Reckless Point (19 page)

“I know.”  I thought about last night.  And the night before that.  The rawness of it hurt me. 

“I think,” I finally said, “that for tonight I’m just going to head home with my mom and dad and fall asleep in my own bed.”  I couldn’t look at them.  “That okay?”

My father started to speak.  He might have intended to urge me to face Marco sooner rather than later.  But my mother already knew what he was going to say and didn’t like it. She shushed him with a touch.  “Of course it’s okay, sweetie.” 

I gave my car keys to my father.  He had walked to the store that morning.  My mother climbed into the passenger side and I stretched out on the backseat, feeling like a newly regressed child.  My cheek touched Marco’s leather jacket, which
was still sprawled across the backseat.  I had forgotten about it.  I pushed it off into the corner, not wishing to inhale any scent which brought him to mind. I was so awfully tired. Despite the fact that Polaris Lane was five minutes of slow driving away, I dozed off, awakening to my mother’s gentle shake.  I went to my room in a half conscious haze, not undressing as I curled into a ball on the center of my bed. I didn’t even need to cover my ears to avoid the sound of Marco’s eventual return.  My sleep was deep and dreamless. 

Before I even opened my eyes I knew it was too early for sunrise.  My hands gingerly roamed across my stomach.  It had never been flat but now when I pressed there was also a new hardness in the middle.  Late March, the doctor had said of my due date.  A changeable time of year when the calendar insisted that spring was imminent but the New England weather often disagreed, unwilling to relinquish its blustery clutch.  I would need to find a local doctor now. 

Alan Durant was going through his morning routine in uncharacteristically quiet fashion.  When I padded down the hall
I could hear low whispers.  I cleared my throat and my parents looked at me, startled. 

“Dad,” I said firmly, “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

He put his coffee cup down.  “You don’t have to dive right in, Angela.  Why don’t you take some time-“

“No,” I shook my head.  “I’m starting today.”

My father stared at me for a long moment with something like grudging respect.  “All right,” he said.  “I’ll be waiting.” 

“You want some breakfast, Angie?” asked my mother.

“Cereal is fine.  I’ll get it.” 

As promised I was at my father’s side in twenty minutes.
  He got into the passenger side of my car and we drove the short distance to the store in silence.     

It was Nancy’s day off so aside from a handful of customers my father and I had plenty of time to talk business. 

“You want to use the Boyles for the counter work?” I asked, rubbing my eyes, my head already uncomfortably full of ledgers and inventory lists.  It had been a long morning. 

He nodded absently.  “
The Boyles are fine.”

“Good.  I’ll go ferret them out today and see when they can start.  Monday morning I’ll visit Berkshire Bank and arrange to have all of my funds transferred from Boston.” 

“Angela,” my father said softly. 

I shook my head.  “I don’t want to hear it Dad.  This is my choice.” 

“No, I wasn’t going to try to talk you out of using your money.”  He smiled ruefully.  “In fact I believe you may be onto something.  There’s some life in this place yet.”  He stared out the window towards Maple Street.  “It may not look like my idyllic vision, but I could have been too quick to despair. I was wrong.”  

I was wrong.
  He looked at me with wide gray eyes, the ones which ran through the Durant line as a curiously dominant trait.  I had them.  Tony had them.  My child would likely have them.  His voice emerged with hoarse difficulty.  “Angela, I am so incredibly proud that you are my daughter.”

I choked out a short laugh.  “Knocked up and all?”

He patted my hand, smiling.  “And all.” 

I left the store in the early afternoon to go search out the Boyles.  Now that we had agreed upon a plan, I was eager to get started.  It wasn’t until I was parked in front of the old Boyle house that
I realized I had no idea if the brothers actually still lived there. 

After walking up the path to the boxy little house which was the same model as my own, I rang the doorbell several times, listening to the echo of silence.  I sighed.  Of course there were any number of people I could
question to track down the Boyle brothers.  But only one kept popping into my head.  I knew it was time to talk to him.  Perhaps a mundane inquiry would go a long way towards breaking the ice between us. 

I got back into my car and drove slowly to my house, dodging the roving bands of kids who were enjoying the afternoon freedom of waning summer.  I
felt a bit lightheaded as I crossed the street and stood on the front porch.  I rapped my knuckles on the heavy front door and waited, not daring to try the knob.  My heart leapt into my throat when I heard the thick sigh of the door being pulled back. 

He was as tall as his brother but not as muscular
.  He smiled at me in a pleasant way but didn’t exude the raw, sexual energy which had taken my breath away one fateful summer afternoon. 

“Angie Durant.  It’s been quite some time.”

I tried to smile back.  “Hello, Damien. Yeah, it’s been a few years.  Sorry, I didn’t know you were in town.”

He gestured toward the curb, laughing.  “No one else in this county drives one of those.”

I swiveled around in confusion.   I’d been so distracted by the concept of seeing Marco that I failed to notice the black Ferrari with New York plates parked in front of his house.  “Impressive,” I muttered. 

Damien leaned against the door jamb, watching me thoughtfully.  “Marco isn’t here right now.  Why don’t you come in for a minute, Angie?”  He raised an eyebrow.  “That way you won’t be able to hang up on me.” 

I looked at the ground.  “Yeah, sorry about that.”  I followed Damien into the Bendetti house.  As I walked into the familiar surroundings my heart contracted a bit, remembering the last time I’d been here. 

Damien headed for the
kitchen.  “Yeah, that cop friend of his came by needing some help.” 

“Tom Hennessy?”

“I think so.  He’s got a broken down Mustang he’s got to sell and Marco’s helping him get into shape.”  Damien opened the refrigerator, peering inside.  “Marco thought I might be able to work something out but in my business I’ve got no use for a derelict unrestored muscle car.” 

I sat in one of the shabby kitchen chairs.  “What is your business, Damien?  I thought you worked on Wall Street.” 

He didn’t look away from the fridge.  “Nope,” was all he said. 

I folded my hands in my lap, feeling a sense of unreality.  I wracked my brain but couldn’t recall a single conversation I’d ever had with Damien
Bendetti. 

Damien drummed his fingers on the fridge.  “Hey you want a drink of…” he paused, “milk?”  He offered
me a bemused smile and I knew in a flash that he was well aware of my pregnancy. 

Without awaiting my answer he
retrieved one of the ugly fish mugs I remembered and carefully filled it with milk, setting it on the table.  Then he cracked open a beer and sat facing me. 

“You know,” he said, peering critically at the Budweiser label, “I never drink this shit except when I’m back here.” 

“Yeah,” I nodded, taking a sip of milk.  “I know the feeling.”  I set the mug back down. So how’s the bar doing?”

Damien brightened.  “Very well actually.  Marco turns out to have a knack
for managing the place which works out well for both of us.”  He shrugged.  “Locals like him, biker crowd likes him and it’s all good for business.” 

“Well, I’m glad.  It’s important to him.” 

Damien’s expression changed, his eyes fixed on my face and serious.  “He’s had a rough time,” he said quietly. 

I met his gaze.  “I know.”

Damien sighed.  “Ma and I, we weren’t sure we’d ever get him back.  I know it eats him alive, that he wasn’t here when she was dying.”  His face crumbled slightly.  “I should have done more.  But you know he was floundering out there getting mixed up in all kinds of shit and I figured that it wasn’t my fucking problem.”  Damien moodily ripped the tab off the can.  “I should have considered the fact that he wasn’t a problem.  He was my damn brother.” 

I looked out the window and across the street at the house I’d grown up in. 

“Brothers,” I said softly, shaking my head.

“Brothers,”
Damien agreed.  “You don’t hear from him much, huh?”

“Tony?  Hell no. And every time we do, we sort of wish we hadn’t.” 

“Well,” said Damien gently.  “Maybe someday, right?”

“Maybe.” 

“What are you going to do, Angela?”

The question caught me off guard in its directness. 

“Well,” I said carefully, “I’m here.  And I plan on staying here.” 

Damien nodded vaguely, as if pleased that I had confirmed something for him. 
“Okay.  I won’t ask you anything else.”

“Can I ask you something
, Damien?”

He looked at me in a guarded
way which reminded me eerily of his brother.  “You can.”

“You mentioned you have no use in your business for a broken down muscle car.  What about a two year old luxury vehicle?”

Damien stared at me, then looked out the window, motioning to my BMW.  “Yours?”

“For now.  But I think you would agree it’s not really Cross Point-
ish.”

He laughed.  “No, it’s not.” 

“I just need something to get me from place to place.  I don’t need a showy ornament. Whatever money I get I’m going to invest in Durant’s.” 

Damien clasped his hands in front of him.  “Well then,”
he said gamely.  “Let’s talk.”

***

Despite my protests Damien had been overly generous.  I supposed the fact that I would be mother to his niece or nephew had something to do with it. 

Mother.

I’d been grappling with the idea of the pregnancy for weeks.  I’d even begun envisioning the child who would eventually emerge.  But as I stopped dead in the middle of Oak Street I let the word ‘Mother’ rattle around in my head for a minute.  It wasn’t what I’d envisioned for myself.  But now that it was happening I yearned for it almost desperately.  

The Hennessy’s garage was open and a scruffy blue Mustang sat in the driveway.  But I saw Marco’s
broad muscular back bent over the hood before I saw anything else. 

Tom Hennessy came around the side of the car, running a hand through his rapidly thinning hair.  “Angela!”
he said with astonishment and Marco jerked as if he’d been shot.  He swore profusely as his head bumped the underside of the hood. 

I stuffed my hands in my pockets.  “Hi
, Tom.”

Tom Hennessy smiled at me, nervously glancing at Marco.  “You looking for this guy?”

“Always,” I whispered, more to myself than to the men, as Marco stared at me silently.  I shook my head.  “But I walked out here to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  See, I’m partnering with my dad at the store.  So I sold my absurdly priced Beamer to get some cash to make some changes.  Thing is, I still need a car.  And I heard you had one you were trying to sell.”

Tom looked doubtfully from me to the Mustang.  “You want this car?”

“Does it run?”

He smiled.  “
Well enough.  Marco’s helped me do some work on it the last few weeks so I could unload it.”

Marco crossed his arms, addressing Tom.  “It still
ain’t in great shape.”

I was annoyed that Marco had yet to acknowledge me.  “Tom?” I asked irritably.  “How long until it
is
in great shape?”

Poor Tom kept glancing between us helplessly.  I recalled how his wife, Cindy, had cursed him out for cleaning out their funds to buy the car in the first place.   I could tell he was intrigued by my offer to take it off his han
ds but was reluctant to upset his best buddy.

“Tell the buyer it’ll be a few days,” said Marco stonily, staring up the street at nothing.

“A few days would be fine, Tom.  What’s your asking price?”

Tom sighed.  “Shit
, Angie, I’d be grateful as hell just to get most of what I paid for it.”

“
And what did you pay for it?”

With some reluctance he
told me and I nodded. 

“
I can cover that.”  I reached into my purse and pulled out my checkbook.  “I’ll give you a $500 deposit.  So do we have a deal, Tom?”

Tom Hennessy breathed a long sigh of relief, but not before earning Marco’s curt nod.   He reached out to shake my hand.  “We do have a deal, Angie.  You know what?  I’m going to go in the house and write something up all legal and official.  Can you hold on a few minutes?”

“I can hold on longer than that,” I said, watching Marco hunker back down into the car’s innards. 

The screen door of the Hennessy house whined to close and the only sound was the click of Marco’s wrench as he grappled with something inside the car.  I waited, refusing to break into pleasa
ntries while he was being a jackass. 

“What’s this about?” he finally asked, still not looking at me.

I crossed my arms.  “You have ears.  You heard.”

Marco tossed the wrench into a metal toolbox in the dr
iveway.  His throw was a little too hard and the tool bounced out and onto the cement.  He sighed heavily and closed the hood of the car, leaning on it with his fists clenched.  His hands were mottled with grease.  The black streaks bled into the tattoos which covered his arms. 

“So you need a car,” he said.  “And you
decided that you need this car?”

“I need a car,” I answered carefully.  “
And I figured why not this car?  Sounds like your pal could really use the money for it.  And,” I lowered my voice, “he’s been a good friend to you.” 

Marco looked at me with a hard expression
, knowing I referred to the other night when Tom had blown off the public scuffle with Krista’s husband.  Tom, as an officer of the law, knew the trouble that could make for a man who had a record.  Marco laughed slightly.