Yesterday's Stardust (30 page)

Two women held the hands of two young boys, maybe five and seven, dressed in matching sailor suits. There was no caption. It was the picture he’d been waiting to show her.

“Could it be…?”

“I think it could be.”

Dani reopened the diary to the place she’d marked with a napkin. Needing some outlet for what felt like a caffeine buzz, she tapped her sandals together under the counter. She had a sudden flashback of watching
Wheel of Fortune
with Grandma Agatha. Sitting on the floor, inching closer and closer to the TV with each added letter until she finally let out a squeal.

Francie’s story was practically writing itself in her head.
I’ll give you something big and meaty, Mitch.
“Okay, back to the mice playing while the cat’s away.”

Francie’s handwriting seemed to change with her mood. The letters in this entry were less slanted and more open. “‘Last night Doris and I went dancing. Doc Cooke was at the White City Ballroom. I wore my yellow chiffon and got so many compliments.’” She moved to the next entry. “‘Saw Louis Armstrong at the Sunset Café. So many men. I know I was being watched, so I was a good girl.’” Dani looked over at Nicky. “See? Told you so.”

She stared at the sculpted Roman nose and the mouth that at this moment laughed at her feigned defense of Francie. She’d found fault with that face when she first met him. Something that wasn’t all together perfect about it. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember what it was. “Read,” he whispered, close enough that the single word wafted garlic-scented heat onto her cheek. People talked about garlic breath as if it was something bad. It wasn’t. Not at all.

Back to the book.
“‘…I danced and danced, but never more than twice with anyone. I didn’t give out my number, and I ducked every kiss.’”

Nicky inched closer. “So that’s the definition of a good girl, huh?”

His eyes smoldered with more passion than one man should be allowed to possess. Her lips parted of their own accord. Her mind played out the leaning in, the lift of her chin, the warmth radiating from his skin even before his—

“Good girls duck every kiss?” He smiled and eased away. Not a teasing smile, it was a look of sweet, shared restraint. “I have dough to punch.” His hand rested over hers for a too-brief moment, and then he got up and walked to the sink and scrubbed his hands.

Dani stared at the heather gray shirt conforming to his back. He hadn’t given her a chance to answer his question. She breathed a silent sigh and went back to Francie’s world. Nicky slammed his fist into a mountain of dough.

“That looks like fun.”
And frustration-relieving.

“Wash up and come here.” He fixed her with a gaze like a heat-seeking missile. “I’ll save the rest for you.”

Was his radar reading what he was doing to her? “Okay.” She closed the diary and slid off the stool.
But I’m warning you…good girls don’t always duck.

Do good boys?

H
eard on the radio of another robbery attempt foiled downtown last night and read in the paper about the police department hiring new men and purchasing more cars.’”

Dani closed the diary and stifled a yawn. “Something’s going to happen soon. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Nicky picked up the last double pan of bread and opened the oven door. “Not to spoil the drama, but you do realize that whatever happens happened over eighty years ago.”

“Spoiler. Must be a blast to watch a suspense movie with you.”

He slid the bread in the oven and set the timer. “I just don’t want you losing touch with reality.”

“And I think it would be good for you to lose yourself in the story. Think of all the ‘what ifs.’ She’s mentioned three people who were killed. One in a police raid on a gambling operation, three during robbery attempts. They could just be people she’s read about in the paper, but something about the way she writes makes it sound like she knows them.”

“So we need to look up those names and cross reference them with all robberies, sting operations, and bad guys gunned down in Chicago in da twenties.” The
Godfather
voice came easy. He’d grown up surrounded by great-uncles who talked that way without pretending.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“A little.” He took the stool across from her. The one next to her looked risky.

“Whatever makes you happy.”

Sitting on that stool would make him happy. “Okay, I’ll behave. Go on.”

“Let’s guess. What do you think happens in the end?”

“T is slaughtered in the Valentine’s Day Massacre, and Francie lives happily ever after on her parents’ farm.”

“Could be. I like that, but we have to get her to Kenosha. Maybe she married somebody from here.”

“My great-grandmother introduced her to a friend of the family, an Italian lover”—he slid his hand across the counter, picked up hers, and kissed the air millimeters above her fingers—“and she became Francine Napoletani or Pontecorvo.” He rested her hand back on the table.

Face flushed, Dani laughed. “Or Fiorini. Maybe she changed her first name, too. Maybe you grew up with her great-grandkids.”

“What do you think she turned out like? Did she have a come-to-Jesus moment and join the Temperance Union with my great-G-ma to atone for the sins of her father?”

“She’s got a few of her own to atone for. She’s apparently hiding stolen goods, so I’d rule out a total life change. And what about Franky? Think he rebelled against his mother’s profession and became a priest?”

“Nah. I can see him joining the mob. Boy had bad blood. He got filthy rich and lived in a penthouse with cute little maids in white aprons peeling grapes for him.”

“I Googled Francine Tillman and Suzette Tillman and didn’t find anything. I didn’t stop to think that if her sister never married, little Franky would have the same last name. We need to see if we can find Frank Tillman,”

“Let’s do it now. Unless you’re too tired?”

She shook her head. Champagne-colored hair glimmered in the overhead lights and slid across her shoulders. “Sleep is a zero, remember?” She picked up her phone. The screen came to life.

“It would be easier on the computer. Follow me.”

Not smart, Fiorini.
A smaller room, with a door that closed automatically. How many waitresses had his father, grandfather, great-grandfather and countless uncles—three generations of philandering Fiorinis—lured into the storeroom?

He opened the door for her and flipped on the light. “This is the all-purpose room. Storage, office, break room.”
Thinking room. Hiding place.

He’d flirted with his share of waitresses over the years but never considered bringing anyone in here. This was his hideaway, his middle-of-the-night sanctuary. He was safe here, maybe even from his own runaway thoughts about the girl in front of him. This was not a place to desecrate, and not a place to share with just anyone.

Then why her? He could have brought the laptop into the kitchen.

He stepped to the side and watched her face as she touched the ceramic-tipped hooks on a wall-mounted mahogany coat rack, then walked over to the only square foot of wall not covered with shelves or hooks. “Beautiful wallpaper.” She bent closer. “It’s embossed. Is it original?”

“Yes. No one’s ever going to take the shelves down to tear it off, so it’ll be here as long as we own the place.”

“I love that. So nostalgic. My parents built three new houses while I was growing up. No sense of family history at all.”

“At least your parents didn’t have to tell you not to chew on the windowsills because you’d end up with brain damage.”

Her soft laugh filled the small space as she ran her hand along the scalloped bottom edge of a shelf.

“These were all cupboards once upon a time. My grandfather took the doors off to make it a more efficient—and junky—space.”

Dani nodded and looked up at the wooden crucifix hanging by the back door. “That looks really old, too.”

“It came from Italy with my great-grandparents.” He fastened the chain lock on the door and propped it open. Night air, several degrees cooler than inside, seeped through the narrow space.

Nicky picked up the three-legged chair, carried it to the desk, pushed the padded desk chair to the side for Dani, and turned on the computer.

“Are you Catholic?” Her voice, so small, seemed to have floated down a long hallway. She still stood in front of the crucifix, staring up.

“I was raised in the church.”

She turned around, crossed her arms, and rubbed them as if she were cold. “And now?”

Now.
He chewed on his bottom lip. He couldn’t put it into words even for himself.

Dani crossed the room, her sandals ticking on the wood floor. She sat down and swiveled to face him. As he stared at the screen coming to life, he balanced on three chair legs and tried to formulate an answer.

“Why is that hard to answer?”

Her hushed question slid over him like a caress. For no definable reason, his eyes stung.

She touched his arm, tentatively at first then conformed her hand to his forearm. “Talk to me.”

He pressed his teeth into his lip, willing the pain to overtake the emotion. He shook his head. He was not going to fall apart in front of her. The pressure on his arm increased, and then she let go. The spot felt cold. She folded her hands on her lap and bent toward him. “What happened four years ago?”

Anyone could have told her. Vito, Todd, Rena. She could have looked back and found his name in the paper she worked for. But if she knew, why was she asking? Just to make him talk? Because asking questions was what she did? She had a right to know. He’d tell her about it, just not now. Not at this time of night or in this room. Not with the smell of baking bread, the heat of summer, bringing it all back. Too sharp. Too vivid.

His fingers curved in toward his palms. He watched them, as if they belonged to someone else. Someone else’s hands covered with blood. Not his. Someone else’s fist jutting at a dark, cloudless sky. He shook his head. “Not now.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw her nod, but he couldn’t see her expression. Was she hurt? Angry?

“Okay,” she whispered. She gestured toward the screen. “Let’s leave all this for another time.” She stood.

He’d pushed her away. She stood less than a foot from him and yet the room already felt empty.
Don’t go. Don’t be mad.
His stomach clenched. They were the words of an eleven-year-old boy running after his mother.
Please stay.

But she wouldn’t. He stared at the door, seeing her walk out even though she hadn’t moved.

At the moment he expected her to say good-bye, she reached toward him. Her hand rested on his cheek. She bent down, lifting his face to hers, and kissed him. Light, soft, too brief. “I’m praying for you, Nicky.”

With a half smile that stopped his next breath, she walked out.

Nicky pulled the sheet over his head and closed his eyes. The cloth touched his lips, making it easier to relive the kiss. But when he closed his eyes, it was too easy to imagine he’d just dreamed it.

“Nick? Can I come in?”

“Sure.” He pulled the sheet down and turned on the lamp as Rena opened the door. She wore plaid shorts and an oversized black T-shirt with an old-fashioned silver microphone sparkling on the front. It brought to mind the shirt she’d given Dani. He’d never gotten a satisfactory answer about what had happened that night. He glanced at the clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning. You really need to sleep once in a while, kid.”

“I was asleep until I heard Dad come home.” She sat down on the end of his bed, curling long legs beneath her. “It’s Gianna’s birthday.”

She knew he knew. Something else was going on here. “I made the cake, if that’s what you mean.”

“I was just thinking…she’d love it if we went to church with her.”

“Church? You?”

One shoulder lifted. The neck of her shirt dipped. What was that on her shoulder?

“I just thought it would be nice to do it for—”

“What’s that?” Ice coursed through his veins as he leaned forward and pointed at her collarbone. The light was bad. It was just a shadow.