Chapter 24 Stan
TWENTY-FOUR
STAN
“Mrs. Frasier?” I knocked on her front door, then stared at my watch when she didn’t answer.
“Oh, it’s you,” she greeted as she opened up to me. “What’s wrong? Is Kitty okay?”
I graced her with a tight smile. “She’s fine.”
“Cade’s wrist’s broken.”
Because this was the fourth time she’d brought it up, I answered for the fourth time, “Sorry. He attacked me first.”
Her lips pursed.
“I wondered if you could help me with something.”
“Come inside. You want a sandwich?”
My lips parted as I started to refuse—I had just eaten three ham and cheese croissants… “If you’re making one.”
She clucked her tongue. “I’m always making sandwiches. My kids think I came onto this planet with a loaf of bread in my left hand and a block of government cheese in the right. Sit with me in the kitchen.”
Recognizing the order for what it was, I took a seat at the counter when she wafted me in that general direction and found a dubious refuge between two large plant pots housing orchids that loomed over me like a couple KGB operatives putting on the pressure.
Which, considering the start of our conversation, seemed pretty apt.
“Now, what do you need, Custanzu?”
“I need for you to call me Stan, first.”
“Fine.” She didn’t offer me the same courtesy, but considering the state I’d brought her daughter home in and Cade’s broken wrist, I couldn’t blame her. “So, Stan, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I corrected, watching as she sliced into a large sourdough loaf while batting the leaf from the plant out of the way.
Come to think of it—I should have brought flowers.
If her kitchen was anything to go by, she loved them, and Rory had a green thumb.
She’d have told me to pick up ones that meant ‘apology’ or something.
Shit, what a wasted opportunity. “Tonight, the Stars are playing the first game of round two—”
“You’re a fan?” she interrupted.
“Not particularly. Soccer’s my thing.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Knew you had taste, boy. I don’t take for none of this North American stuff. You know, we bat a ball around a field too and it’s called rounders. Mostly, little girls play it. We don’t make men millionaires hundreds of times over for it.”
“Soccer players aren’t exactly on food stamps.”
“You know what I mean. So, the hockey game.”
“I think Kitty needs cheering up. She won’t leave the building yet so I figured I could bring the game to her.”
“You turning my basement into an ice rink?”
“No,” I said dryly.
“Then you can do what you want.”
“You haven’t heard—”
“You’re treating my baby. You can have at it.”
“I wanted to buy you a big screen and then have the snacks brought in that we’d grab at the arena so we could make it a surprise.”
“What time’s the game again?”
“Puck drops at eight.”
She arched a brow at the clock on her wall. “You think you can make this happen?”
“I can make a lot happen in two hours. I didn’t realize the series started until earlier this afternoon.” As she set a large cheese and pastrami sandwich in front of me, I crowed, “Thanks, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Lucas thinks I’m mad.”
“For letting me stay here?”
Her gaze dropped to the sandwich. “Eat.” I quickly obeyed. “But I See what he doesn’t.”
“Kitty mentioned you have the Sight.”
“Let me guess, she rolled her eyes over it.”
“Maybe. But I’m Sicilian.”
“So?”
“So, we’re suspicious and superstitious and believe in pagan religions as well as Catholicism.” I only took an extra-large bite after inquiring, “Have you Seen something… good?”
“Your place in Sicily, is it on the cliffs?”
“Yes.”
“Near a lake?”
“We have a lakefront beach and an ocean view.”
“You have an old man, an uncle— No. A great-uncle. He’s too old to be anything else. He lives there?”
I blinked. “He’s in the hospital. We’re bringing him home and Kitty will head up his team.”
That had her rapping her knuckles against the counter. “Interesting.”
When she didn’t say more, I rasped, “Is she happy?”
“You make her happy, yes.”
I released a sigh. “That’s all I want, Mrs. Frasier.”
“You can call me Patricia.”
Not a fool, I was quick to nod. “Thank you.”
As she cut into the sourdough, she mused, “Something happened at the house. Something… outside the gates. Don’t worry. They’ll be closed the next time you’re on the island. Locked away forever. The memories won’t fade, but at least you won’t come face-to-face with them whenever you go home.”
I stiffened.
A vision?
The man of science knew clairvoyance was bullshit, but the Sicilian in me didn’t like to take any chances.
Not when she’d just prodded an open wound—Patri’s body had been dumped outside the gates of our estate in Catania.
Every time I passed through them, I looked anywhere but at that spot where his crumpled form had been discovered.
Tone gentle when I saw how dazed she was, I asked, “Patricia?”
Blinking, she continued as if she hadn’t said anything at all, her tone brisker, “Now, how can I help?”
Two hours later, the store had installed a screen the size of the back wall in Patricia’s living room, Dippin’ Dots were chilling in the freezer, hot dogs were broiling, the air scented of fresh popcorn, and I’d bought out the local bodega’s selection of chips.
Kitty groused about the game starting and having to miss the first period, and yet she still let me carry her downstairs when I told her Patricia had made us dinner.
The stress of the last two hours, a stress partially founded in Patricia’s vision, was worth it when the ‘Hockey Night in America’ on PSN theme tune blasted from the screen and my angel shrieked as the walls themselves vibrated thanks to the surround sound system I’d also had installed.
She nearly tumbled from my arms in her haste to see what was going on. “Oh, my god! What did you do?!”
“I’ll forgive you the blasphemy this once, Catriona,” Patricia chided, but she was beaming over by the kitchen door, where she held a bowl of popcorn as large as her in her hands. “Now, come and look what Stan has done for you.”
Kitty screeched when she saw the new sofa as well as the two recliners I’d bought—one for her and the other for Patricia.
“You did this for me?” she squealed.
Dopily, I grinned at her. “If I can’t take you to the game… then I’ll bring it to you.”
Her eyes widened all the more, excitement filtering through them. She was so pretty in that moment. The patchy yellow and green bruises didn’t diminish her beauty any. Neither did the split in her lip or the myriad mostly healed cuts and scrapes.
“They’re about to drop the puck!” she squeaked, wiggling out of my embrace and plopping her butt in one of the recliners.
Patricia shot me a smile. “That’s it. You’ve lost her interest until intermission.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
Her lips curved. “You want a hot dog or a burger?”
“Whatever’s easiest.”
“If you can make this happen for my girl, Stan, then I can fix you a burger. So, burger or hot dog?”
“Burger, please,” I said sheepishly. “With the cheese from before?”
“Take the other recliner. I can’t watch this fool game. All that ice gives me a headache.”
She shooed me away and I let her. It had been a helluva day and this was rushed as fuck, but… worth it.
For that smile, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do.
And, I could be wrong, but it seemed like Patricia and I had reached a turning point in our relationship.
That boded well for the future, Sight or no.
When the Stars scored a minute twenty-three in, Kitty roared with delight, then turned to me and made this mad rush a thousand times better with her declaration of: “You are the best boyfriend ever.”
The only thing that’d cap that was switching out boyfriend… for husband.