57. Jillian
FIFTY-SEVEN
Jillian
I expected Elliott to call me today, but he didn’t. It’s hard not to feel like I got the after-sex brush-off. I know that’s not it. I don’t believe that’s what Elliott is doing. He’s not ignoring me after our first time together because he wants out. I think it has something to do with his father and what I heard this morning.
The more I think about it, the surer I become.
My previous text to him has gone unanswered. I check my phone again.
Jillian: Hi. Is everything okay? You looked upset this morning.
Jillian: Please call me when you have a chance.
I’ve contemplated texting him again. Or even calling. He read my texts. Two is my limit. I refuse to be a needy girlfriend sending multiple messages .
Girlfriend? Is that what I am? I thought so, but I’m feeling more and more like a hookup. I don’t want to call Sheila and talk about it either. Last thing I need is for her to go into attack mode and rip Elliott a new one for not getting back to me after we got together last night. I don’t want to regret what we did. I wanted to be with him. I feel like I can breathe again. This is the happiest I’ve been since the accident.
I should go to sleep. I doubt he’ll be calling me now. It’s getting late. I do my night routine of checking locks, turning lights off, and making sure everything is as it should be. Check on Daisy and go into Jamie’s room and turn off the night-light. I smile. My boy is healing. We both are. And I know part of it is because of Elliott. Because I changed. And even if Jamie is too young to understand exactly what’s happening, he can see and feel the changes.
I settle into bed and grab my Kindle. I’ll try to read for a bit. Get my mind off Elliott and his lack of response.
My phone buzzes. I reach for it, my heart drumming.
Not Elliott. Leonora.
I forgot I texted her earlier. After talking to Sheila and that ominous conversation I heard, I decided to send Leonora a message to check on her.
Leonora: Hi dear. Is it too late for me to call you?
Jillian: Not at all. You can call me.
My phone buzzes again, and I answer. “Hi, Leonora. How are you? ”
“Oh, I’m fine. You know, as good as it gets at my age.” Her voice is clear, but it has a tinge of frailty to it.
I smile. “I hope I’ll be as cool and put together as you are at your age.”
“You’ll be miles above me. You’re made of tough stuff. But I know you didn’t message me for idle chat. What can I do for you, dear?”
I nibble on my thumb. Hesitate for a moment. “It’s about the building.”
“I guessed as much. Are those bastards still trying to bribe you?”
“Yes and no. I haven’t gotten any offers in the last couple of months. But I think they’re up to something.”
“Hmm. They can’t force you out. And I’m not selling it. I have the property in a revocable trust. I told my sons if they pressured me to sell again, I’d write them all out of my will.” She laughs and I believe she would too. Out of spite.
I switch my phone to the other ear. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
“No, you don’t. You’re fine just the way you are. What was I saying again? Ah, the trust. The trust has conditions upon my death. My sons cannot evict you or sell the building for a minimum of five years. At the end of five years after the anniversary of my death, and not a second before, they need to give you one year to move out. And you have first right of refusal. You can buy the building or leave after the year is up. And the same deal we have now applies as far as the store and the apartment goes.”
This surprises me. I knew her sons had pressured her to sell but not that she went through all of this to protect me. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. This means so much to me.”
“Nah, you don’t have to say anything. You and CJ were there for me when my family wasn’t. And I love that boy of yours like he’s my own grandson. I wish I could give you more time. But my attorney advised me this was the best way to go about it.”
“I can’t imagine your family was happy with your decision.”
She cackles. “They don’t know the extent of it. And I got multiple letters certifying that I’m sound of mind. But I expect they’ll have a long wait. My mother lived to be a hundred and two. And her mother was a day over a hundred when she died. The way I see it, I have at least twelve years more. Jamie should be in college by then.”
“Gosh, I can’t even imagine that. He’s starting first grade in a few weeks and I’m so not ready for it.”
“You will be. I went babbling away, and you didn’t say why you think they’re up to something.”
I take a deep breath. I didn’t want to go into all the details of how I met Elliott and who he was. “I was somewhere this morning and overheard someone, and I think they were talking about me. And your building.”
“Don’t friari u pani caura.”
“What?”
“That’s what my mother used to say to me when I didn’t give her a straight answer. Stop beating around the bush.” Her Sicilian accent becomes thicker with each word.
Gosh, I love this old woman. “The man I overheard talking was Jonathan Foster, and he said ‘You have one week. You won’t like what will happen if you don’t get me the effing building.’” I censure myself.
“Who was he talking to?”
I should have expected this question. I don’t want to lie. “His son.” There. No lies.
She humphs. “I met that boy once.”
What? How? When? Where? I don’t ask any of the questions burning on my tongue. “You did.”
“His strunzu of a father had my sons bring me to his office a year or so ago.”
“Strunzoo?” I try to sound out the unfamiliar word.
“Asshole.”
I burst out laughing. To hear her cursing takes me by surprise.
She goes on, unfazed by my reaction. “They brought me to his fancy office. Had cake and champagne on the table, all ready to celebrate. He and my sons tried to sweet-talk me. Told me you were taking advantage of poor little old lady me.”
I can see why anyone who doesn’t know her well would think they could get the best of her. She looks exactly like the Granny from the Tweety Bird cartoons. But her sons should have known better. “What happened?”
“I told that vile man exactly what to do with his contract. And I told my son he could be the one shoving it up his cùlu.”
That I understood. Ass. It’s the same in Italian. I cover my mouth. My body shakes with repressed laughter. “I would have paid to watch that. But how does Jonathan Foster’s son fit into that?”
“That boy was standing behind his father. The nasty man ordered him around to bring these papers and that. And when I told his father to shove it, he grinned like it was Christmas morning and gave me a thumbs-up behind his father’s back.” She cackles again.
“And this was a year ago, you said?”
“Give or take a week or two. It was August for sure.”
Elliott protected me even before he knew I existed.
“And then I stood up, with the idiots gawking at me. Looked at that young man and said ‘boy, come and help me.’ And he did. He came around that big table and gave me his arm. Then he whispered in my ear and asked if I wanted to take the cake with me. I thought that was a splendid idea. We took the cake and the champagne.”
“Oh my God.”
“He walked me to the elevator and offered to give me a ride back home. I thanked him and said no. I had my own driver waiting for me. So he walked me to my car, carried the cake and champagne for me. He was laughing so hard, there were tears on his face. He’s a good boy. I have a nose for these things. People you can trust and people you can’t.”
I’m wiping tears from my own face now. I need to ask Elliott about it. And come clean to Leonora. “I have a confession.” I nibble on my lower lip. “I’ve met the son, Elliott. And I agree. He’s a good man. He’s trying to help me against his father.”
“Ah, child. You think I don’t know what goes on in my building? It may be your flower shop now, but it was mine for over fifty years. I’ve got ears and eyes all over that neighborhood.”
I laugh. I have to. “If I ever have a daughter, I hope she’ll be just like you.”