Loose Screws (17 page)

“So you were afraid to even try.”

“I didn't
want
to try. That's not the same as being afraid to.”

“Isn't it?”

“Jesus, Nedra!”

“Sorry.”

I let out a bark of laughter.

“All right, I'm not sorry. Because it kills me that you'd rather spend your life decorating other people's houses, executing somebody else's vision, than expressing your own.”

“And has it ever once occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, I
like
what I'm doing?”

“I think you've convinced yourself you do.”

My arms fly up in defeat before I spin around, tromp back to my room. Seconds later, the guard chain rattles against the door as my mother leaves again.

Why
do I argue with her? There's a better chance of settling differences between the Palestinians and the Israelis than between my mother and me, yet I keep falling for the bait, over and over again.

My throat inexplicably clogged, I cram all the stuff back into the closet. When things settle down a bit, I'll see about chucking it completely—

“Is everything all right,
cara?
”

Nonna stands in the doorway, her hands loosely clasped in front of her stomach, her still-dark brows tightly drawn. I sigh.

“Nedra and I had a fight.”

“That much I could tell,” she says with a slight smile. “The apartment, she isa not that big. She wants you to take up your painting again,
sì?

“As if I could.”

“Why not?”

“Because that's simply not what I do anymore, Nonna. Or who I am.”

She comes into my room, perches on the end of my bed, reaches up to pull me down beside her. “You think your talent, she is no more?”

I wasn't ready to think about that too hard, so all I said was, “Painting was a part of my life at a time when I needed an outlet for everything I was going through after Papa died. I don't need it anymore. That's all.”

I've outgrown that closet, too.

Her hand feels weightless and soft in mine. But when she squeezes it, she passes to me what feels like the concentrated strength of every generation of womanhood that has come before her. Her eyes, dark and far too assessing, find mine.

“Your mama, she is not—
Come sei dice?
—diplomatic, no? But I think maybe she speaks more truth than you are willing to hear.” She pulls me over to place a whisper of a kiss on my forehead. “Your painting, she comes froma
your soul. I also do not think it is a good thing to deny your soul what it needs to say.”

You know, all I ask of life right now is a single ally.

“Nonna, I—”

My cell phone rings, hidden somewhere in the room like a phantom cricket. While we both search for the damn thing—Nonna finally unearths it from underneath the bedclothes—I try to compose myself. Only to have that tenuous composure shot to hell the minute I say hello.

“Christ, it's about damn time you answered your cell! And what's this I hear about you gettin' smoked out of your new apartment?”

Now I know what it feels like to be in direct line for an asteroid hit.

Nonna has shuffled out of the room, taking a thousand years of woman strength with her. “Please don't yell at me, Nick,” I say softly. “I'm not in the mood.”

I hear an expelled breath on the other end. “Hell, Ginger, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come on so strong. But Jesus H. Christ—I try callin' your regular phone and get nothin'. So I try the cell, still get nothin'. So I get worried, thinkin'…” Another sigh. “I don't mean to sound negative, but it's like every time I turn around, somethin' else has happened to you.”

“Tell me about it.” Then I say, because it's taken this long to work through, “You were worried about me? Why?”

“Because, like I said, it's like you got a sign on your back or something that says Kick Me. So I figure it wouldn't hurt to check up on you. And Paula's been on my case, big-time, wanting to know how you're doin'.”

“So how come Paula didn't call?”

“If I couldn't get through, how could she?”

Good point. “So…how'd you find out about the fire?”

“I finally went over to your old apartment this morning, hoping maybe one of your neighbors might know something. One of the guys who lives across the hall from you—the black dude?—said you'd just called them, that you were back with your mother?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“I take it this calls for condolences?”

“Hey. You've met my mother.”

“That was for two minutes, maybe, more than ten years ago.”

“And I bet you remember, with crystal clarity, every second of that meeting, don't you?”

He chuckles. “Now that you mention it, yeah. I do. But people change.”

“People, maybe. Nedra, no.” I flop back on my bed, the back of my hand draped dramatically over my eyes. You know, I have no idea why he called. And you know what else? I really don't care. Sure, the man's pushy and borderline obnoxious, but at the moment he's all I've got. It occurs to me, if I let the tears come right now, he wouldn't consider it a sign of feminine weakness. I might, but he wouldn't. So I let them come.

“I've had it, Nick,” I say, my voice all wobbly. “Up until a month ago, things were going great, you know? Then bam, bam, bam—no wedding, no job, no home, no home—again—no dog…”

“The dog? What happened to the dog?”

I explained about Curtiss and the will. I wasn't sobbing or anything, just occasionally sniffling. Just enough to apparently make the big old tough cop on the other end of the line go all gentle and stuff. Which was fine by me.

“Hey,” he says. “How's about you come out here for the Fourth?”

Tissue pressed to my nose, I say, “Out…where?”

“Here. Brooklyn. My place. Well, Paula's and Frank's, actually. I mean, somehow I got the night off, and they're doin' this whole cookout number, and you wouldn't believe how well you can see the Macy's fireworks from the roof. So come on. It'll be fun.”

God. Where had June gone? But the Fourth was only five days away. I give this shaky sigh. “Gee, I don't know…”

“Ginger, if there was ever anybody who sounded like she needed a change, a break—somethin'—it's you, okay?”

I roll onto my side, propping myself up on one arm. “I…can't.”

“Because?”

“Because…because I just…can't.”

“Because you haven't had three months to think about it and decide whether or not this fits in with your plans for your life, what?”

I almost laugh. “I'm not
that
anal.”

“Then what? Oh, hey, if you're hesitating because of Amy—”

“No, of course not,” I lie.

“—that's over.”

“Oh?” I sit up. “Oh, crap, Nick…I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be. I knew it was comin'. I just didn't want to admit it.”

He's trying to do that male stoic number and failing miserably. “What happened?”

“One word. Kids. As in, she doesn't want 'em. I mean, to be fair, she'd been up-front about that all along, I guess I just thought…I dunno. That maybe, if things got goin' good between us, she'd change her mind.” He sighs. “I guess she figured it was better to end it now. Well, actually, she's been tryin' to end it for some time. We didn't date. We argued. Finally broke up that night after I was at your place. You know, when I brought over the Chinese food?”

As if I needed a memory jog. Of course, paranoia immediately kicks in. “And…that's why you invited me to come out there? Because you're suddenly at loose ends?”

“No. No, I swear. I mean, okay, I can understand why you might think that, but in fact, I hadn't even thought about inviting you, since I figured your reaction would pretty much be what it was. But after we got to talking and I heard how upset you were, I thought, What the hell, right? It was worth a shot.”

I go silent.

So Nick says, “Hey, I like you, okay? I like being around you, being around someone who's different from all the other women I know. But honest to God, there's
nothing more to it than that. Of course, if the feeling's not mutual, if you don't like being with me…”

I'm still absorbing what I'm pretty sure is a compliment when I realize I've almost missed my cue. “Oh, no, Nick! It's nothing like that. I like you, too.” Probably more than I should. “It's just…oh, crud, I don't know. I'd be really lousy company.”

“Then that makes two of us. So whaddya say?”

Oh, God. I'm weakening, I can feel it. I stare at my toenails, contemplating what they'd look like purple. Or maybe blue. “As long as it's not a date or anything.”

“There you go again with the date business,” he says wearily. “Look, you can call it anything you want, Ginger, okay? I really don't care. Hell, you can hang out with Paula and the kids all night if you want to. I mean, I'll just go off and quietly hang myself, but I'll understand.”

A giggle bubbles out of my throat.

“This is for you, Ginger,” he says softly. “Okay? Just come.”

I hesitate. Really, there is no earthly reason I shouldn't do this. Greg is now firmly In The Past. Which doesn't mean I'm up for anything, I don't mean that, it's just…

It's just a cookout, for heaven's sake. An invitation to watch the fireworks, which I really haven't seen since Macy's used to set them off at this end of the city when I was little. And I really do need to get outside of myself, even if just for one evening.

“O…kay.”

“Don't knock me over with your enthusiasm, now.”

“No, I mean it. Okay. I'll come.”

“You sure?”

“Not at all. But I'm coming, anyway. Just tell me which trains to take.”

“Forget it. I get off at four, I'll swing by and pick you up—”

“You don't have to—”

“Were you born this stubborn, or is this something you've fine-tuned over the years? I'm not gonna kidnap you, for crissake.”

“I know that. It's just…”

“I took an oath to protect, Ginger,” he says softly. “An oath I take very seriously. I'm not gonna do anything to you, or with you, you don't want me to. Unless you don't stop being such a pain in the ass. Then all bets are off.”

I nod, then realize he can't see me. “Sorry. I'm just…”

“I know,” he says. “I've been there. Hell, I
am
there. Now tell me where you live. And for God's sake, keep me informed if you move again, okay?”

I smile, give him my mother's address. After I hang up, I once again remind myself I have nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever.

If you don't count the gut-deep premonition of doom, that is.

I
'm not going to burden you with all the details of the past five days, but suffice it to say not a whole lot has happened to improve my mood by the time Nick comes to pick me up. The cleaners could only save/restore about half of my clothes, and the management company for the building not only gave me grief about breaking the lease, but then had the nerve to try to keep the damage deposit, as if the fire were
my
fault! And I just used up what was left on my Visa to pay the salvage company to come cart away what was left in the apartment.

As for work…trust me. You don't want to know.

I clumsily juggle me, my purse, and a pasta salad large enough to feed Bulgaria to get in Nick's vintage Impala, after which I yank shut the door and ram the seat belt home. Nick frowns at me, but with amused overtones.

“Let me guess. Things aren't looking up.”

“Good call.”

His gaze wanders over my left leg, bare from the thigh down. Which, if I'd managed to get in the car with any grace, wouldn't be showing. But I'm wearing this long, red jersey sundress that buttons all the way down the front
so one can leave it unbuttoned as far up one's legs as one dares, which in this one's case is mid-thigh. And the damn car seat is covered with this burgundy-colored plush…stuff that grabbed the fabric before I could sit down. Not to mention clashes horribly with the red.

“Nice…dress,” he says as we pull away from the curb.

The temperature rises a good eight, ten degrees inside the car. We've only gone two or three blocks. It's still not too late to get out.

Okay, we're only down to 110th Street, all I have to do is say I've changed my mind…

“You know,” Nick says, “if I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared of me.”

I jump. “I'm not—”

He chuckles. I fidget in the seat, then sigh.

“Am I that transparent?”

“Like glass.”

I sneak my own peek. Nick's ditched his suit jacket and tie, unbuttoned his white shirt at the collar, rolled up his sleeves. His scent fills the un-air-conditioned car, setting my frayed nerves to doing things I don't want to think about too hard.

He glances over at my leg again.

“I really wish you wouldn't do that,” I say.

He effortlessly merges into Broadway traffic. “You don't want somebody looking at your legs, you should wear pants. Which would be a shame, because you've got really, really great legs. Not too skinny, not too muscular. Just right.”

For what?
I immediately wonder, but manage to keep my mouth shut. I spare them a glance myself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

My gaze drifts up to his face. His mouth is pulled up into something resembling a smile, but tension has etched lines around that mouth, corded the muscles in the forearm stretched to the wheel. There's a faint scar along his temple I hadn't noticed before.

“How's the case going?” I ask.

One shoulder hitches. “Okay.”

“Uh-huh.”

He smirks, checks his rearview mirror, switches lanes. “Off the record? It blows.” His gaze darts to mine, back to the street. “Plenty of clues, none of them seem to fit together. I mean, I'm a patient man, but…” He shakes his head, then says to me, “But tonight isn't about me. It's about you. So. For the next two minutes, you can bitch about whatever's going on in your life. Then you're not allowed to do anything except enjoy yourself for the rest of the evening.”

“Gee. Two whole minutes?”

“Take it or leave it. And the clock's ticking.”

I consider telling him about Greg, about work, about my mother. It's not as if I don't have plenty of topics from which to choose. Then I change my mind. “Much as I appreciate your generous offer, I'm going to turn it down. I've whined about stuff so much the past month, I can't stand my own company anymore.”

I catch his shrug out of the corner of my eye. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, I'm here for you.”

After a good three seconds, I say, “I'll keep that in mind.”

 

“Uncle Nick!” Paula's little girl hurtles her tiny body into Nick's arms the minute the door swings open.

“Hey, baby!” He swings her up, grinning when she plants a noisy kiss on his cheek, then tickles her bare midriff. “You miss me?”

“Uh-huh—”

“Oh, my God, look at
you!
”

I tear my eyes away from the sight of this great big man cradling the munchkin in his arms to Paula. Who is pregnant again. Which I didn't know.

A rugrat hanging on to one leg beneath the hem of her maternity shorts, she holds out skinny arms adorned with lots of jangly gold bracelets. From the neck up, it's Prom Night 1985. From the neck down, it's the softer side of Sears.

I set the covered salad bowl down on a table in the hall seconds before I'm engulfed. For a skinny woman, Paula's got a hug like a brown bear.

“Jesus, you look
great!
Doesn't she look great, Frank?”

She holds me at arm's length, grinning, her dark brown hair fluffed and gelled within an inch of its life. Hovering and grinning just as widely behind her, Frank Wojowodski is a couple inches shorter than Nick, a little softer, a little balder. And completely at ease with grape jelly smeared all over his Knicks T-shirt. He waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah, she looks great.”

Paula smacks him without even looking.

“But not as great as you, babe.” He slips an arm around her waist, resting his palm on her belly as he nuzzles her neck. “The bigger you get, the more I want you.”

“Jesus, Frank, the kids!” Paula whispers through an immobile mouth, even as she leans, beaming, into her husband's embrace. I notice her eyelashes are nearly as long as her bangs. Then she swats Frank's hand. “Get outta here and go get them glasses of tea. And Nick, take the salad to the kitchen, put it on the counter. We'll take it out back later.” Her eyes flash to mine. “Or would you rather have a wine cooler? Frank, did we get coolers the last time we went to the store?”

Already halfway down the hall, he says, “Yeah, I think so, baby, let me check—”

“No, no…tea's fine,” I say, trying not to panic when Nick, who's set the little girl down, slips my purse from my shoulder and carts it off somewhere, effectively trapping me.

“You sure?” Paula says, genuine concern shining from her big brown eyes. “What is it, Tiffany?” she says to the blond twerp now tugging at the hem of her shorts. The kid says something unintelligible. “So, go, already. It's not like you don't know where it is. And take your brother with you—” she pries the dark-haired little boy from her thigh, places his hand in his sister's “—it's been three hours since he went. Yes, you have to go potty, Dominic, quit whining. Because, really,” she says, not missing a beat as the two little ones wander off, hand in hand, “it's no trouble for Frank to check…”

“Paula, chill,” Nick says. Slipping an arm around
my
waist. “You'll scare the poor woman off.”

Paula's eyes zing to that hand-on-the-waist move, then to her brother-in-law's face.

“For the love of God, Nick—whatshername's been out of the picture, what? Like two minutes? Quit pawing the poor woman,” she says, then grabs my hand and pulls me away from her brother-in-law. I know I should be taking a more active part in this scene, but it's like trying to hop a ride on a merry-go-round that's already going.

She drags me into the shrine to Country Kitsch that is her living room, teeming with hearts and cutsie tole painting. I jump when Paula's hand cups my jaw, then go very still so as to minimize the risk of permanent scarring from those long red nails.

“Nicky told us about…everything. God, it's just been one thing after the other for you, hasn't it? You okay?” She mercifully drops her hand to her hip. “Jesus, listen to me. Of course you're not okay. Your life's gone to hell in a handbasket, how could you be okay?”

Nick moves in behind me. Close. Doesn't matter that he's not actually touching me, I can tell by the way I'm starting to salivate that he wants to.

That I want him to.

Told
you I shouldn't have come.

“Hey, Paula,” he says, “don't you have to go gestate or something?”

Her hands go up. “What? What's wrong with asking the woman how she's doin'? For your information, Mr. Nick, I think that's called bein' polite. You know, showin' concern for my guest? Who just happens to be my cousin, even if I haven't seen her in…what is it now? Five years? Six? Frank!” she yells back to the kitchen. “How long since Ginger and I have seen each other?”

Frank strolls back into the living room, a glass of tea in one hand, a wine cooler in the other. He hands me the cooler, Nick the tea.

“Beats me. When Justin was born, maybe?”

“Yeah, that's right. And he's gonna be seven come October. Jesus. So, sit,” she says to me. “We're gonna have dinner out back, but until then, we'll talk, I can show you pictures of the kids. Frank and Nick get to do all the cook
ing today. And take the kids with you!” she shouts as the men leave. Reluctantly. At least, I'm going to read Nick's odd expression as reluctance.

From the glass-topped brass coffee table—an aberration from the country motif—Paula drags over a ten-pound photo album smothered in blue moire and white eyelet.

“I'm so glad Nick got you to come,” she says, then cackles with laughter. “Or maybe that part happens later, huh?”

My cheeks burn. Suddenly, feigning interest in nine years of baby pictures doesn't sound so bad. “We're just friends, Paula.”

“Whatever,” Paula says with a shrug, grunting a little when Tiffany crawls into her lap. A feeling almost like hunger claws at me as I watch her cuddle her little girl, automatically smooth down a strand of flyaway hair. “But I'm here to tell you, honey, if he's
anything
like his brother—” one side of her mouth lifts “—you won't know what hit you!”

 

“I know Paula's your cousin and all,” Nick says, much later, his gaze directed at my cousin and her family buzzing around the picnic table at the far end of the tiny backyard, “but damn, she gets gabbier with each pregnancy.” He's changed into jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, worn loose. A river-scented breeze ruffles his short hair as he stretches out on a wood-framed outdoor lounge chair taking up most of the decklet stretching across the back of the house. He takes a healthy swallow of tea. “If she has too many more kids, I may have to put her down.”

I sputter with laughter. Except I've never seen a man crazier about kids. At least, his brother's kids. Little Tiffany, especially, to date Paula's only girl. I've also noticed the wistfulness in his expression when he looks at them, when he thinks nobody's watching.

“You're going to make a great daddy someday,” I say.

Surprise flickers across his features. “Where'd that come from?”

I perch on a matching Adirondack chair a few feet away. “Watching you with the kids. Intuition.” Fingering the
cooler bottle, I look away. “It must've killed you when Amy said she didn't want children.”

After a long moment he says, “I'll get over it.”

I rub my hand on my leg, then nod toward a half-finished wooden play fort wedged between the picnic table and the side fence. “That's going to be nice.”

“If I ever get it finished.”

My gaze snaps to his. “
You're
building it?”

“Slowly but surely. I'm aimin' for Justin's birthday. So. You get enough to eat?”

“God, yes. Did I really put away three hamburgers?”

“I wouldn't've believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Do you always eat like that?”

“Hey. Don't knock my life's work.”

He chuckles. “By the way, your salad was pretty good, too. Even if I didn't recognize half the stuff that was in it.”

“Confession time.” I take a swig of my warm wine cooler. “My grandmother made it, not me.”

“You don't cook?”

“Not enough to count. Left to my own devices, I would've brought deli macaroni salad or something.”

While he seems to be mulling that over, I nod toward his tea. “I wouldn't've expected that. The tea, I mean.”

After a moment's hesitation he says, “Five years ago, you would've been right.”

I lower the cooler bottle that's just about to meet my lips. “Meaning?”

“I'm a recovering alcoholic.” He looks at me, challenge simmering in his eyes. “That bother you?”

“No. Why should it?”

He studies me for a long moment, then said, “Since I never,
never
drank on duty, I didn't think it was out of control, y'know? Until I woke up once with my car on its side in a ditch. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Oh, God. Were you all right?”

“More or less. Car was totaled, though.”

“But Paula never said…”

“We don't talk about it much. I mean, Frank and Paula
are supportive and all. We just don't make a big issue of it, you know what I mean?”

I nod, then say, “Was that…was that the real reason your wife left?”

He shakes his head. “No. If anything, I used her leaving as an excuse to drink more.” His arms crossed, his attention drifts to Frank, arbitrating some fracas or other between two of the kids. “My old man was a drunk. So was my grandfather. But I dunno, back then, nobody thought much about it, I guess. Not unless somebody was missin' work or beatin' up on his wife or something, you know? It certainly never occurred to anybody it was a disease.”

Nick pulls himself upright, straddling the lounge.

“It apparently skipped Frank, but hit me like a ton of bricks. Frank didn't say much up until that night, but…” He sighs. “Pop died when Frank and me were still kids. I guess Frank wasn't too hot on watching the same thing happen to me. So he threatened to tell my captain if I didn't get help. The thought of maybe losing my spot on the force…that woke me up, boy.”