Chapter 4
Chapter Four
DANNY
U h oh. Incoming. And thanks, Nate, for only letting me know five minutes ago that Shelby’s little sister, Frankie, would be part of the home help team, too. She and I met at Shelby and Nate’s wedding last year, and I’m still not sure what I did to piss her off. Judging by her expression, she’s still pissed about whatever it was. Fun times ahead, it seems.
Thing is, despite the fact she’s trying to turn me into a toad with her angry eyes, I’m blown away by how gorgeous she is. I was struck by her at the wedding, and I’m doubly struck now. That heart-shaped face, with ridiculously perfect luminous skin. Those huge blue eyes, and the mouth, wide and generous, with like a cupid’s bow in the middle. I’m no poet, so I’ve probably made her sound like some weird identikit picture. Frankie Armstrong is gorgeous, let’s leave it at that.
And she hates me. For some misdeed I guarantee she believes I ought to apologize for. If I knew what it was, I might.
“Danny,” she says. The minimum viable acknowledgment.
“Frankie.” Two can play at that game.
Nate, ever alert, spots the ice crystals in the air between us. Glares at me , as if it’s my fault. I resist giving him the middle finger.
“Is there something Shelby and I should know?” he demands.
Shelby, who’s getting beer out of the fridge, stares at us, wide-eyed. “What? What do we need to know? Is it bad? Please don’t let it be bad. These days, I burst into tears when I can’t solve Wordle.”
Now, it’s Frankie giving me a look, an accusatory arch of her perfect eyebrow. Right, okay then – everyone blame Danny. Durant family dropout. Least serious. Least reliable. I should be used to it by now, but it still rankles.
“I don’t know.” I don’t bother to disguise my irritation, not even to spare Shelby. “Frankie here has taken against me for some reason.”
“For some reason?” says Frankie. “You mean, there could be so many reasons, you’re finding it hard to choose?”
“Here we go,” I hear Nate mutter under his breath.
“I seriously have no idea! All I was doing was shooting the shit with the other wedding guests at our table,” I say. “We were all slightly drunk and telling funny stories. You got huffy and stormed off.”
“Wow,” said Frankie. “Just – wow.” She looks at Nate. “Has he always had his head stuck this far up his own asshole?”
Nate holds up his hands in the “leave me out of this” gesture.
“Frankie!” Shelby steps in. “You never told me you got angry with Danny at the wedding. Why didn’t you say something?”
If you weren’t concentrating, you’d have missed the flicker of discomfort cross Frankie’s face. I see it, and I store it up as interesting intel.
“I was hardly going to bitch and moan on your wedding day,” she says. “And besides, I’d forgotten about it until I saw him again.”
“Sure,” I say. “Obvious. Absolutely no grudge held all this time.”
“Well, can we please resolve it now, so I don’t have a complete meltdown?” Shelby says.
“I second that,” Nate says. “Let’s get this sorted. And quickly, before the quesadillas congeal into one solid mass and I drink more beer than is good for me. Frankie, you seem to have the better memory.” Another barb in my direction. “You give us your version of events.”
Frankie raises her gaze to the ceiling as if petitioning the divine for patience.
“He was telling everyone at the table about an older woman who’d tried to pick him up at a bar, and he described her as a ‘cougar’,” she says. “I objected to the term as sexist. Said it was a hypocritical double standard that society approved of older men dating younger women but saw the opposite as predatory and pathetic. He laughed and replied that he had no problem with dating older women – as long as they weren’t an 1860.”
“An 1860?” Nate asks.
He’s trying to catch my eye but it’s me who’s now staring at the ceiling. It’s all coming back to me. Slightly drunk might have been understating it.
“Oh, you’ve not heard that term, either?” says Frankie, with pointed glee. “Your brother was happy to translate for everyone present. It’s when a woman’s so fit she looks eighteen from the back, but when she turns round, you get a nasty surprise, because she’s actually?—”
“Got it,” says Nate, grimly.
“That’s so sexist!” says Shelby. “And ageist! Danny, how could you?”
“It was a joke!” Let’s face it, I have no other defense. “Not a great one, I admit, but?—”
“And I did not storm off in a huff,” says Frankie, who will clearly need to have the last word in every argument. “I left before I committed an act of violence that would make me lose my job.”
“Did it involve an ornamental pumpkin?’ Nate asks. Their wedding had a Fall theme.
“Cocktail skewer,” Frankie replies.
“Those wedding cocktails were outrageous,” says Shelby. “I got squiffy just from the smell.”
I consider pleading overindulgence in cocktails as an excuse, but Nate gets in first. He’s got his judge-y face on again.
“Okay, so now we’ve aired that unfortunate incident,” he says, “let’s wrap it up. Danny, Frankie’s a hundred percent correct – that was a gross and sexist comment.”
“Jesus. All right, I apologize. Mea culpa for being an insensitive pig.”
“Ungracious but acceptable,” says Nate. “Frankie, it’s been months. Can you let it go and move on?”
“I guess,” says Frankie, grudgingly.
“And can you promise me that you’ll do your very best to get along?” says Shelby. “My blood pressure won’t cope if you’re constantly sniping at each other like you’re in some 1940s screwcap comedy.”
There’s a pause. Frankie gives me a cool stare with, if I’m not mistaken, a hint of humor.
“Screwcap comedy, huh?” she says.
“The cork comedies are staging a protest,” I reply. “Claim they were there first.”
“Are you making wine bottle jokes?” says Nate. “Because if so, I may have to slap you both.”
Shelby’s grabbed the platter of quesadillas and now she plonks it down on the kitchen table.
“Eat!” she orders. “Stuff your faces so I don’t have to hear another stressful word!”
Nate hands Frankie a glass and a bottle of beer. She assesses the label in a manner that’s familiar to me. I look at classic cars that way. Wanting to love each one but knowing that only a few will live up to expectations.
“It’s a new local craft place,” says Nate. “Hope it’s not undrinkable.”
Frankie pops the cap like a pro. Pours it into the glass slowly and holds it up to the light. Smells it as if it was a fine wine. Takes a mouthful.
“Decent,” is her verdict. “Pine and citrus on the nose. Pineapple, mangoes, and melon in the taste. Some hoppiness. I generally prefer more bitter than sweet, but this is pretty good.”
Nate grins at Shelby. “Runs in the family, I see.”
“Frankie makes her own beer,” Shelby says to me, then turns to her sister. “I’ve cleared a space in one of the sheds. Did you bring your laboratory?”
“For creating Frankenbeer?” I suggest. “Drunk, of course, out of Franken steins.”
I haven’t had the best run with jokes, but that one, at least, was inoffensive. I hope.
Amazing. Her mouth lifts into half a smile. “Could be my label if I decide to go commercial.”
Nate hands Shelby a glass of water, which she accepts glumly. He cracks two more beers, and hands me one. Raises his to me and Frankie in a toast.
“To you two. You answered the call and earned our undying thanks.”
“Yes, thank you.” Shelby is sniffling into her quesadilla. “Being sick and pregnant sucks. It’s so good to have family around me. I love you.”
My chest suddenly constricts, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because the Durants aren’t big on saying “I love you”. We prefer to express our fondness for each other through banter and insults. Our childhoods were packed full of competitive sport and academic pressure, so we never had time to just hang out. And soon as we became adults, we all moved away. We do our best to come home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas, but that’s only a few days each year. Hard to feel like you even have a family when you spend more time apart than together.
Nate and Shelby are locked in a soft, murmured conversation. Despite being complete opposites, the love and respect they have for each other shine like a light. This house is their home, and I doubt they’ll ever leave it. They’re about to have a child. First of several, I imagine.
I make the mistake of glancing from them towards Frankie. I expect her to turn away, but she regards me with an expression that’s more curious than aloof. As if she’s wondering what I’m thinking. Fortunately, for me, all the Durant siblings have a masterful poker face. A necessary skill when you grow up highly competitive and can’t afford to show weakness.
Frankie lifts up the platter and offers it to me. A truce? Maybe. Guess I’ll take it. Along with another quesadilla.
“Thanks,” I say.
She nods once, curtly, and replaces the platter. Picks up a quesadilla for herself, off which dangles strings of melted cheese. I watch, mildly hypnotized, as she catches the strings with one finger, then directs said finger into her mouth, and slowly removes all the cheese with her full, glossy, peach-colored lips.
Fuck. I have a semi. From watching someone eat cheese. From watching Frankie Armstrong eat cheese. The woman who, given that she can hold a grudge for months, probably still hates my guts.
At least when I’m out in the cabin in the dark woods, no one will interrupt me doing the five-knuckle shuffle. And yes, that’s another shocker, but this time, I’m not saying it out loud.