”
“Oliver,” I correct, more than a little peeved. Really? It’s been six years. Would it kill her to make an effort to remember the man’s name?
“Yes, him––you two stay at the hotel so we thought…”
“Bebe really needed more room,” my father butts in. And there it is, the guilty look they’ve been sharing since my sister got sick.
“Guess I’m staying at Grandpa’s.”
Chapter Four
Maren
My father parks the car in my grandfather’s driveway and we both sit quietly, staring up at the white clapboard farmhouse. So many memories tied to this place. Good and bad.
“You need me to come inside with you?”
“No,” I answer quietly, lost in thought. “I can’t believe he’s gone. And I can feel it, you know––the way his personality would fill this place, like it ha
d mass. It feels eerily empty now.”
My father nods. “This is your place now.” He dangles a set of keys.
The wind knocked out of me, it takes me a minute to respond. “Mine? What do you mean mine?”
“Your grandfather left it to you.”
I guess I should’ve stuck around the lawyer’s office a minute longer.
My father smiles, but it’s one I can’t decipher. A knowing smile? A sympathetic one? Something about it makes me immediately wary. He pries open my hand and places the set of keys in my palm.
“Why would he leave it to me? I’m hardly here. He should’ve left it to you, or Annabelle.”
“I don’t know for certain––you know Grandpa, he never felt the need to justify his actions.” His smile lingers. “I have a pretty good idea though.”
“What, Daddy? Spit it out.”
“I think he wanted you to have a place to call home. Somewhere to come back to when you’re done with your career.”
“I went to see his lawyer before I came by the house.” That statement does not produce even the slightest ripple on my father’s calm expression. “I take it you knew? About this absurd stipulation to his will?”
“Like I said, sweetheart, your grandfather never explained himself.” He faces me then. “Least of all, to me.”
It was no secret that my grandfather and father were never close. My grandma used to say, “Two sides of the same coin: always at odds, never at even.”
“Well, it’s ridiculous and I’m not coming back. Annabelle can have the house.”
Something in his pale blue eyes dims. “It’s good to have you home, Cupcake.”
Leaning in, I smack my dad’s smooth cheek with a kiss. “Don’t get out.”
“Need help with the bag?”
“No, I’m good.”
I get out of the car and grab my bag from the back seat. Standing on the porch, I watch his Cadillac sedan pull out of the driveway and disappear down the street.
The set of keys feels heavy in my hand. Before I get a chance to unlock the front door, the sound of a supercharged motor causes me to glance around.
A silver Ford F-150 pickup truck with black rims and tinted windows tears down the same street and pulls into my grandfather’s driveway, screeching to a hard stop. The reflection on the windshield blots out the driver’s face. I have no clue who it could be. Until I catch sight of a long pale blonde ponytail.
Sweet Jesus.
My sister hops out of the cab wearing a big grin, a pink tank top, and cut-off jean shorts, her prosthetic leg gleaming in the sunlight.
When she was fourteen, Annabelle fainted in the middle of a tennis match and was rushed to the hospital. In a rare stroke of luck––if you can call it that––she was seen by a doctor who had recently come into contact with a similar case. Otherwise they might not have diagnosed it in time.
Toxic shock, he told us. Her body was ravaged with the staph infection. After twenty-four hours they said there was only a thirty percent chance she would survive, but in true Bebe style, she clung to life by her fingernails for three days and battled back from the brink of death. They told us she would probably lose both her legs, and yet they managed to save one.
When they finally sent her home, my parents were no longer my parents. They were Annabelle’s parents, Annabelle’s nursemaids, Annabelle’s cheerleaders. No one in my house ever spoke the word tennis again.
My parents never came to watch me play after that. They didn’t want to hurt Bebe’s feelings. So it was my grandfather who stepped up, who wouldn’t let me quit, who became my champion, my cheerleader. It was Rowdy who traveled with me to tournaments, who was there for me. Everything I accomplished was in large part because of him.
“Hey.”
Smiling, I raise a hand and wave. She makes her way up the walkway. Working hard to keep her gait even, she ascends the steps of the front porch only to stop and pick out the pebble stuck under her hot pink flip flop.
“New prosthesis?”
“Hot off the runway. All the celebrities are wearing it.”
She looks around awkwardly for a minute, the carefree act slipping enough for me to notice her discomfort. Then she throws her arms around my neck and pulls me close.
A surfeit of emotion stuffs my throat and sinuses. “Hey, you okay?” I ask, hugging her back.
“Welcome home, jerk.”
“Speaking of home.” I pull back to glower. “Thanks for stealing my bedroom, bitch.”
She grins broadly. “Like what I did with the place?”
I laugh, and we’re back to being the same people that used to fight over who got to shower first. Then I remember, my eyes narrowing in accusation. “I’m the executor, you said. I needed to come immediately, you demanded.”
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“You freaking liar.”
“Thank you,” she glibly retorts.
My eyes drift to the red brick Georgian across the street.
“He still lives there.”
“Do I look like I care?”
“Yeah, you kind’a do.”
I bat her comment away with a wave of a hand, and brush past her, into the house. As soon as I enter the kitchen, my feet skid to a stop.
“Wow.” My eyes bug out. My grandfather’s house has been completely remodeled. “When did Grandps––”
“He didn’t,” Bebe answers before I can finish.
“Daddy?”
“Nope.”
A creepy crawly sensation skitters across the back of my neck. “Who,” I finally ask, even though I have a pretty good idea, my face puckering in distaste.
“Noah spent most of the year taking care of Grandpa. Last year he remodeled the entire first floor so Grandpa could get around better in the wheelchair.”
I look around again and notice the changes, widened doorways, rooms clear of unnecessary furniture, the handicap railing. What used to be shabby and dark is now gleaming with new ivory paint and clean, simple details.
“Why didn’t Daddy do it?”
“He did…some. But Rowdy wanted Noah.”
The knowledge that I owe him, we owe him for taking care of my grandfather sits like a boot heel over my throat. On the inside I’m gagging.
“When I leave, you can move in here,” I tell her, looking around in wonder at the finely crafted detail.
“Why would I want to move in here? It’s your house.”
“Daddy told you?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want it.” I level my sister with all the irritation that usually accompanies me on these awesome trips home. Heavy sarcasm. “And why are you still living with Mom and Dad?”
Sliding onto the barstool at the kitchen counter, she shrugs and looks away. “I don’t have to do laundry…and it makes them feel better.”
“Them?” This earns her a raised eyebrow.
“You haven’t been here. They act like it happened yesterday. I’m the only teacher who gets making sure you’re still alive texts from her mommy.”
I snort. Because I know exactly how suffocating my mother can be. I ignore her jab about me not being here. She knows I have my reasons.
“You still datin’ Owen?” she says with a wry smile.
“Oliver. His name is Oliver, for shit’s sake. And I’ve been dating him for the last six years. It would be real nice if everyone could remember his name.”
“How come he isn’t here with you?”
“Because I’m going back to London as soon as I’m done with this estate business and I didn’t want him waiting around for me to finish.”
Sounds legit…enough. Whatever. It irks me that I’m constantly defending my boyfriend to my family when I really don’t think there should be a need for me to defend him.
“What about you? Are you dating anyone?”
Annabelle rolls her eyes. “So, how’d you lose the leg? Well, Bob, or Bill, or whatever the hell your name is, a tampo
n almost killed me.”
“Everybody around here knows what happened.”
I get a sideways glare. “As if I’d date anyone around here.”
“No cute––”
“No,” she barks.
Sliding off the barstool, she adjusts her shorts. “I gotta go. I’m teaching a private lesson at five and I have to be at the courts by four thirty.”
“I think it’s great that you’re coaching.”
“You know what they say––those that can’t play,” she voices tonelessly. The disappointment hiding beneath it can be heard from a mile away.
I can’t fault her. It’s so unfair. Bebe was the better player, the more naturally gifted one. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t ask myself why her and not me.
Stepping onto the porch, she turns abruptly.
“I’m sorry about the Open.” I shrug away her comment. “There’s always next year, right?” The glint in her eyes reminds me of the look she used to get when she was playing.
My gaze shifting briefly to the house across the street, ashamed that she’ll read my mind and see the truth. “Right.” My voice is flat. I can’t even muster up more than a half-hearted reply.
* * *
As soon as Bebe leaves, I check out the rest of the improvements Noah made to the house. The bedrooms upstairs have been left untouched for the most part. One of them was redecorated with wide plank flooring, cool ivory walls, and a king-size sleigh bed. I waste no time claiming that room.
My iPhone rings as I’m opening the luggage. Oliver’s name flashes onscreen.
“How was your meeting with the solicitor?” he asks as soon as I answer.
“Not great. I’m just…it’s hard to accept he’s gone. I’m staying in his house because…forget it, it’s a long story.”
Pushing aside the curtain, I glance out the window that overlooks Noah’s house. Maybe not the wisest choice but the rest of the bedrooms are dark and musty. Left as they were, they haven’t seen a new coat of paint since my grandmother died.
“He was sick for a long time.”
“I know but––”