All the Good Parts (14 page)

CHAPTER 16

“You haven’t told her yet.”

“I will.”

“You need to tell her
soon
.”

“Or you will?”

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “But I’ll make your life miserable shaming you into it.”

“I’m shamed enough as it is. I want to do it properly. I’ve got to get it right in my head before I talk to your sister. A little time. That’s all I’m asking.”

Donal started driving. The van lumbered through the suburban streets, aimless and awkward, like us.

“You look like a complete mess,” I said. “You know that, right?” His greasy hair hung long over his ears. He wore a flannel splattered with something that resembled carrot soup, and his work jeans, generally worn but clean, looked like he’d tossed them on after taking a run with the bulls.

He glanced over at me. “You aren’t exactly a vision yourself.”

My long-sleeve T-shirt, damp with perspiration, advertised a local pizza joint. My running tights had such stretched-out knees they looked like doorknobs. I couldn’t find any hair bands, so strands stuck to the side of my face, the damp ends growing chilly.

Donal sighed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just—I feel like digging a hole and climbing in.”

I moved to pat his shoulder and stopped, thinking about what Carly said. He should be fighting for his family. He didn’t need my sympathy; he needed a fire lit under his ass. “What did Kara say about preparing for court?”

“She didn’t. She only confirmed I’ve got the hearing scheduled in two weeks’ time. After I tell Carly, we’ll talk about the best course of action.”

“You’ve got to be proactive. Have Kara give you specific advice based on her experience. That’s what you’re paying for, isn’t it?”

Donal went quiet for a long moment before saying, “Do you think it matters, Lee? I’m fucked.”

“We all are if this doesn’t work out, so I’d say you need to press her for details. What’s the exact date of the hearing?”

“First of November. All Saints’ Day. Think that’s good luck or bad?”

A few days after the surprise birthday celebration. How would we make it through the party without our fear spilling out like beer from a tipped cup? “I don’t think it matters one way or the other. Good planning makes luck irrelevant.”

Donal stopped at a light and turned to me. “That doesn’t sound like you. Something’s made you different. What is it? Is it the baby thing?”

I shrugged off his question. We drove out of our suburb, through the vibrant forest preserve, and onto the more crowded blocks as we neared the city. The blocks turned familiar, landmarks popping in my head.

“I know where we are,” I said. “Make a right on the next block.”

“Park here,” I said, and we rolled to a stop in front of the Pietrowski residence. I sat there, staring at Jerry’s front door. A beige drop cloth covered the stoop, and a can of paint, a brush, and a roller were shoved into the crevice between the railing and the door. Paul was there. Somewhere. Lurking.

Donal killed the ignition. “Are we going to rob this place?”

“This is where Jerry lives.”

“The amputee?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t he fire you?”

“His son did, yeah.”

“Did he welsh on your final paycheck? Want me to rough him up?”

I took in my brother-in-law, jittery with caffeine and skinny as a rail, and laughed. “I’ll do the roughing up, if necessary. Let’s just sit here a minute while I grow a set of balls.”

Donal leaned back and crossed his arms, watching me carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman do that before. This morning has taken an interesting shift into the miraculous wonders of fringe science.”

Ready, I unclicked my seat belt. I was going to say goodbye to Jerry properly, whether Paul liked it or not. I wasn’t going to let him bully or threaten me. I wasn’t going to hear the word “no.” He demanded I better myself? Well, this was the better me, and he’d just have to deal with it.

Paul lumbered around the side of the house, carrying another can of paint and some mixing sticks.

“Holy shite! You didn’t mention his son was Hulk Hogan. You are definitely doing any roughing up today. A couple of rounds with him and I’ll be begging to be deported.”

We watched Paul mix the paint, massive arm in motion.

“Sure to cause a paint tsunami,” Donal muttered.

Paul worked methodically, so completely focused he didn’t notice us until he stood to pour the paint into a tray. His eyes caught mine, and I squirmed in my seat.
Do not chicken out, better Leona. Do not chicken out.

I took a deep breath and tried to exit the van casually, tossing Paul a nonchalant wave that he met with a look of utter perplexity.

“What are you doing here? I paid your final check.”

“I never got a chance to say goodbye to Jerry,” I said, my voice sounding too loud, too strained. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

Paul walked slowly toward me, stopping just a little too close. It was a big man’s trick, meant to intimidate. “It’s not possible,” he said, shrugging. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t give this well-meaning woman a chance to say goodbye to someone she cared for,” said Donal from behind me. I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Why are you giving her such a hard time? Lee’s a good person. You must know that if you spent more than five minutes with her.”

“I never said she wasn’t,” Paul answered, giving Donal a long look. “My father is at the doctor’s office.”

My mouth dropped open. “He
drove
? Are you nuts?”

Paul wiped his hands on a towel hanging from the pocket of his jeans. “You’re a man of the trades, aren’t you?” he said, addressing Donal.

“I do well enough.”

“I’d like to speak with Ms. Accorsi privately for a moment, but that paint needs to be used sooner rather than later. Do you mind?”

“Do I need to worry about the private nature of this conversation?”

I almost missed it, but Paul’s thin mouth hooked up at the corner. For him, this was a grin. “I promise to be a gentleman.”

“Then I think I can manage slapping a bit of paint on,” Donal said tersely, and he immediately got to work, a paintbrush as familiar to him as his hand. Paul watched him for a moment, then, satisfied my brother-in-law wasn’t going to splatter the concrete with forest-green droplets, gestured for me to follow him into the house.

I’d only been gone a week, but it smelled different, more antiseptic, more like a hospital.

“Would you like some tea?” Paul asked as he filled a kettle. “It’s peppermint. Good for digestion.”

“I haven’t eaten anything to digest.”

He looked momentarily flummoxed. “Oh, well, would you like something to eat? I made some fresh hummus. Chickpeas are more beneficial for women because they help keep hormones in balance—” He ran a hand over his flushed cheek. Paul was nervous, or possibly suffering from the strain of being polite to me.

“That would be nice,” I said dryly, his nerves fueling my sarcasm. “My hormones will appreciate the treat.”

Paul busied himself preparing a plate. I watched the muscles of his back and arms, the thick cords of his neck, the slow movements of his thick fingers, the pains with which he took to adjust his movements to the delicate task at hand. After carefully arranging some carrot sticks and cucumber slices around the bowl of hummus, he poured the tea and joined me at the table. “My father is with his new caregiver, Mrs. Lim. He’s being fitted for a prosthesis today.”

My heart took a dive. That was something I’d promised to do but never came through. “That’s . . . good.”

“He didn’t want to go. I had to promise a martini and a carton of Rocky Road would be waiting for him when he got back.”

I wanted to laugh, but the sound that came out held too much grief. Paul blanched at the show of emotion, but we were seated across the very small table, making it impossible for him to look away.

“Why do you think he resisted it so much?” I finally asked. “Resisted
me
so much. What did I do wrong? I really want to know.”

“It’s his depression,” Paul said quickly, evidently having given the topic a lot of thought. He dunked a carrot into the thick hummus and ate it in one bite. “He’s stubborn and reactive. I think he read a story about a man getting a life-threatening infection from chafing against the rubber. But maybe that’s an excuse. I honestly don’t know sometimes.” He paused. “He felt safe with you. I don’t think he ever wanted to leave the house when you were here.”

It shouldn’t have, but something about what he was saying warmed me from the inside. Jerry enjoyed the time we spent together. That meant something. “I miss him,” I admitted.

“You do?” Paul’s surprise wasn’t meant to be insulting. At least I didn’t think so. He honestly seemed surprised.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I’m not sure what to think about you.” Paul made a huge project of spooning some hummus on a flimsy slice of cucumber. “Now that I’ve paid you and our business relationship is terminated, I think I have a right to ask what you were speaking to my father about on that last day.”

I wanted to tell him, and I didn’t. To buy some time I said, “What does paying me have to do with it? Not everything in life is a transaction.” I tilted my head, studying him for a moment. He was tough to figure out—a methodical, rational, and seemingly insensitive man who’d rearranged his entire life to spend more time with his father, though the two apparently tolerated each other, at best. “So what do you do for a living? Jerry never mentioned.”

“Patent lawyer,” Paul said flatly. “Not very exciting or lucrative.”

“Then why did you choose it?”

He popped the cucumber in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed with purpose. “I’ve always admired inventors. People who make something out of nothing. I knew I didn’t have the flexible brain required for that kind of work, but I wanted to be part of it somehow. I have a small firm, me and a few assistants, basically. I make my own hours, which I’m appreciating more and more as I get older.”

“Because of your father?”

“Mostly.” Paul shifted in his chair. “How I spend my time is not very exciting. You were going to tell me something of more interest.”

“I don’t want to be judged. You seem like a judger.”

He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. For the first time, he reminded me of Jerry. “That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

“Why do you have such a hard time with someone like me?” he asked.

“Which is?”

“Someone who knows what they believe in. I believe in judgment. Judgment is good. Without it we’d still be hanging out in caves and rubbing two sticks together when we wanted to get warm.”

“So you are going to judge.”

“Probably. If you were a stronger person, that wouldn’t bother you.”

I thought about what Carly said about living a passive life. I would be the opposite. A fighter. A
fearless
fighter. “If I tell you, will you let me see Jerry again?”

“That seems counterintuitive.”

“I’ll let you judge me all you want. I need five minutes to say goodbye. I think that’s fair.”

Paul studied me for a long moment, and I tried not to flinch. “I can agree to those terms,” he said, pushing himself back from the table. He dropped an uneaten cucumber onto his plate and crossed his massive arms over his chest, straining the seams of his shirt. “Why were you in my father’s room, sobbing on his shoulder?”

“He’d done something beautiful.”

Paul barked a laugh. “We’re talking about Jerry Pietrowski, right?”

“You underestimate him.”

“What beautiful thing did he do?”

I swallowed. “I want a baby, and your father offered to help me have one.”

Paul blinked, shock pulling his features slack.
“What?”

“I’m thirty-nine, and I want a baby. I think I’ve always wanted one, though I’ve only just admitted to myself how much.”

“So you decided my father was the best candidate for sperm donor? Unless . . . were you after something more?” A small vein popped on the side of his neck, swift as a garden snake. I watched it pulse, unable to look him in the eye any longer. “Jesus Christ,” he continued, “were you planning on sleeping with him?”

I took a deep breath. It was almost painful to make eye contact, but I forced myself to, so he’d know I was telling the truth. “Of course not. He offered to donate what I needed.”

Paul’s face grew mottled. “I don’t know if that’s worse or not.”

“I’m aware it’s not the conventional method, but it’s the one I’m pursuing,” I said primly, trying to collect my scattered dignity. “I would never have agreed to what your father was willing to do. I was crying because he offered.”

“That made you cry?” Paul seemed honestly stumped. “Why?”

“Because your father is still in love with your mother, that’s why.”

“My mother’s been dead for two years. I don’t see the connection.”

Paul’s thought process was so literal, his line of reasoning so taut, unwilling to dip into areas he deemed uncomfortable. I understood why Jerry got so frustrated with him, and I tried to keep myself calm when I said, “You know that photo of your mother next to his bed? He gazes at it like a lovesick teenager. He kisses his index finger and touches her mouth before he takes a nap. Ever notice half of the medicine cabinet is empty? It’s like he’s waiting for her to come back. Did it ever occur to you that he misses her more than he misses his arm?”

I don’t know what I expected from Paul, but it wasn’t anything like what he did. He left the room. My internal debate began—should I follow him? Leave him alone?—but before I could come up with a course of action, he was back, carrying a photo album.

“Take a look at these,” he said gruffly, dropping the heavy book in front of me. It was sloppily put together, photos falling out of sleeves and peeking out of the pages. I lifted the cover carefully and was met by Jerry and Anna’s wedding photo. Jerry’s smile outshined the pomp and circumstance of his dress blues, while Anna wore a white tiered minidress and go-go boots, the model of ’60s carefree living. Her golden hair hung long and straight, and I knew if I could travel back in time and run my hand through it, it would feel like silk.