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.
I stood up. “Well, this was so much fun”—I grabbed for my coat—“I hope we can do it again sometime.”
I was at the end of the hallway before my grandfather made a halfhearted attempt to stop my hasty departure.
“Patricia! Patri—”
His voice disappeared when I slammed the front door behind me.
10
I couldn’t tell which blinded me more, the snow or the tears. I kept my speed around twenty miles an hour while I picked my way home through the latest blizzard conditions.
How could I have had such totally wrong expectations of the Russos? All the information leading up to tonight had pointed to a dysfunctional unit, but still I’d clung to the fairy-tale hope of smiling, happy people who would love me, accept me, and invite me to be part of their family.
All my hopes dashed again. I had to quit going down the trail of optimism and stick with my tried-and-true pessimistic outlook on life. You couldn’t be disappointed by dreams you never had.
By the time I pulled down my drive, it was clogged with more snow. I hoped Jim Hawley would make another swing through in the morning. I couldn’t take the thought of getting stuck all alone in these miles of woods for the rest of the winter. I didn’t want to end up like Jack in The Shining.
I cut the engine and trekked through the drifts into the house. To top the whole night off, I’d let Melissa Belmont down. I’d had the opportunity to share her situation with my grandfather, and I’d passed it up because of some lame comment about my dad. Poor Missy. She should lean on someone with more backbone.
I locked up and climbed the stairs to my cozy bedroom. There was still the opportunity to tell Candice LeJeune of Missy’s dilemma. She’d know what to do. I’d see her on Thursday for tea.
I opened the slim drawer of my bedside table and blew a kiss toward the two halves of my mother’s picture.
“Night, Mom,” I whispered.
I turned out the light.
I dragged through Wednesday with my pessimistic attitude firmly in place as I removed the layer of old yellow wax from the linoleum in my mother’s bedroom. I ran through my list of dashed expectations while I rubbed. The heating guy was never going to return my call. Missy would never leave her husband. Brad and I were never going to be an item. I was never going to get a decent price for this piece-of-junk cottage. I was never even going to find a buyer for it. In fact, I was going to rot back in these woods.
Cheery ring tones broke through my downward spiral.
It was the heating guy.
“Yah, no problem. I can take a look at your place on Friday,” he said with his U.P. twang.
I sighed in relief. At least that was taken care of.
Instead of giving the black voice in my head another chance to berate my future, I put on my boots and went for a walk.
My head cleared the instant fresh air hit my lungs. Powdery white puffs flew with each step. Jim Hawley apparently hadn’t thought the new round of snow merited plowing. Halfway up my road, I saw the doe. I stopped and put out my hand, making kissy sounds like I had done the first time I’d seen her. She stared at me. Her ears twitched with curiosity. I took a step closer. She stiffened. I took another step. She stayed rooted in place. I stepped closer . . . closer . . . She turned and ran.
“Goodbye, little deer,” I called after her. Next time I’d put an apple in my pocket. One of these days, she’d come to me. I was sure of it.
I finished a three-mile loop, keeping clear of the bluff this time. I made it back to the house just as darkness fell. I threw together a quick supper, grabbed a book, and wilted onto the sofa. When the letters on the pages started to divide and multiply, I climbed off to bed.
Thursday was my tea date with Candice. I tinkered around in the morning so I wouldn’t get grungy enough to have to take another shower. After a light lunch, I put on my finest blue sweater. A silky bow tied it shut at the side. I slipped on the slacks that completed the outfit. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I’d bought the pair for a date back in Rawlings. The guy had turned out to be a conman. Thankfully all he’d stolen from me was my heart. I realized now that I’d given it to him all too willingly. I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
I smoothed the fuzzy fabric and put my jean jacket over it. I’d have to get to Manistique again soon for a proper winter coat, before I froze from exposure in my lightweight denim.
I let the Explorer warm up, then headed toward Port Silvan, once again taking a left at the cider mill sign before town.
Jim Hawley was just pulling out of Candice’s drive in his plow truck as I turned in. I waved and sent a telepathic message to please plow my road before the next storm rolled through.
I parked on the cleared area and went up the shoveled walk. Candice met me at the door.
“Glad you made it, Tish,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek as I entered. A crackling fire and a row of flickering candles on the mantel lent an extra measure of warmth to the room.