Ready for You (17 page)

“How can you let him talk to her like that?” Rocco said. “Don’t listen to them, Chiara. You’re beautiful. I--”

“Shut up,” Santo said. “Need another lesson?”

Chiara crumpled to the floor. Rocco and her uncle both reached her at the same moment. She let them lift her to the couch, still warm from her parents’ bodies. Chiara’s body ached like when the anesthetic had begun to wear off after her c-section. The pain singed where Rocco had been inside her, had made her believe more than she should, made her feel things she shouldn’t. He and Uncle Max flanked her. Rocco held her hand.

“Come home with me,” Rocco said. His fingertips traced her cheek.

“Oh hell no,” Santo said. “Chiara, you can’t believe a word he says.”

“Like I should believe you?” Chiara countered.

“You can believe me,” Tomaso said. He knelt in front of Chiara and took her hands, forcing Rocco’s aside. Tomaso’s strong, understanding, dark eyes pleaded with her. They had always been close, only two years apart. “Remember when Santo and I were in high school, his senior year? He was dating Bobbie and I was seeing her younger sister?”

“Erica?” Chiara
said,
vague remembrances of the time floating back. Chiara was twelve or thirteen then.

“Yeah.”

“I was going to tell you--” Rocco said.

Tomaso shook his head. “We’ve heard enough from you.” Rocco leaned forward. “He always had a rep, you know, slept with anyone willing and a few he persuaded. Like Erica, it was her first time. I guess he thought she got too attached to him so he decided sleeping with Bobbie would be a good way to dump Erica. She was devastated. Bobbie didn’t know about him and Erica. She and Santo had a fight and this asshole got her drunk…you can’t trust him. Santo and I thought we’d convinced him to stop that shit, but he…” Tomaso looked to Santo.

Chiara leaned back into the couch and shut her eyes.

“At our five year reunion, he hadn’t changed, and he was married, two babies at home. He didn’t try anything with Bobbie, not then,” Santo said. Chiara knew that was the year Santo and Bobbie got married.

“Don’t try to blame me for everything,” Rocco said. He stood.

“I don’t need to try,” Santo said. “At our ten year reunion, he got to Bobbie.”

“Bullshit,” Rocco said. “She came onto me, said you were cheating on her--”

“So what?”
Santo said. “You don’t screw with another man’s wife! See how he is, Chiara?”

“Is this true?” Chiara whispered. She glanced at Rocco, who returned her look. “Did you sleep with Bobbie?”

“Yes,” he said.

She put her head in her hands and hunched forward.

“None of that has anything to do with us--” he said.

“Doesn’t it?” she said. It only showed she’d been a fool to believe in him, to believe she was different than any other woman he’d been with. That was probably how he made them all feel. Now her worst fears would happen, were happening. “I never want to see you again!” she tried to shout, but her throat constricted, too hoarse from the yelling and choked-on tears.

“Get out,” Santo said. “I won’t need a bat to beat you down this time. High school sweethearts are nothing compared to my family,” he said. He edged toward Rocco. Chiara trembled. She’d seen Santo angry plenty, but now his eyes flashed, murderous.

“Don’t hurt him,” Chiara said. Santo and Rocco glanced at her. Maybe they didn’t know who she meant as clearly Rocco was ready for a fight too. He hunkered down, his fists clenched.

Uncle Max stood. “I might not have jurisdiction here, but I have friends at the sheriff’s office. I don’t think either of you wants to spend a night in lockup. You,” he said to Rocco, “should leave. Should I call you a cab?” Uncle Max often played his cop card to keep people in line. He’d been with the SFPD for over twenty years.

“I’m not drunk and I’m not leaving without Chiara,” Rocco said.

Soft, tender ripples flowed through her. She pinched her thigh, needing to wake herself from her foolish dreams. “You really believe I’d go with you?” she said. She sounded shrill. “You ruined everything. I had it under control--”

Santo laughed. “Apparently not,” he said. “Get out. You think I’d let you take her even if she wanted to go?”

Chiara bristled. “You are such a pig,” she said. “Jen was right about you.”

“She didn’t mean it, she liked to tease me,” Santo said. Chiara stared at him.

“Come on, Uncle Max. Let’s take this one outside,” Tomaso said with a nod at Rocco, who shook his head.

“I can have a sheriff’s car here in five minutes,” Uncle Max said. “We just want to talk.”

“Fine,” Rocco said. Chiara felt his presence, his intent gaze, but she needed to know what Santo meant. A few ideas, too outlandish to say, appeared. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall before the front door thumped shut.

“What are you talking about?” Chiara said. “Jen never liked you. We told each other everything.”

Santo shook his head.

“It was you? The older guy she seduced for her first time?” Chiara pulled her knees into her stomach to try to stop the queasiness.

“She didn’t have to try hard.”

“She was only fifteen, my best friend. You were twenty. That’s just wrong.”

“Oh, Miss Perfect? I loved her, so you can just shut your mouth.”

“No, you didn’t even come to her funeral,” Chiara said, looking up at him. Her forehead wrinkled. The tears would come soon.

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t see her…” Santo turned away, his head down.

“You were the married man she was having an affair with? Oh God,” Chiara groaned. Everyone
lied
, everyone betrayed.

“Yes. It started the New Year’s after you moved back to San Diego. I left Bobbie after a year, but Jenny made me go back. She got sick…Dad knew, he told me not to leave my girls like that. But I loved Jenny.”

“You took care of her, didn’t you? She told me…I didn’t know. How could I not have known? Why didn’t she tell me it was you?” Jen only told Chiara about the cancer at the very end. And about the man, the man she loved. How he had taken her to all her appointments, held her hand while they drew blood or during chemo, remembered to play her favorite music, lay with her in her hospital bed when the end was near. That it could have been Santo, her unfeeling pig of a brother, never occurred to Chiara. But they had both
lied,
both denied Chiara the comfort of being there for her best friend.

“She wanted to protect me. She knew I would go back to Bobbie, she told me to when she knew she was going to…” Santo’s voice softened almost to a whisper. “I should give you this.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and dug out a folded paper. “She told me to give it to you, but they were the last words she wrote…” His hand trembled as he held it to her. He sank into the couch.

Chiara opened the letter, but it was too creased and worn to read. She glanced at her brother; his eyes reddened and swam with tears. He did love. They were liars, all, but they felt. “I can’t read it,” she said.

“I know what it says,” he said. “She wanted you to know about us. She wanted you to remember how much we all love you, your whole
family, that
we should forgive each other. Not to mourn her, but to live as if she was there egging you on. To be open to life, not get closed off. ‘Let out the crazy dirty girl. Love always, Jen’ that was the end.” He laid his head back, his eyes closed.  A lone tear dropped onto his shirt. Chiara had never seen him cry.

“This was my letter. You kept it from me.”

“She was the love of my life,” he said hoarsely. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that if I’d read this ten years ago, I might not have ever married Phil.”

“Then you wouldn’t have your boys,” he said. His voice leveled out but he didn’t move.

“That’s not the point.” Chiara wasn’t sure what the point was. She stiffened, frozen again. Nothing, she wouldn’t let anyone break through again. Trust was a sham, an illusion. Even her own children would betray her.
As they had been betrayed.

 Santo sat up and glanced at her. His mouth set in a line and his shoulders edged back, as usual. “You better call Isabella,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this again.” He stood and went outside.

Chiara forced herself to stand and find her purse behind the couch by the window. She peeked out the curtain. The porch where Rocco probably was couldn’t be seen from where she stood. Streetlights bathed the sidewalks in an orangey glow. The Bitmans from down the block walked their little white dog across the street. The same street she and Jen used to run and play hopscotch on. And there, in the corner, the old apple tree reached out into the picket fenced front yard. The tree she’d clamored up to read and dream. Dreams of marriage and children, of a handsome, kind, exciting man who would whisk her away from her crazy family, a man who would love her above all else, a man she could give her whole secret self to. Dreams she now knew were childish fantasies. She could no longer hold them, just as the apple tree could no longer support her.

Chapter Twenty

“I don’t understand why you’re still here,” Tomaso said to him. Rocco stared at the yard, an old, twisted apple tree in the far corner.
A great kids’ lookout.

“I care about your sister,” he said. He wasn’t about to admit his true feelings until he and Chiara spoke. But he wouldn’t be an asshole to Tomaso. He owed him his life, in a way. Though what that life would
be
worth if Chiara meant what she said…

“Bullshit,” Santo said as he pulled the front door shut behind him.

Rocco’d stood silently while Tomaso and Chiara’s uncle Max interrogated him, but he wouldn’t take any crap from Santo.

“Just call the cops,” Santo continued.
“Disturbing the peace or something.
They’ll trust you, Uncle Max.”

“You should know me better than that,” Max said. “I don’t like what I’m hearing about you and your brother. I hope that was the only time you decided to try vigilante justice.”

“Should have strung him up by his balls,” Santo muttered.

Rocco snorted. “Fuck off.”

“I leave that to you,” Santo said.

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Rocco said.

“Both of you, shut it,” Tomaso said. “This is about Chiara.
Though I wouldn’t put it past you to be using her.
Maybe when you found out she’s our sister, you decided to get revenge for what we did to you.”

“If I wanted to get back at you, I would have called the cops the night you almost beat me to death, wouldn’t I?
Kind of extreme just because I screwed both your girlfriends.
Not my fault you weren’t taking care of their needs,” Rocco said. His anger made him say stupid stuff. He’d never get back in with Chiara if he kept that up.

“I was starting to sympathize,” Max said. “But now I can understand why they knocked the crap out of you. Leave my niece alone. I can’t say I care for Phil, but this kind of situation never works out well. If you really care about her, you’ll wait until she’s divorced and her head’s cleared.”

“I can help her--”

“It would be worth a night in jail to get you outta here,” Santo said, advancing on him. His uncle strong-armed him.

“Tomaso, take this one home, will you? I can handle things,” Max said.

“We should go in and say goodbye--” Santo said, eyeing Rocco.

“I think Chiara’s had enough and your dad won’t be down again. Your wife and girls need you at home.”

Santo didn’t move. He and Rocco stared each other down.

“Come on, I want to get home too,” Tomaso said.

Santo clenched his jaw and looked away. Rocco let out the breath he held. Santo shrugged and followed his brother to his car. Max stretched and flexed. Her uncle couldn’t be much older than he and Santo, maybe fifty at the most. But Rocco might be able to take him down…what kind of dumbass was he? Obviously this man was important to Chiara; her son was named after him. They watched as Tomaso’s car pulled away and disappeared down the street into the dim night.

“From what my sister’s told me, you come from a good family. You think they’d like what you’re doing?”

“They’d understand.” Well, eventually, once he and Chiara were able to get married.

“Understand you breaking up my niece’s marriage?”

“It was already broken.”

“Maybe, but you made things worse, or at least Chiara thinks so.”

“She’s just upset.” Rocco hoped that was true.

“How long have you known her?”

“A month.”

“Pssh,” Max said disparagingly. “No better than teenagers, the two of you.” He shook his head. “Maybe you can afford to act like that, but Chiara can’t. She’s got those two boys. She should have known better…” he trailed off as Chiara stepped out onto the porch.

“You’re right,” Chiara said. Rocco leaned back against the post, the wind knocked out of him. “Why are you still here?” she said to Rocco.

He gazed at her, he couldn’t help himself. Her eyes sparkled bright like the stars in the clear sky surrounding them. “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t had those drinks. I swear I’ll never touch another drop if you--”

“I can’t be responsible for your sobriety,” she said. Her voice had lost its expression. She sounded hollow, almost like the echo in an empty room. If he could hold her, they could fill each other back up.

“I know,” he said. But she could make it a hell of a lot easier. “Please come home with me.” He’d get down on one knee now if her uncle wasn’t standing there.

“No. I called Isabella. Phil said he’ll let me come home, at least until the boys start school.”

“You can’t go back there. He might--”

“I don’t need you. Don’t need anyone. But my boys need me.”

The urge to lash out bubbled in him. He couldn’t stand to hear her voice, all dejection and emptiness.
Had he done that to her?
His brows pushed together so hard his head throbbed.

“Chiara,” Max said. “What’s he talking about? Has Phil been
--
”

“No. It was nothing, really. He’s just blowing it out of proportion.” She sounded so tired, no joy in her voice.

Max studied him. Rocco shook his head. “I think if you weren’t so strong he would have raped you,” Rocco said in a quiet voice.

Chiara’s cheeks flamed red, like the streak of crimson in the sunset earlier. “How dare you,” she said. “You don’t know Phil, you don’t even know me.”

“I know what men are capable of,” he said. He tried to ignore the slow bleed her words affected.

“What men like you are,” she said. “Phil is nothing like you. I guess I should have appreciated what I had. The wine isn’t always smoother from another barrel, sometimes it’s just rancid.”

He shut his eyes and saw himself, bloodied and bruised, backed up against a tree in a corner of Vickers Park, trying not to give into the pain, trying to stay awake, hoping Tomaso hadn’t lied when he whispered that he would call Ray to come get him. The ache he felt when he opened his eyes and saw Chiara’s face rivaled the remembered agony.
Any idea that she believed in him, or loved him, or even wanted him incinerated in the heat of her hatred and anger.

Her uncle rubbed her back lightly and she focused her eyes on him. “I’ll drive you home, sweetheart,” he said.

Rocco faced the street and tried to make his feet step down, but he couldn’t. Hope clung to him like Sabrina used to hang off his neck, not wanting him to leave at bedtime. Chiara’s heels clicked on the stairs and down the path. Her black dress, the same dress she’d worn on their first sort-of date, taunted him as it flicked to and fro with each step.
Each step away from him.

“You can’t stand there all night,” Max said to him from the bottom of the stairs.
“Loitering.”

Chiara
stopped,
her hand on the gate. But she didn’t look back. Rocco shuffled down the stairs. As he passed Max, the older man patted his back. Rocco almost smiled--the gesture seemed friendly.

“We’ll be watching you,” Max whispered to him as he edged past to escort Chiara out.

Rocco slumped but managed to follow them out the gate and to his truck, which was parked behind Max’s Chevy Blazer. He watched Max as he opened the door for Chiara, who slid into the seat sideways, like a lady. Yet her high fuck-me heels kicked out as she swung her feet in, making him stiffen. He jogged to his door and jumped in. Max’s SUV pulled away. Rocco tracked it until its red headlights turned right at the end of the street. He drove the same route; he could see the other car ahead of him almost the whole way home.
Almost.

He lay in his bed. Not even ten at night and here he was, alone and cold. He pulled the extra blanket up over the sheet, but it didn’t warm him. Only Chiara could do that. He’d sat in the driveway when he got home half an hour ago, thinking about going out. But he couldn’t, he didn’t want to.

He stared at the ceiling. He should paint it, maybe dark blue, some stars even. The vast white depressed him.
But a mural of the heavens?
What was he, ten again? He exhaled. She went back to the husband. Surely they would get a divorce, though. Her uncle hadn’t shot him down completely--he’d said maybe when Chiara was divorced. Of course, there was the comment about watching him, but he might mean they would be checking him out to make sure he was worthy of her, if he had really changed.

He should work tomorrow. He reached for the phone and called his parents’. His mom answered, sounding concerned as soon as he said hello.

“Are you coming down with something?” she asked. “You weren’t yourself today and Sabrina told me you seemed tired yesterday.”

“Fine, don’t worry.” He hated when his family worried about him. “I need to talk to Dad.”

“He and Shawn are playing chess. Is it urgent?”

“The kids still there?”

“Yes, they’re all spending the night, Sabrina, Maddy, and Shawn. He’s driving them home tomorrow. You want to come over? I could make you some nice tea, maybe a little soup?”

“No, thanks, Mom.
I’ll work tomorrow after all, if you could tell Dad.”

“We already told Juan to cover for you,” she said. “Why not do something? Sabrina wants to talk to you.”

“Mom, no--” Too late.

“Daddy?
You’re free tomorrow?”

“Working.”

“But Grandma just said…we never did anything for the Fourth, why not tomorrow?
Maybe a Giants game?”

“Out of town,” he said.

“What about a picnic? Like you used to take us on when we were kids? I could--”

“I gotta go, my cell’s ringing,” he said. He let Sabrina get out a “bye” before he hung up.

Lies.
He didn’t want to be a liar anymore. So many women he’d lied to. Had Chiara lied to him? Or had he been so deep in his own feelings he misinterpreted hers? He knew now what had happened with so many of those women, who assumed he loved them or wanted a relationship after a hot night together. He’d never understood before, dismissed them as overly emotional.

Chiara was different. He would need sex, but the thought of it with anyone but Chiara was distasteful. Like biting into an apple and finding it mealy. Chiara wasn’t even an apple. Apples could be good, crunchy and mellow, sometimes the blemished ones the best tasting. But oranges were his favorite. A really good one was hard to find. Once he’d had the perfect orange, smooth-skinned and fragrant and, peeling it, the surprise of a red, jeweled interior--juicy, sweet but sharp. He’d never found one quite as good again. But he kept trying.

By the next afternoon, he was done. He’d checked on the two jobsites, did some paperwork for his parents, got a few things at OSH, his body aching and tired. All he wanted was a hot bath--he really needed to install a whirlpool tub--and a nice bottle of scotch. One last hurrah and then he’d stop.

He lasted about five minutes in the bath. All he could think of was Chiara. He took a quick shower instead before he settled on the couch with the bottle and a glass on the coffee table. He flipped on the TV, though the Giants game wouldn’t start for a few more hours. It was just noise anyway, something to cut the silence.

He downed the first glass. Pouring another, he stopped. The glass stayed on the table. He leaned back and shut his eyes. When he’d kissed Chiara last night, she returned his exploration, the pressure of his lips, until she must have tasted the alcohol on him. If he hadn’t had those drinks last night, maybe she would be with him right now. He could taste her. What kind of man needed a couple drinks to find the courage to get his woman, his love? No man, but a coward. Shit.

Lifting the bottle and glass, he strode into the kitchen. Glass in the sink, now for the scotch, down the drain. His hand trembled a bit. He set the bottle down. A knock echoed from the front door. Brushing his hands on his shorts, he hurried to answer it.