A grin broke out on his face. “You want me that bad, huh?”
I sputtered, indignant. “Pardon me? I do not want you.” My arm muscles twitched as I contemplated whether to strangle him. “What I meant was, I hope I’m not related to the maniac who stood there on the bluff and watched me nearly plummet to my death.”
“I saw you get up. You looked okay to me. You’ll probably stay clear of the bluff from now on, huh?” He stepped to one side. “Come on in. I’ll tell Papa B you’re here.”
I glared at him as I entered the foyer. Who was he, anyway? The right-hand man of the local godfather? Next to me, a grand stairway shot straight up to the second floor. Dark cherry floors and woodwork against a backdrop of bare, white walls gave the interior a clean, uncluttered feel. The Spartan approach to decorating made me wonder if the house was just some elaborate bachelor pad. How could a woman resist a throw rug at the front door or a plant in the corner?
“Well, are you coming?” he said over his shoulder.
I hurried to keep up. We stepped out of the hall and into a room that stretched the entire width of the house. One end served as a dining area, the other the living room. Wall-to-wall windows framed the view of the bay. On the opposite shore, a row of historic buildings made the snowy scene look like a Currier and Ives rendering.
“Patricia.”
I turned at the sound of my grandfather’s voice. The attractive seventy-ish man approached me with a smile and held me in a gentle embrace. He stepped back and looked toward the plaid-shirt guy.
“You’ve met Gerard, my brother Sid’s oldest boy Owen’s son.”
His attempt at explaining the relationship left me dizzy. I looked toward Gerard. He gave me a mischievous double eyebrows-up as if letting me know I was eligible to be on his radar.
I rolled my eyes.
“Joel,” my grandfather called over his shoulder. “Get in here and meet Patricia.”
A man entered from the front of the house, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.
Gerard dropped into a lounge chair. “My derelict little brother.”
I had no doubt which side of the family my height came from. Cousin Joel towered as tall as the other two Russo men. His light brown hair was disheveled. His moustache made him seem a younger copy of his great-uncle Bernard. A black sweatshirt and blue jeans showed traces of flour.
He nodded. “Patricia.”
“Hi.” My smile must have stretched from ear to ear. I was so excited to have cousins—boy cousins. Finally, the playmates I never had. I wanted to run outside and throw a football or something.
I looked at the strapping men. “You know, that Patricia stuff is a little too formal for family. I think you guys qualify to call me Tish.”
“Sounds like a sneeze,” Gerard said in his dry, cynical way.
My grandfather glowered in his direction. Puppa turned back to me. “Patricia is a lovely name. I wouldn’t dream of shortening it.”
“Uh . . .” I squirmed. “I kind of like the name Tish better. Do you mind?”
“Of course he minds,” the brash Gerard piped up. “That’s the name Eva and Beth called you. He wouldn’t be 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.”