Power Play (7 page)

“For the longest time, I was the baby. The miracle child they showered with attention. When I was around ten, my parents decided to start taking in foster kids. They've probably had thirty or more come through the house over the last eleven years. And it was awesome. It felt good to be able to help these kids that came from such horrible situations. And sure, it felt good to have someone look up to me for a change. Then they adopted Calvin and Nathan three years ago and all these really jealous feelings came out of nowhere.

“Up until then, I never thought Mom and Dad loved any of the other kids more than me. Then my younger brothers came along. Everything changed with them. Everything revolved around them. Ten-year-old twins who stole my parents' hearts and time and attention. I sound like a jerk.”

Yes, you do,
I thought.

“Thanks for not judging, Gaby.” Landon's sarcastic jab slapped me upside the head.

Whoops.

“Well, I'm sorry, but you do. Your parents are wonderful people. You're jealous because they started giving more attention to two kids from a screwed-up home whose parents didn't even want them than they did their successful hockey-playing
adult
son who they'd raised and loved their whole lives? Sorry if I don't feel bad for you.”

“I know I sound horrible and selfish. I don't want to be.” He leaned back, taking a deep breath and tilting his head toward the ceiling. “I just don't know how to make the feelings go away. Every time someone else gets called up to the NHL, I feel like I'm missing an opportunity to make them proud. Make them see me again. I didn't want my parents to wash their hands of me at eighteen.”

“Have you told them how you feel?”

“Well, if
you
think I'm a complete jackass, I can't even imagine how
they'd
feel about me.” Landon raised his voice as he spoke. When Brian lifted his head to observe our conversation from the other end of the bar, Landon lowered it.

“I love my brothers. I love all the kids we had in our house through the years. I love that we made an impact on their lives, even if it was for a short time. I still love helping. I volunteer at an after-school program a friend of mine started. I work with the Pilots PR people to coordinate the team's community service. This is my community.

“I just wonder why my parents didn't think I was good enough. Why couldn't they leave well enough alone after they had me?”

His last comment caught me slightly off guard. Almost as if an internal thought came out by accident.

“Your mom is a teacher. Your dad is a doctor. That tells me they wanted to make an impact on the world even before they ever adopted anyone and even before they had you. Maybe they weren't finished being parents yet. It's hard when your kids grow up and leave the house.”

Not that I knew very much about that since I still lived at home. But Mom went through a slight depression when Joey moved away, and she had a full-on breakdown when Drew left for college. Part of me thinks she was happy I didn't take the college route. Maybe she thinks I'll be at home forever?

Probably will be, with my current social situation.

“If I could just make it to the NHL, I could be back on their radar,” Landon stated.

“And then maybe if you score your first goal. And maybe if you get married and give them grandkids. It's always going to be something, Landon. Maybe you should start living for yourself instead of trying to please someone else.”

“You driving?” Brian's voice cut through the air.

Startled, I eyed my empty Sprite glass.

“Yeah.” Landon leaned back as he pushed his glass forward for his uncle to take. “Ready, Gaby?”

“Yep.” I jumped off the barstool and rolled my shoulders back. Then I turned back to the bar and waved to the bartender. “Thanks so much, Brian. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too, Gaby. Give your dad my best.” Brian gave me a nod and I followed Landon out.

I must've pissed him off, since he hadn't said anything to me since my comment about being jealous over his brothers. I should apologize. I should tell him it wasn't my business. I should tell him I had no right to call him jealous. But I should really tell him to get his shit together.

“I'm sorry, Landon,” I said after we'd settled into his car.

“Don't apologize, Gaby. You said exactly what I needed to hear.”

“But I didn't really have a right to say anything. I barely know you.”

“I hate when you say that.”

“What?”

“You barely know me. Nineteen years is not barely.”

“Okay, fine. We're BFFs who've never talked about anything other than produce and Legos before tonight.”

“I don't talk about produce and Legos with just anyone.”

“I don't doubt it. It's not really date conversation, is it?”

“Is this a date?” Landon pressed a button and cold air blasted through the vents. “Damn. I'm probably not getting a second, am I?”

“Second? Are we going to talk about getting to first?”

“I said
a
second, as in a second date. Whoa, Gaby, I didn't realize your mind was in the gutter. We barely know each other.”

Breathe breathe breathe.

“Chill, Gabster. I'm joking with you.” Landon patted my knee. “That should warm up in a second.”

I blamed his touch, rather than the lack of heat, for the shivers shooting up and down my arms.

“Let's talk about your stereotype. Youngest and only girl in an Italian-American family. Princess. Shopaholic. Daddy's little girl who can do no wrong.”

“Ha. Hahahahahahaha.” I couldn't help the madwoman laugh or I'd cry. Though his stereotype may have been spot-on for many families, he didn't understand my family dynamic at all.

“Guess I'm wrong.” Landon glanced at me before turning back to the road. “That's a creepy laugh, girl.”

“Sorry. My parents probably want your stereotype to be true of me, but it isn't. The princess gene skipped me.”

“So what's the truth?”

“Youngest. Only girl. Hates shopping and tiaras. I can do anything the boys can do.”

“I see. You have middle-child syndrome, too. No one sees you as you are. Just what they think you should be.”

“I can run all of our stores with my eyes closed while on vacation in Fiji. But Joey is there right now, fucking up the register, unable to perform credit card transactions, forgetting to make the bank run to deposit cash.”

“I didn't know you swore.”

“I can do anything the boys can do.”

“Touché.”

“Three-one-three sucks right now. No one comes in.”

“I resent that.”

“I mean no one other than a few produce stand customers. It's such a different concept, most of our regulars aren't going to visit. We need a marketing plan. A way to reach out to a new group of clients.”

“True. What have you guys come up with?”

“Nothing! Papa doesn't think we need marketing. He says the Bertucci name should be marketing enough.”

“But your name isn't on that store. There's no way for someone to realize it's your family.”

“Exactly! Now try to explain that to Papa.” I snorted. “Actually,
can
you explain it to Papa? You're a guy. He'll believe you. I'll go get my nails done.”

Landon's eyes darted to my hands. He smiled upon seeing my chipped manicure. “Sure. What's your plan?”

I blinked at him. “You really want to hear it?”

“Yes. I know you run that store, Gaby. I'm excited to hear your plan to bring customers in.”

“My advertising plan is sort of a secret right now, so if you could keep it on the down low, that'd be awesome.”

Landon nodded, the nod of someone making fun of my request, but I didn't mind.

Discussing my grassroots marketing plan for the store with Landon felt conspiratorial. It had been a crazy pipe dream since before we even opened. I knew we'd need some kind of marketing to bring customers in, but Papa hadn't agreed with me. He said the reputation of Bertucci Produce spoke for itself. Our loyal customers would come and they'd tell their friends.

The only problem with his line of thinking was that we didn't attach the Bertucci name to the store. Very few people, outside of a few regular customers whom we'd spoken with about the new concept, would connect 313 Artisans and Bertucci Produce. Sure, we'd had flyers made up to set next to our registers at the stores and at the stand, but who picks up flyers? People think it's just junk advertising.

And opening a store like 313 Artisans had been Mom's lifelong dream, not a natural offshoot of Bertucci Produce. The store specialized in products created by local artists; everything from paintings and photographs to pottery and T-shirts. Some of our bestsellers were iconic photographs of Detroit landmarks past and present, like the Fox Theatre and Tiger Stadium. It made the entire extended Bertucci family proud to keep everything in the store completely local.

“I'm trying to create the cheapest, but good quality, ad I can create because Papa won't agree to any advertising funds, so I'd have to use my own money. My vision is to highlight the city since the store is all local goods, ya know? Maybe take a few pictures of landmarks. I'd love to get a local celebrity to endorse the store, but I certainly don't have money for that. Don't have money for a photographer either, so I need to figure out the camera I got for graduation.”

“Can you take classes?”

“I could, but I work weird hours and I can never find a class I can make consistently.”

“I have a friend who's awesome with cameras. I'll text him later and ask him if he can give you some pointers.”

“Thanks, Landon. I'd really appreciate that.”

Landon glanced up at me and flashed me a smile. “I want to help any way I can.”

The definition of Landon: eager to help everyone. Community leader. Kindhearted and generous despite his internal psychological struggle resulting from the charity household he grew up in.

“Eventually I'd like to run ads in a few local publications. We sell local artwork and gifts, so I thought we could put something in an eclectic newspaper like the
Metro Times.
It would hit a lot of our target market. But I also wanted to try a few other places because we need to market to everyone with Michigan pride, not just artistic types.”

“Like AHL hockey fans?” Landon asked.

“Definitely. I'd love to tap in to Pilots fans. You know your city loves its sports when you have the greatest team in professional hockey in the same city and still have thousands of fans every game to support a minor-league team.”

“I bet I could talk to the marketing department for the Pilots. I could get you an ad in our game program pretty cheap. Maybe free.”

“You would do that?” Without thinking, I grabbed his free hand, which had been resting on the gearshift. I let go quickly, chastising myself internally for acting like a silly, giddy girl.

Landon frowned when I let go and grabbed my hand again, bringing it toward him and resting our joined hands on his thigh. “Don't let go, Gaby. I like holding your hand. I like getting to know you.”

“After all these years,” I joked.

“And we can talk about more than produce and Legos.”

“Yeah, produce, Legos, and bitching about our perfect lives. Hashtag: First-World Problems.”

“No shit.” Landon squeezed my hand as he chuckled. “Wanna go volunteer at the food bank or something? I need to cleanse myself of my selfishness.”

“I need to get home, but maybe on our second date?”

“So you're saying there will be a second date?”

“If you're asking.”

“Actually, I think you asked me.” Landon winked. “I like a strong woman who can do anything a man can do.”

Landon pulled to the curb in front of 313 Artisans ending a weird, but interesting ride. And we still hadn't talked about the concert.

“We've avoided discussing all the kissing we've supposedly done. How is that?” I asked.

“You never asked.”

“I'm asking now.”

“I'm gonna get a ticket sitting here.” He pulled his phone from his front pocket. “What's your number?”

His thumb jumped across the screen as I recited the digits.

“I'm calling your phone now. Call me later.”

I had Landon Taylor's number.

My heart skipped and frolicked like a happy little fan girl. But I played it cool, responding with a smile and nod.

The more I stared at my phone, the more my nerve to call Landon dwindled. His number taunted me, glowing on the screen since I'd retrieved it from my recent calls list. He told me to call him. So why did pressing the little green Send icon seem so daunting?

I threw the phone on my bed. Sorting laundry seemed like a more constructive use of my time than worrying about calling a guy. I lowered myself to my knees and dumped my laundry basket.

Flipping two white socks to my left, I started the lights pile.
He has my number.

Black T-shirt went into a darks pile on my right.
Maybe he'll call me.

Khaki pants tossed with socks.
But he told me to call him.

White underwear with red hearts. Lights?
But what if he's waiting for my call?

White T-shirt to the lights heap. Now I couldn't see the red hearts and I felt better about my decision.
What if he doesn't call me because I never called him?

A less mundane task might take my mind off the phone call.

Forget this.

Pushing aside my nerves, I dropped my favorite black tank top onto the darks pile, saving it from becoming a stretched and torn casualty of indecision.

“Hey, Landon. This is Gaby. Um, Gaby Bertucci.”

The sharp laughter on Landon's end made me pull the phone away from my ear for a second. “I know who you are, Gaby.”