Yes, mostly. Because he knew exactly how his grandmother felt about his mother. The past’s hard grip resurfaced, like claws clamping down on his throat, and his newfound voice. The familiar urge to lock up his history kicked in. But he fought back. “I say that because she doesn’t know I actually visit my mom still.”
“Ah, I understand,” Sophie said softly. “I imagine it would be hard for her to accept that’s something you want. But it’s clearly important to you to see your mom.”
My God, it was like morning sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Talking to Sophie was lightness, it was patience, and it was safety. He barely had to explain a thing. She simply understood it all. She got it, and him. But he didn’t want Sophie to think he was a liar. “It’s not that I hide it from my grandma, per se. And I think she knows on some level, because she’s aware that I go there for Christmas and other times. But I don’t tell her about all the visits. I didn’t tell her I went earlier in the week, for instance. Or that I’m going again next weekend. Guess it just didn’t seem like something it was important for her to know.”
“How often do you visit?”
“I try to see her once or twice a month. Sometimes more, sometimes less.” He sighed heavily. “She gets her hours cut now and then because she acts up.”
“Acts up?”
He looked away, focusing on the steady breathing of his dog on the floor by an air conditioning vent, on the regular up and down motion of the Border Collie’s chest, his black and white fur fluttering lightly. “She’s not…,” he said, tapping the side of his skull. “She’s…” He let his voice trail off again. A lump rose in his throat. This was so hard to say. “She’s not all there,” he said, practically kicking the words past his lips.
Not only was his mother branded a murderer, not only was she the orchestrator of a gang-led shooting, she was also barreling down the path to insanity. He saw the evidence each time he visited her.
Sophie reached for his hand, threaded her fingers through his, and held on tight. “It all must be so hard,” she said softly, and then she quickly moved on. He could kiss her—for the segue and for knowing one was needed. “Who are you closest to among your siblings? I only have one, obviously, so it’s an easy answer for me. But you’ve got three. That must be a different story.”
A small smile returned to his face. He could do this. He’d made it through the harder topic. His brothers and sister were way more manageable. “On the surface, I guess Michael, since we run a business together and we were in the army together. And we are a great team when it comes to the company. But Michael and I don’t always see eye to eye. About my mom,” he added.
“How so?”
“He never visits her, and he doesn’t like that I do. So we’re close, but sometimes that causes problems. Shannon has gone with me a bunch of times to Hawthorne, so in some ways, I’m closer to her. She still talks to my mom and gets her letters. But,” he said, stopping to take a drink of his wine, then setting it on the table, “that’s not what defines us. That’s not what our family is all about. I mean, it did for a long time in the eyes of strangers. But we’re more than that. We all support each other and love each other and look out for each other. A few years ago, once we were all back in Vegas, the four of us got together and bought our grandparents a house. The one they live in now. It was our way of giving back to them after all they did to help raise us right and make sure we didn’t turn out more fucked up than we were,” he said, with a light scoff. “We were pretty messed up, Sophie.”
She shot him a gentle smile that said she understood.
“We kind of wanted it to be a surprise, but it was hard to buy a surprise house, since we wanted them to like it. Colin’s the money guy though, so he was able to get it all going. The idea was his in the first place. He mentioned it to me once when we were shooting hoops. And, back to your question, sometimes it seems like I’m closest to him. He’s the youngest, and Michael’s kind of taken on a fatherly role. Colin and I feel more like we’re equal brothers. With Michael, sometimes it feels like he still thinks he has to look out for all of us, even though he’s only two years older.”
Sophie laughed. “Let me tell you, I completely understand that older brothers can be a total pain in the ass,” she said with a knowing smile, and he matched her grin. Something was changing between them now that the veil of secrecy had been removed. Her brother had once been the cause of a rift, and now she was able to make a joke about the guy.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. I’ll keep your brother out of this, so I don’t get in trouble again with the woman I want.”
“You’re not in trouble at all,” she said, returning to her pizza.
“Now about that peach pie. It was your mom’s recipe. Was she a baker?”
She shook her head. “She was a teacher. But she was an amazing ‘pie mistress,’” she said, stopping to sketch air quotes. “That’s what my dad called her.”
“And he ran the fruit stand?”
She nodded. “What about your dad?”
“Cab driver, then a limo driver. For the last year, he was going to night school. Taking some accounting classes to try to get a better job. Mom was a seamstress,” he said finishing off another slice. “And, don’t laugh, but she had a dream to make dog jackets.” He glanced over at Johnny Cash lying on the floor. “She’d probably make one for him if she could. But they don’t let inmates have sewing machines in prison,” he said, the corner of his lips quirking up. For the first time in ages he’d managed to make a joke about his sad family history.
After they cleaned up, he pointed to the shopping bag with the dress in it in the living room. “I’m thinking now would be a great time for you to show me that peach dress.”
“I would love to give you a fashion show.”
She retreated to his bedroom, and while she was changing, he programmed in soft music on his stereo, hunting for the kind of songs she might like. He remembered “Fly Me to the Moon” was her ringtone. She might not want to hear that one again, so he chose another Sinatra number and let the crooner’s voice float through his house. He dimmed the lights in the living room. Stars winked on and off through the windowpane.
“What do you think?”
He turned around to see Sophie twirl for him, then stop and strike a pose. She looked extraordinary in a white pinup dress with a peach pattern, and the silver shoes she’d picked up at the Grand Canal shops.
“That you look edible. But I’m not going there just yet. For now, I want to do what we did on our first date,” he said, walking over to her and running his fingers through her soft, blond hair. She lifted her chin to look at him.
The look in her eyes just plain melted him as he wrapped his arms around her. He’d never seen a person so happy as Sophie simply to dance with him on the hardwood floors of his living room, as Sinatra crooned.
“I liked talking to you,” he said, his lips brushing her hair.
“I liked listening to you,” she said as they swayed.
“You make it easy.”
“It shouldn’t have to be hard. This,” she said, and he knew what she meant by “this.”
“Us,” he echoed. “And it’s not hard. It’s incredible.”
* * *
As he held her, she flashed back to some of her sweetest memories, her most potent images of love—her parents slow dancing together at night, and her mother’s words, too. “Make time for kisses, and meals, and each other, and dance under the stars and to the music, and dream together.”
This was her dream, and she was close, closer than she’d ever been, to having it.
* * *
Lick. Lick. Lick.
The next morning, a long tongue slurping across her cheek greeted Sophie. Yawning, she opened her eyes to find a black-and-white Border Collie kissing her face and wagging his tail.