caught dead using that name for his little princess.”
My eyes dropped to the floor at the mention of my mother and grandmother. Besides, me a princess? Maybe in some other life. I glanced up. The clouds had thickened as they moved across the bay. The room darkened with their approach.
Joel wadded up his towel. “Supper’s almost ready.” He left the room.
“Need any help?” I tossed my coat onto a nearby chair and ran after him. He seemed by far the least volatile of the Russo clan. I skirted the dining table and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.
The room had a long chopping board island down the center. Chunks of lettuce, shreds of carrots, and evidence of broccoli lay scattered on the surface. Worn cupboards in the same dark wood as the rest of the house circled the perimeter. A fry pan on the oversized gas stove sent up a cloud of meat-scented steam.
“That smells delicious.” I poked my nose in the air and gave a whiff. “What is it?”
“Tenderloin.”
He lifted the lid and stirred the contents.
“Mmm. Thanks for having me down tonight,” I said, hoping to break the ice.
“Wasn’t my idea.” He put the lid back on, set down the spatula, and wiped his hands on the front of his sweatshirt.
“O-kay.” I blew off the comment. “So, when is everyone else getting here?”
“Everyone else, like who?”
“Like all the people Puppa said couldn’t wait to meet me. You know, all the aunts and uncles and cousins that live around here.”
Joel shook his head. “I’ve got news for you. There are no other relatives. Me and Gerard are it, little cousin.”
I crossed my arms. He might be taller than me by several inches, but I had to be older than him by at least two years. Who did he think he was calling “little cousin”?
“What about Olivia?” I asked. Jim Hawley had mentioned the matriarch of the Russo clan.
“She’s in her room. Says she won’t come out to meet you.”
“Won’t come out to meet me?” I stared at the gaps in the chopping block. Hurt oozed from some long-healed wound on my heart. “Can’t be anything I did, right?”
Joel shook his head. “You want the sugarcoated version or the straight version?”
I gulped. “Sugarcoated, please.”
He pulled a bowl of lettuce topped with shredded carrots from the fridge.
“She didn’t like your mom.”
“That’s it? So now she doesn’t want to meet me?”
“You said you wanted it sugarcoated. Put this on the table, please.” He passed the salad to me. I staggered through the swinging door and placed the bowl on one end of the stretched-out dining set. Even though the table could seat about twelve people, there were only four of us tonight.
I looked at the far end of the room. Cousin Gerard and my grandfather sat in flavorless brown upholstery, watching me. Gerard leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn’t wait to get his fingers on a fork. Puppa’s hands gripped the ends of his recliner as if reluctant to ever get out of it.
Well, he had to face me sometime. And so did Olivia. She wasn’t getting off the hook so easily. I didn’t care what she thought of my mother. It was probably some inane gripe, anyway.
I scooted back into the kitchen. “So,” I said to Joel, “if that’s the sugarcoated version, what’s the straight version?”
He gave me a look that asked if I really wanted to know. I gave him a look that said lay it on me.
He walked to the sink and started banging around some dirty pans. “The straight version is that Olivia blames your mother for the death of her son, my grandpa Sid. And when you get to be ninety-three years old, I suppose if you want to hold a grudge against someone, who’s going to stop you?”
I sputtered. “What do you mean, she blames my mother? Mom would never have killed anybody. She didn’t have it in her.”
He gave me a look that asked if I really wanted to go down that path. I blinked. I’d killed somebody, hadn’t I? And I’d done it because I’d been sure my mother would have done the same thing. Maybe I didn’t want to go down that road just yet.
“Truce,” I said and raised my hands in the air in mock surrender. “Olivia can have her grudge for now.”
Joel excused himself to deliver a tray of food to the stubborn woman. When he returned, we sat at the dinner table, the four of us, in near silence as we ate.
I looked at the strong faces that surrounded me and wondered what events had shaped their lives the past three decades. How had they all ended up living in the same house? Where were the wives and the children? Where were all the aunts and uncles and cousins? The three of them seemed like star-crossed heroes from some skewed Greek tragedy. The sad thing was, I fit right in.
I couldn’t take the silence anymore. “The tenderloin is delicious,” I said.
Gerard answered. “Shot it opening day. Big eight-pointer.”
These guys even spoke Greek. “What do you mean?” I asked. “This is beef, right?” My stomach clenched while I waited for affirmation.
“Venison. Joel makes it better than anybody I know.” Gerard dug in for another bite.
I set my fork down and reached for the water glass in front of me, hoping to wash down the taste. Deer meat? I couldn’t eat a deer. I pictured the beautiful doe I’d encountered on my walk the other day. How could anyone shoot such a lovely creature?
I stuck to the salad and rice and bread for the remainder of the meal. Afterward, the men worked together to clean up the kitchen while I spun in useless circles trying to figure out their system.
Joel threw a washcloth in my direction. “Go wipe off the table, Tish.”
“Yes, Patricia,” my grandfather reiterated, “please wipe off the table.”
Joel rolled his eyes and I tried not to laugh as I headed to the dining room. I had a feeling my grandfather should give up trying to put polish on those two boys.
With the kitchen spic and span, we all got a cup of coffee and sat in the living room. A million questions flitted through my mind. I decided to start with the most basic ones.
“So how’d you all end up living here together?”
Gerard spoke first. “I wouldn’t be caught dead living with these meatheads. I live in the village. Orchard Street.”
His reference to the village reminded me that I had to fulfill my obligation to Melissa Belmont. I’d do it later, when I could get my grandfather alone.
Joel leaned back in his chair. “If it weren’t for me living here, this place would fall apart at the seams. And I’m not about to let my inheritance go to shreds.” He gave my grandfather a long look. I could feel the tension rising.
“This is the Russo homestead,” my grandfather said without breaking eye contact with Joel. “It belongs to Patricia as well as you two.”
“Only after you’re dead,” Joel replied.
All eyes in the room narrowed. Except mine, which grew huge at the thought of a fistfight breaking out.
“Don’t worry about me,” I threw in. “I don’t need any homestead. I’ve got too much gypsy in me.”
My grandfather took a deep breath. “I’d say you got that from your father.”
The three men relaxed now that they had a new target for their bottled-up rage.
I bristled at the shot. “So where is dear old Dad, anyway?”
“Hopefully as far from Port Silvan as he can get,” Gerard piped up.
My eyes started to water. I blinked fast. There was no way these big buffoons were going to see me cry.
“Gerard.” My grandfather jerked in his grand-nephew’s direction. His tone was sharp. “Watch your manners.”
Gerard looked to the floor. “Yes, sir.”
The tears weren’t going away. One escaped and landed on the back of my hand.
