Chapter 18
Clay
“ S o, you and Allegra Martinelli,” Miles says—causing me to nearly stumble over my own feet.
I eye him narrowly. “What do you know about that?”
After last night’s disastrous encounter, I texted Miles, asking if he’d be willing to meet with me (unofficially) to discuss some problems I’d encountered. He seemed like a logical person to confide in, seeing as he has a foot in both worlds. He knows what I’m up against at work, the risks I’ve been running. And he knows the family. He texted back, suggesting I join him for his usual early morning run—a five-mile circuit around Oak Creek Park before the sun’s fully up. And here we are. I like to think of myself as being in reasonable shape, but if I survive this run, I’ll be amazed.
Miles shrugs. “To be honest? Not that much. But Allegra lives with her sister, and Bianca is one of Millie’s best friends. So, you do the math.”
I add another point to my mental tally—the one where I keep track of how often Millie’s name gets dropped into conversations. Usually, it’s an amusing diversion. But this morning, it’s hard to find the humor in anything. “I think I fucked up.”
“How so?” Miles asks, and then, when I don’t respond right away, he slants me a glance, then nods. “Oh. It’s like that, huh? Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Thanks for nothing , I think to myself. But then, over the next mile or so, the whole sorry story comes pouring out. “I thought I had things under control,” I tell him. “But then her husband showed up and everything went to shit.”
“Yeah. Him I heard about.”
“She lied to me, Miles.”
“So? Sounds to me like you lied too.” Miles waves off my protests. “Nope. Sorry. Doesn’t work that way, pal. If you’re gonna equate keeping secrets with telling lies—which, I’m not saying you’re wrong about that—but then you’re both equally to blame. You lied at work; she lied to her family. Same, same—as my wife likes to say.”
I tack on another point.
But it’s not the same. Yes, I lied at work and to her family, but she lied to me . “ And she’s married.” Surely Miles—this year’s Mr. Marriage—will understand the gravity of that!
Instead, he shrugs it off. “Are you sure? ’Cause I heard there’s some kind of question about that. Apparently, she claims it was never valid?”
“Who cares what she claims? She knew what she was doing. No one forced her into it. It’s not like marriage was a hole she fell into by accident.” But even as I say it, I see the trap I’ve sprung on myself. She’d never claimed it was an accident, did she? And the six months she wasted trying to extricate herself from it was proof that she had, in fact, taken it seriously.
She acknowledged her mistake. She worked diligently to fix it. And I still gave her grief.
“So, what’s the part that’s got you butthurt? And please tell me it’s not because some asshole was there before you; because that’s some seriously toxic shit. You might need years of therapy, if that’s the case.”
“No, of course that’s not it.” I eye the distance between here and the edge of the creek bed and consider accidentally-on-purpose bumping him off the trail. We’re running alongside Oak Creek, at the moment. It’s still swollen from last week’s rain and probably cold as hell. It won’t hurt him—much—to go for a swim. But it’ll make the rest of his run fucking miserable, which (I’m not gonna lie) makes me smile a little bit brighter. But “I’m not that big an asshole,” I tell him. And I think, as far as commentaries goes, that one covers both scenarios nicely.
“Besides,” I can’t help pointing out. “If we’re talking about her husband, it’s not even true.”
“What?” This time, it’s Miles who breaks stride and falters. I take the opportunity to pull ahead, grinning to myself as I do.
“Fuck yeah, bruh,” I call, turning to run backwards for a few paces. “Didn’t you know? It was the other way around.”
“Do I even want to know what you meant by that?” Miles asks when he catches up. And fuck me, the old guy isn’t even breathing hard.
And maybe it’s because that night has always been one of my happiest memories, something to pull out and look at whenever life gets grim. Or maybe it’s because the sound of the water is bringing it all back, and I think I’d trade my soul for the chance to turn back time for a couple of hours. But I do end up telling him something about the night we met—the abbreviated, G-rated version, obviously.
“You shoulda seen her,” I sigh happily, caught up in the memory. “She was ah- mazing .”
“I can imagine,” Miles replies. Adding, when I turn to glare daggers at him, “What? Don’t look at me like that. She’s too young for me, even if I were still in the market. But I can see the appeal for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Younger, I mean. You guys are about the same age, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re a little hung up on the financial aspect.”
And, much as I’d like to disagree, I really can’t. “Fair.”
“Based on how you just described her, she probably struck you as the perfect manic pixie dream heiress. How could you resist?”
“Okay, what? That’s not a thing.”
“Are you sure? Think about it.”
And so, I do. Beautiful and quirky, a little on the wild side. Obviously wealthy. “You might be onto something,” I finally concede. “I mean, I didn’t even know her name or anything about her family. But yeah, I could tell there’d never been a day in her life where she’d had to worry about money—or a lot of other things. I was the one clocking all the exits, making plans for which way I’d run if shit hit the fan.” When shit hit the fan. Because that was another difference. For her it was maybe a possibility. For me? Dead certainty.
“So, is that the problem? You were attracted to her money, and now that there’s a possibility that she might lose some of it?—”
“Half of it,” I remind him. And myself. “And it’s not just the money, it’s the winery.”
“Right. So, is that it?”
I want to deny it on the spot, but the question deserves consideration. So, I think about it, while cool mist swirls around us and the trail we’re on curves deeper into the woods, diverging from the creek for a little while. Because yes, it burns. The idea that someone is willing to hurt her, for no reason other than that he can, to take something that means so much to her—memories, safety, home. That doesn’t sit well with me.
“No,” I finally decide. “I’m sure that growing up with money helped to make her who she is, but even if she lost it all, that probably wouldn’t change much.” Unlike someone like Lori, who’d probably find it incredibly hard to cope. Or even my mom—who had money once and is still struggling to adjust to its being gone.
“Okay, that’s her. But what about you? I mean, you’d lose access to it, as well. And I don’t know how things stand between you, but it seems like her being rich is a hell of a perk.”
I fall silent once again. I mean, yeah, sure, there’d be fewer spa days in my future if we were both trying to make ends meet, that’s a certainty. But, other than that… “You know, I don’t think so. That woman’s resourceful as fuck. Even if a fire had taken out the winery, or if her family cut her off tomorrow, I’d bet anything she’d still land on her feet. And I’m doing okay on my own so…”
“So, then what is the problem?”
“Dude, I don’t even know.” What am I upset about? “Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that she didn’t trust me enough to confide in me. I mean, how’re you even supposed to help someone if they won’t tell you when they’re in trouble?”
But even as I say it, I know I’m lying.
There’s no doubt she’s been let down in the past. And, as a result, it’s hard getting her to open up. It took her the better part of a day to confide in me about the cave. But in the end, she did it.
And, not twelve hours later, I threw that in her face, as well.
But Miles is shaking his head. And I don’t even know why. “What now?” I ask.
“You, my friend, have got a hero complex. Which, sure, many of us do. But did you ever stop to think that maybe she doesn’t want your help?”
“Oh, there’s no question about that,” I say, laughing bitterly. “She made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t.”
“Right. So, what did you want her to say? If we’re still talking about this thing with the ex, she was probably embarrassed. No one wants to admit they’ve been gaslit.”
But my brain has just started to process something he said earlier. Of course, I have a hero complex. And I don’t need to wonder why that is. The men and women who put their lives on the line for people like me? They’re #goals. They didn’t quit when things got hard, they stuck it out, they pushed through. I can’t do less.
I owe it to them—and to the kid that I was, and the kids that might someday depend on someone like me. But it’s hard. And deep down, I’m not entirely convinced that I’m up to the challenge.
The sad truth is that it’s easier to be a hero when the people who are depending on you are strangers—the nameless, faceless public. There’s a reason surgeons won’t operate on members of their own family. Because when it’s in your home, or in your heart, when it’s someone whose survival is critical to your own well-being, and the outcome is deeply personal, that’s so much more terrifying.
All at once, I’m no longer here, in the cool, damp woods, on a bright clear day, where the loudest sounds are the birds chirping in the trees. I’m somewhere dark and terrifying. Where the air is thick and deafening. And I can’t find my way out.
This is the same thing that happened to me last night. And you call yourself a protector , my inner voice is scathing, but not wrong. You’re nothing but a fake . Because I’ve done the same thing time and again. When someone that I love has a problem and I can’t solve it, that makes me angry. When they need something that I can’t give them, I find a reason to reject them, before that fact becomes too obvious. And when Allegra came to me last night, asking for nothing more than companionship, and maybe a little reassurance, I projected all of this on her. I told her she had a pattern that needed changing. When all the time, I was the one with the problem.
“Hey. Are you okay?” Miles’ voice cuts through the noise in my head. I open my eyes—when had I closed them? —and realize that I’m no longer moving. My steps had ground to a halt at some point, probably several minutes ago, and Miles is now circling back to check on me.
I shake my head. “Damn, I’ve been an asshole.”
Miles’ eyes light up. “Oh, you just figured that out now?” And when I nod and pass my hand across my eyes—maybe to clear the dust and sweat from my eyes, maybe not—Miles shrugs and says, “Yeah well, I think probably we all are, from time to time. The question is what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. What can I do? I mean, that’s why I called you.”
“Me? Oh, my man, if I’m your only option? You really are fucked aren’t you?”
We run for a while in silence, pushing each other a little harder. After a while, Miles slows his pace, dropping to something closer to a jog I slow with him.
“Well,” he says, and if you ask me, he sounds a little reluctant. “If you really want my opinion, I’d suggest you start by helping her get rid of the ex.”
I slide a startled glance in his direction. “Define get rid of .”
Miles rolls his eyes. “What the fuck do you think it means? He’s here fraudulently, isn’t he? Or, at least under false pretenses? So, maybe do your job. The law says he should be deported. Ain’t no shame in following the law. Most of the time, anyway.”
Fuck. Everything in me recoils at the thought. I uncap my water and down half the bottle before I feel calm enough to say, “What makes you say he’s here fraudulently? You can’t know that for a fact.”
“Sure, I can. He pretty much has to be. I mean, either he’s here on a CR1 visa—which would only be valid if the marriage is. If that’s not the case—there you go. Or he could’ve come in on a tourist visa, which likely became invalid the minute he started trying to claim her as his spouse, or pressure her for money. Plus, if he’s really trying to shake down the family, just to get a piece of the winery—and he’s not even entitled to it? That’s not right.”
“Yeah.” The truth is, it’s frighteningly easy to get someone deported these days—sometimes for no reason at all. But for someone like me, the grandson and great-grandson of immigrants (who may or may not have entered the country legally themselves) conspiring with one of “those” agencies is roughly akin to spitting on my ancestors’ graves.
And no. I don’t think my feelings for Legs justifies my acting counter to what either the law, or my own moral code is telling me is right.
“So?”
“I’mma have to think about it.”
We run the rest of the way without talking—other than random observations about the weather, or the wildlife, or whether or not I need better shoes. (Spoiler: I do)
Finally, when the parking lot comes back into view, Miles asks how I’m feeling. And, in retrospect, I guess what he was really asking about was the run. But that’s not what pops out of my mouth.
“I dunno,” I tell him. “But I think, if you’d asked me a year ago, how I thought my life was going, I’d have told you it was going great—other than being a little boring.”
“Okay. And?”
“Man, I fucking miss boring right now.”
Miles laughs so hard at that, he damn near gives himself a stitch, and ends up practically limping on the way back to the cars.
“It wasn’t that funny,” I point out when he finally settles down.
“Oh, I know,” he agrees. “That’s not why I was laughing.”
“Why then?”
“It’s just…well, it occurred to me, that if what you wanted was a boring life, then you might have picked the wrong girl.”
“Oh. Yeah. Don’t I know it.”
Allegra
It’s early. The morning fog has yet to burn off, and I’m standing in the kitchen, watching the coffee slowly fill the pot and wondering, is it always this slow ?
There are reasons why I don’t do mornings. And why I never get up early, unless I absolutely have to—an early shift at work, for example. Having stayed up too late the night before, is not one of them. And at least at work, I can generally count on being surrounded by a chattering flock of early birds.
There’s none of that here. It’s too quiet. It’s too lonely. There’s too much time to think. And morning thoughts? They’re too full of regrets and sharp-edged sorrows, jagged memories, the sharp sting of loss and…ooh, have I mentioned regrets?
This morning is no different than the rest, in that regard.
It’s no surprise that today’s regrets should all circle back to Clay. I have no idea what happened last night, or why I couldn’t help him. I wanted to. I’ll probably always want to. But either I suck at picking the people I want to comfort, or I suck at giving comfort. Or possibly, I just suck.
Rosa, still dressed in a robe, enters the kitchen on a yawn. She pauses when she sees me, and frowns in surprise. “You’re up early.”
I nod and tell her, “I made the coffee.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You know how to make coffee? Sorry, sorry,” she adds when I give her a look. “Of course you do.”
Full disclosure? I really don’t. “First time’s the charm,” I reply with a shrug. “Isn’t that what they say?”
Rosa looks startled. “What?”
“Beginner’s luck?”
Rosa’s gaze travels to the pot, which is still slooowly filling. When it gradually turns dubious (her gaze, not the pot, obvs) I rush to reassure her. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
I wave Rosa away when she attempts to help, “I’ve got this. You look tired. Go sit down.” And I start setting out mugs, one for Rosa, one for me, from Nonna’s quirky, eclectic collection of vintage mugs. I pause with a third mug in my hand. “Will Jake want coffee?”
Rosa eyes the coffee maker again and answers, “Maaaybe?” So, I set down the third, and then another for Bee. And that’s all of us.
Over cream, sugar, spoons, I reflect on the fact that Bee and I should shortly be thinking of migrating, finding our own nests, so that Rosa and Jake can fill this one with their own small brood. I think what most infuriates me about Geno’s interference in Rosa’s life is those ten lost years.
“Those are some pretty heavy sighs for such a beautiful morning,” Rosa observes.
I turn to her. “Is it? Beautiful, I mean?”
Rosa’s smile dims. “Oh, sorry. You’re probably still upset about yesterday, huh?”
I blink. She can’t know about Clay, so… “Oh, you mean because of Nico? Nah, he’s a pest, but I’m sure we can find a way to get rid of him.”
“Oh, good,” Rosa says, perking up, looking so relieved that my own mood plummets. Because I’m not nearly as confident as I know I sounded.
The coffee is finally done. I fill two mugs and carry them to the table, where Rosa and I doctor them to our liking. Or as close as we can get. “Not bad,” my sister tells me. She’s a terrible liar, by the way.
“Mmm,” I murmur in response.
“Hey, do you remember the tea parties?” Rosa suddenly asks. And I don’t take offense even though it’s pretty obvious what’s sparked that memory.
“With the espresso cups and demitasse spoons?” I reply.
“Yes! And the cookie cutter sandwiches and tiny cakes,” Rosa adds.
“And the musical teapot!” we both exclaim.
Nonna’s tea-parties were legendary, even though the tea was so weak it barely stained the milk. Cue the comparison to this morning’s coffee. And also, cue the return of my earlier regrets.
Really, mornings suck. I don’t know why everyone doesn’t avoid them.
“Have you and Jake talked about having kids?” I ask.
Rosa blushes. “Well, yes. But, you know, there are things to consider.”
“I promise I’ll move out as soon as you say the word,” I say. And then immediately wish I could call the words back. Do I want to leave home, now that I’m finally back? Hell, no.
Rosa laughs. “I said we’re considering it. There’s no need for anyone to start packing their bags. And besides, maybe Jake and I will be the ones to leave.”
“What? No.” I wave towards the window, gesturing in the direction of Bar Down. “You can’t leave. This is your land, Jake’s land…at least it should have been.”
“Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” Rosa says. We both sip our coffee, and I find myself wishing I’d thought to make toast as well.
“Well, anyway, you’re going to be a great mom someday,” I tell her. “You’ll have lots of kids and when you start to throw tea parties for them, you have to promise to invite me.”
Rosa sighs. “A ‘great mom,’ I wonder if I will be.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Well, we didn’t have much of a role model, did we? And as Bee pointed out yesterday, you and I share some similarities with her.”
My mouth drops open. “When did she say that ?”
“Oh, you know, with both of us eloping, secret marriages, running off to… Well, just running off, I guess.”
“Running off to Europe?” I say, completing the sentence the way I know she meant it.
“Well, I never made it that far, but sure. It’s a pattern, isn’t it?”
I flinch at the word, which… Seriously, if I never have to hear it again, that’d be great. “No, no, no.” Shaking my head, I scowl at my sister. “You are nothing at all like Mama. And I don’t believe for an instant that that’s what Bee meant.”
Rosa shrugs. “You don’t know that. You were so young when she left us, how could you?”
My shoulders are tense. I think about that toast again, or maybe scrambled eggs—that can’t be hard to figure out, right? Or maybe going out for a run. I haven’t taken even one exercise class since I’ve been back, and I’m feeling it! But Rosa is serious about what she’s saying, and that’s Geno’s fault, too. Well, mostly Mama’s of course, but not entirely.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you where I went when I left home after high school?” I ask. “Didn’t you ever wonder?”
Rosa stares at me in surprise. “You went to Europe, didn’t you?”
“I meant specifically.”
“No?” she says, shaking her head, looking so worried that, there’s definitely no turning back now. So, I grit my teeth and tell her about Geno’s manipulations, and the fun times I had in Mama’s house. Oh, not that last conversation she and I had, the one about how she has everything she needs there. I’m taking that one. To. The. Grave.
“Huh. So, Geno screwed you over at eighteen as well?” Rosa says when I’m finished. “That’s so weird. Whatever we do, we can’t tell Bee.”
“Bruh, I know! Can you imagine?”
“Can’t tell me what?” Bee asks, showing up right on schedule, looking low-key offended.
“There’s coffee,” I say to distract her.
She looks at the pot, eyebrows raised. “Is there?”
“Allegra made it,” Rosa says loyally. “It was her first time. It’s very good.”
Bee shrugs, and pours herself a cup and joins us at the table, barely grimacing as she takes her first sip. “So, what is it I’m not supposed to know?”
Rosa and I share a look. “Legs was just telling me about the summer she turned eighteen. Apparently, she didn’t just go to Europe. Geno sent her to live with Mama.”
“Oh?” Bee says, then I guess the caffeine kicks in because her eyebrows shoot up and, “Oh! Oh, shit. How’d that go?”
Rosa grimaces—and this time I’m pretty sure it’s not the coffee—and says, “Oh, you know. About as well as you’d expect.”
And Bee’s mouth tightens, and she shakes her head. “Shit. I’m sorry, Legs. That sucks.”
“Oh. No. It wasn’t that bad,” I say. And I launch into the story once more, this time hitting all the, this-could-have-been-funny-if-it-had-happened-to-someone-else parts a little bit harder. And by the time I finish telling it, they’re both howling with laughter and replaying all the greatest hits.
“Madone. No, no, no! It’s Timoteo. Ti-mo-TEO”
“Sì. I know. That’s what I said: Tom-AH-toe.”
“Non ne posso più!”
“I can’t believe there’s yet another thing the two of you share,” Bee says. “It was funny, at first. But now, I think I’m starting to get a complex.”
“Aw, are you getting a complex, Bee?” I ask. “Please. Don’t even start. My whole life’s been a complex.”
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it,” Rosa says. (And what I’m wondering is whether or not she’s intentionally changing the subject.) “What made Mama and Geno the way they are, when Nonna wasn’t like that at all. It can’t be parenting, right?”
So, I tell them what Nonna had said about how death, about the way it changes people.
Rosa nods. “Hm. Yeah, I can see that. It makes sense.”
“Little fractures of the soul,” Bianca repeats dreamily. “I like that.”
“Bruh,” I say as I shoot her a look. “That’s a little dark.”
Bee’s cheeks flush red. “I mean, I don’t like it, like it. But it’s a good line.”
“Like it, like it,” I snort in response. “What are you, twelve?”
“Well, that would make you what? Ten?” she shoots back. “So, you tell me.”
And I stick my tongue out at her, just for fun. And she does it back to me
And then Rosa rolls her eyes and says, “On second thought, maybe I won’t have kids.”
And Bee laughs and says, “Maybe you feel like you already do?”
And it feels so good to laugh and tease each other. But eventually, of course, it has to end.
“Okay, well,” I say as I get to my feet. “I’d better go and get ready for the day. I have some errands to run.”
Rosa glances up and asks, “Do you need any help?”
And at the same time Bee offers, “Would you like some company?”
And then Rosa says, “You’re not alone, you know.”
“Or, at least, you don’t have to be,” Bee adds.
And all I can think about is last night, and Clay. And yes, I really am alone. But I smile and say, “No thanks, I’ve got this.”
And I’m still smiling as I leave the room. But honestly? This is why I don’t do mornings.