Chapter 6 #2
It was Giovanni’s turn to stay with Nonna last night.
She’s getting on in years but refuses to leave her home to live more permanently with any of us, so instead we take turns sleeping at her house.
Before I came back, Aria was in the mix.
Now, it’s me, Giovanni, and Nico. We always pretend it’s unplanned—that it’s easier to crash in one of the spare bedrooms or on the couch than to return home to our comfortable beds.
We do it for her, out of love. Because she may be a piece of salume, but she’s everything to us.
“You can take one of the brooms and go hang it under our storefront sign now. Take your time doing it so you have an excuse to linger outside the café without looking like a total stalker,” he continues.
“You know Nonna’s proud of her brooms. She might forgive you for the chaos you caused last night. ”
I snort. “She was happy enough to auction us off. She just figured we’d be bought by women who wanted to date us.”
He laughs and claps me on the back. “So do her proud by hitting on a bunch of women while you’re dressed like an old man with a potbelly.”
I get up to leave, but Giovanni grabs my arm before I can pull on my coat.
“I want to know what happened in New York,” he says, his expression uncharacteristically intense.
I pull free and tug on my coat. “My job no longer interested me, so I quit. I’ll find something else when the store’s doing well. No big deal.”
“And your apartment there?”
I rub my chest. “I haven’t decided what to do about that.”
I’m paying thousands a month for an apartment I’m not living in.
If I stay here longer than another few weeks, I’ll have to find someone to take over my lease.
I have some money put aside, but there’s no reason to blow through my savings just because I want the comfort of knowing the apartment’s there.
That I can go back to it when I’m ready to.
Even if aching to leave Hideaway Harbor makes me worry that I’m just like my father. Or, worse, my mother.
“I’m only a few years younger than you, Enzo. You don’t have to treat me like I’m Nico. There’s more to the story. You wouldn’t just randomly quit your job like that.”
“But I did. And you’re four years younger.”
“Three and a half.”
I shrug. “Semantics.”
He glares at me. “So you’re not too embarrassed to tell me that you want to crash Santa Speed Dating, but you won’t—”
“I’m not embarrassed of anything,” I say tightly, feeling the hot pull of shame. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just ready to move on, and the timing was good to come home and help out for a while. Win-fucking-win.”
“You’ve been here all of a week, and you’ve already got me pulling taffy, you asshole.” He sighs, telling me in his way that he’ll let it go, but not forever. “I expect to hear all about New York at some point. You can’t stay Island Enzo forever.”
“Sure, we’ll have a family meeting,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Nico can make appetizers.”
And then I’m out the door.
Hidden Italy’s closed, but I use my key to unlock the door so I can grab one of the brooms from the storage closet. Nonna made them to sell, but she won’t begrudge me hanging one outside.
Within minutes, I’m attaching the thing to the bracket just beneath the boot-shaped sign attached to the side of the brick building at eye level. Mom used to hang pretty dried-flower arrangements in baskets from this bracket, one for every season, but it’s hung empty for years.
Except for this year.
It feels surprisingly good to attach the cinnamon broom to the sign, like I’m reclaiming something, but it takes all of five seconds.
There’s no sign of Handbag Guy. So I spend the next several minutes messing around with the broom, pretending I’m trying to get it to some precise, unknowable angle.
I feel like a pazzo, to be honest, especially since I know Giovanni is watching me from across the street, having a laugh at my expense while he enjoys the warmth of the bar and drinks his beer.
What the fuck am I doing?
I don’t even like Lucy, so why am I putting myself on the line for her? Sneaking into an event I think is ridiculous?
I guess I just don’t know how to give up. Never have. Not since my mother abandoned us when I was ten, leaving my dad with four kids he didn’t know what to do with. My brothers were six and five. My sister was only two.
Not long after that, my grandmother took me aside and said, “You’re going to have to be the man of the house now, Enzo.”
“What about Dad?” I asked, even though I already pretty much knew the answer. My mother had left for a reason, after all.
“He’s my son, God forgive me, but he’s only worth the grandchildren he gave me. And your mother…” She spat on the floor. “She’s just shown us her worth.”
Nonna was right. She’s usually right. I learned how to be strong from her and my grandfather, who was a much better man than my father.
So I adjust that broom about two dozen times, swearing to myself under my breath and trying not to be too obvious about my interest in the goings-on at the Sip.
I catch a couple of glimpses, though. There are tons of over-the-top decorations inside, from paper ornaments to garlands in various colors.
Lots of men and women are dressed in red and green, and everyone seems to have a mug in front of them.
It looks warm and comfortable, and I can hear the muted Christmas carols.
Finally, Handbag Guy comes out in his Santa suit and pulls a crinkled pack of smokes from his pocket.
“Hey, man,” I say, leaving the perfectly straight broom alone and walking closer.
He inclines his chin slightly in acknowledgment.
“You having fun in there?” I ask.
He gives me an incredulous look. “What do you want, Enzo?”
So he remembers my name. That makes one of us.
“Well, I was wondering if I could convince you to let me spend the rest of the evening in there in your place.”
He snorts as he pulls out one of the cigarettes. The guy’s standing directly beneath a cutesy little sign that says, “No smoking on the patio, please!” and I remember the way Lucy started hacking on the bridge. My fake smile tightens.
Waving the cigarette at me, he says, “No way. We all know about your grandmother’s vendetta against this place. If I let you in there, you’ll probably pour Ex-Lax into the hot chocolate or something. I won’t do that to those poor women.”
I bristle. My grandmother is a difficult woman, no doubt, but she wouldn’t stoop to something like that, and I sure as hell don’t like my good name being besmirched either.
He pulls out his lighter. “Truth is, I’ve got designs on that hot little piece who works for Eileen.”
If I was pissed five seconds ago, now I’m a man made of fire and brimstone. He shouldn’t be talking about a woman like that. And he definitely shouldn’t be the first man to put his hands on any woman.
Fists balled, I say, “If you don’t hand over the Santa hat and beard, I’m going to remind everyone about that time you jerked off into Mrs. Sandis’s handbag.”
He blanches, his cigarette still unlit. “Hey, man, that’s not cool. How would you like it if I pulled out something you did from—”
“I’ve never jerked off into a handbag in my life, and if you light that cigarette, you’ll regret it.”
“Are you threatening me?” he asks, his tone somewhere between wheedling and whining.
“Yes, I thought that was obvious.”
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, the unlit cigarette crumpling a little. I resist the urge to cringe, which becomes harder when the Christmas carol playing inside the café switches over to “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”
“My cousin works at The Almanac,” he says. “She’d find it very interesting that you’re threatening an upstanding citizen. I mean, do you even live here anymore, man? When was the last time you paid Maine taxes?”
I point to the no smoking sign. “Learn to read. The woman you’re lusting over is allergic to cigarette smoke.”
I might not like Lucy, but I don’t want her to hack up a lung simply because he can’t be bothered to follow simple instructions.
He swears at me but tosses me the Santa hat, then detaches the beard and hands that over too.
I grimace at the thought of putting it on. He looks like he hasn’t showered since high school, but desperate times and all that.
He flashes both middle fingers at me as he walks away. “If something happens in there tonight, I’ll know who did it. And I’ll tell my cousin Mary, and—”
“We all know she’s a volunteer,” I say wearily. “You can stop acting like she’s a top investigative reporter.”
“Amanda Willis said she might give her an interview,” he snaps. “The movie star. You know, the one with the good tits. She signed a headshot for me.”
“Did you get to jizz in her handbag too?” It’s a cheap shot, and it’s very likely this whole thing will blow back on me, but I’m feeling worked up.
“You’re an asshole.”
I pull on the Santa hat and nod to him. “Merry Christmas to you, too, buddy. Be sure to give my regards to Mary. Maybe she can write another deep think piece about Skippy. Or convince Lady Lovewatch to write about you and that handbag.”
He gives me the finger again as he walks away.
Ignoring him, because he did grant me the last spoken word, I strap on the beard, putting the loops over my ears. It smells like stale smoke and Cheetos, but I’ve been standing out here for at least fifteen minutes by now, freezing my ass off, and for all I know Lucy is already…
Yeah, I don’t want my mind to go there.
I step inside, and thankfully the smoke and Cheetos smell is mostly overpowered by the sweet scents of hot chocolate and baked goods. I glance around the room and find a roomful of Santas and women in red and green staring at me.
“You’re not Curtis,” says one of the guys sitting at a two-top near the door. The name rings a bell, and I realize he’s talking about handbag guy.
The card table next to Curtis’s bud has a single empty seat opposite a nervous-looking woman in red.
“Thank God, I’m not,” I murmur, lowering into the empty chair across from her.
Plenty of eyes are still glued to me as the song shifts to “Silver Bells.” And that’s when I see her, a few tables down.
Lucy Taylor, with her long, curly hair down around her shoulders, wearing a white sweater and a red miniskirt trimmed with white fake fur paired with black stockings. She’s staring daggers at me.
My first thought is: Good God. This woman’s so new to Maine she’s going to give herself hypothermia.
Okay, fuck, I’ll be honest. That definitely wasn’t my first thought…
She looks fantastic. If she was an angel last night at the bridge, tonight she’s a Christmas gift, all ready to be unwrapped. I let myself acknowledge what should have been obvious: I might not like this woman, but I am attracted to her. Very attracted to her.
She’s still giving me the death glare, so I smirk back at her and lift two fingers to my forehead in a salute. Her eyes narrow, and I can’t help but be amused. For half a second.
Because Brandon Wright is absolutely going to make a play for her. He’d be the biggest idiot on the planet not to, and even though he’s a douchebag, he’s not stupid.
Damn it.
I need to have a talk with her, preferably before she gets to him, and he’s a few tables down from her.
I survey all of the tables, getting a feel for the seating, which is in a circular formation.
“Is this moving clockwise? Counterclockwise?” I ask the woman sitting across from me, who is staring at me in disbelief, probably waiting for some kind of explanation.
She signals to the left, which suggests Lucy’s going to be on her date with the douchebag in another three rounds.
“You’re definitely not Curtis,” the woman says, echoing Curtis’s slack-faced friend next to me.
I recognize her, I realize. Mabel, I think her name is. Or maybe Maple. She went to school with my little sister, which makes her much too young for me, not that I’m here to pick anyone up.
No, I’m here to stop a pickup from happening.
“What’d you do to him?” Curtis’s buddy asks me.
I clear my throat. “Nothing. Curtis had a minor medical mishap. Too much hot chocolate.” I give the guy a knowing look that suggests Curtis blew chunks in the street or shit his pants.
“So I offered to sit in for him.” I smile at Mabel/Maple.
“He knew it wouldn’t be right to leave these lovely ladies alone. ”
“That sure doesn’t sound like something Curtis would say,” the guy continues, completely ignoring the woman across from him, a pretty blonde who’s scrolling on her phone while she picks at a whoopie pie decorated to look like an elf.
(So far the elf has lost an eye and half a nose.) She’s one of Mayor Locke’s daughters, but I can’t tell if she’s Harper or Piper.
“Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle,” I say with a grin. “They say this time of year brings out the best in people, don’t they?”