Yesterday's Stardust (9 page)

“What did whoever talked to the guy—the caller—tell him?”

“That we’d slap the backs of your hands with a ruler and make you promise never to do it again.” The amusement she’d glimpsed earlier spread across his face. “There. I said I’d have a talk with you, and I did.”

“So you don’t think I was wrong to be there?”

“I think you were gutsy. I like that about you, Danielle. You’ll do what it takes to get a story. Just keep it legal, Miss Gallagher, and you’ll never hear me complain.” He picked up a pink phone message slip, crumpled it, and pitched it at the wastebasket. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Dani stood. “How can I find out the name of the caller?’

“It was an anonymous call.”

She nodded and walked toward the door.

“Danielle?”

“Yes?”

“Let it go. You might be wrong about who called, and if you’re right you’ll only make things worse.”

“Right.” Sure. You bet.
Not.

By midmorning, fatigue hit like the flu. She took the rest of the day off. Mitch didn’t bat an eye when she said she needed a personal day.

Inside her apartment, she dropped her purse, kicked her shoes toward the kitchen, and slogged to the bathroom. In the shower, she shut out everything but the
thrum
of water on tile. Steam rose, shrouding the room.

She dressed in worn-thin cotton shorts and an oversized shirt imprinted with
Snow White’s
Sleepy. Walking into her kitchen, she said an automatic prayer. The rent she paid for her above-garage apartment was nothing short of a miracle. Less than a week’s wages for tile floors, marble counter tops, and a breathtaking view. Her landlord was a deacon in her church. As her mother had taught her young, it’s who you know that matters.

She took a chicken potpie out of the freezer. While it baked, she tore lettuce into a salad, added vinegar and oil and a sprinkling of oregano. Settling into a faux suede chair, she stared through rain spatters at the green lawn of the Kemper Center and the lake beyond it. In the 1860s, the original building was home to Wisconsin’s first US Senator. Later it became an Episcopal school for girls. The chapel, with beams the color of dark honey and an intricately carved altar, was a popular wedding venue.
Someday, maybe.

She took a bite of salad. The smell of oregano brought a face to mind. Dark eyes narrowing at her while the mournful notes of “Angel” bled into the room. Her fingers tightened reflexively around her fork. She’d stomped out of Mitch’s office this morning and straight to her computer to look up the phone number for Bracciano. Every word she’d use to put Dominick Fiorini in his place strained at the tip of her tongue as the website popped up.

Italian restaurants close on Mondays.

With no place to go, her irritation had brewed in her head, building pressure until it sent her home early.

She flicked through song titles on her iPod. Nora Jones matched her mood. Soothing, mellow. Guitar chords led into “Come Away with Me.” Her head and shoulders swayed with the notes. Dark eyes came back into focus. Strong hands cradling her foot as if they held a fragile kitten.

Stop!

The timer buzzed. She ate at her little round table to the sound of rain and piano music. After cleaning up the kitchen, she slid into bed. She set her alarm for five. That would wake her, if she fell asleep, with enough time to dress for dinner at Vito’s. She propped brown and blue pillows behind her. As she folded the geometric pattern of her bed spread over her belly, the diary slid to the floor. She winced and crawled to the edge of the bed. The book lay open. Her gaze landed on an entry at the bottom of the page.

September 30, 1924

“We have no choice.” Daddy folded his hands on the kitchen table and looked at Francie with sad, tired eyes. Mama sat in her rocker, head bent over her Bible. Her lips moved but made no sound.

Daddy stared into the coffee Mama had poured half an hour ago. He hadn’t yet touched it. “I know you’ve been saving the money from the Husebys for Christmas, but this is an emergency. We owe Doc Volden too much. He won’t come out again unless we can pay, and Applejack won’t make it without help. I’ve tried everything I know to do for obstruction and it’s not working.”

Francie nodded. Tears stung, spilled onto her cheeks, and left darkened spots on her overalls. She had found Suzette’s address and sent a letter saying she would be there by the middle of October. She couldn’t tell her parents. So here she sat, looking like a selfish, spoiled child, crying about money while her favorite horse writhed in pain in the barn. “I’ll go get it.”

“Thank you.” Daddy stood, put on his old plaid coat, and took his hat off the hook. “I’ll ring the doc from the feed mill.”

The door opened to the cool, late-afternoon air. When it shut, the room seemed to close in around her. Stew simmered on the mint-green and cream-colored stove. Francie remembered the day Daddy brought it home. “Things will be better from now on,” he’d said back then. He bought the icebox the same year. Mama had oiled and shined its golden wood every day for months. Now black fingerprints surrounded the handle. The War had been good for farmers. But it didn’t last.

She stared at the Currier and Ives print above Mama’s chair.
Home to Thanksgiving.
In the picture, snow covered the ground and the barn roof. The front door of a cozy house stood wide open as a woman in a long dress greeted guests. Oxen pulling a wood-sided sled; a dark horse was harnessed to a sleigh. A peaceful scene of life on the farm. Francie turned away and walked up the stairs.

M
onday. Finally. The day most people dreaded was the day he lived for.

Nicky stared at his reflection in the flawless black finish on the car hood, threw the polishing rag onto Todd’s workbench, and slid into the car.

Squinting through the garage door at the glare of midafternoon sun ricocheting off concrete, he groped for the sunglasses he’d left on the bucket seat a week ago. He slid them on then turned the key in the ignition. The Javelin purred as he drove out of the garage.

He parked facing the street, got out, and rolled down the door on the single-car garage. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He wiped his forehead with his arm. Only a real mental case would run half a mile to pick up his car so he could drive a mile and a half to the park in air-conditioned comfort to go Rollerblading in the middle of July.

If the shoe fits.

He climbed back in. Todd and his brother had done the bodywork, and he was slowly paying them off. Two more payments to Todd and the Javelin would be his, free and clear. Since Nicky didn’t own a garage, Todd kept it in his—in exchange for using it whenever Nicky was working.

He turned up the radio on the way to Simmons Island Park. He parked the Javelin then got out and sat on the ground to lace his skates. After using the bottom of his torn Kenosha Kings T-shirt to mop his face, he stood and pushed off. In minutes the muscles in his calves burned with the welcome strain. He wove around a middle-aged woman walking a cocker spaniel. Beyond the breakers, the lake shimmered, white sparks glinting on the waves.

Miles of pavement and a free afternoon stretched ahead of him. He breathed in the lake air and exhaled all thoughts of a struggling business and a rebellious sister.

Rena Fiorini slid her notebook into her dresser drawer. Working on a new song usually lifted her spirits. It didn’t work today. She wasn’t looking forward to meeting Jarod.

Someday, maybe, she’d have choices.

Hoisting her bike onto her shoulder, she thudded down the stairs toward the propped-open back door. Someday she’d own a house with an attached garage in a safe neighborhood.

Right.
And someday pigs would sprout wings. Her skate bag swung into the wall as she descended. The narrow stairway mirrored the rest of her life.

A door opened behind her. “Where you off to?”

Rena froze. She hadn’t heard him come home. Her father’s voice, heavy with sleep yet tinged with suspicion, switched on her defenses. She turned and gave him her best little-girl smile. “Morning, Daddy. Sleep good?”
Or was it strange to be in your own bed?

His face softened as she spoke. He nodded. “How’s my little Wren?”

“Great. Looking forward to a day off. I’m going to the park.”

“Alone?”

Going alone. Not being alone.
“Yep.”

“Where’s Dominick?”

“I don’t know.”
And don’t care.

“Family night tonight?”

Where had that come from? Dredged from the deep, dark recesses of their pathetic family history. They hadn’t spent a Monday night together in over a year—since the last time he’d had a revelation from God and turned a leaf that lasted almost four weeks. “Wow, that would be fun, but Nicky and I have plans. Maybe next week.”

As usual, his expression melted her. He pouted like a spoiled little boy deprived of a cookie, and once again she became the parent. “How ‘bout I make breakfast just for the two of us tomorrow? Prosciutto and mozzarella frittatas, okay?” She ladled on the accent so heavy she could have been his—God rest her soul—sainted grandmother. As her father slowly retracted his pout, she wondered if the great-grandmother she’d been named for had been anything like the Fiorini legend she’d become.

She walked the bike into the street. Her foot hadn’t left the ground when she heard her name from across the street.

“Hey, Gianna.”

“Where are you off to on this gorgeously hot day, Renata-bata?”

Rena smiled. It was the same question her father had asked, but this silly nickname and the smile changed everything. “The park.”

“Lovely.” Gianna shifted her bucket of cleaning supplies to her other hand as she walked across the street. Perfectly straight teeth glimmered from her perpetual smile. Rena’s aunt described Gianna as a “Sophia Loren caricature.” The comment was mean, but it did kind of fit. Her nose was too large and her mouth too wide to be pretty, yet she carried her large-boned height with a transfixing grace, and her smile dazzled.

Gianna leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy.” She wiped moisture from her upper lip. “Nicky home?”

“Nah. But Dad is.”

“Ohhh.” Gianna drew out the word. The smile stayed but stiffened. “Where is he?”

“In his room.”

“Mmm.” Gianna glanced at the restaurant and back at her car. “I have some shopping to do.” Her eyes lit. “Wouldn’t you rather go to Kohl’s with me than exercise?”

“I’d love to, but…”

“But you’re meeting someone.”

“Well…”

One artfully shaped brow arched. A manicured hand rested on the waistline of Gianna’s peach capri pants. “A male someone.”

Rena cringed, looking up at the window over the stairway, as if her father stood there reading lips.

“Is he a good boy?”

There were a million ways a person could interpret a question like that. “He’s wonderful.”
Well, he used to be.

“Would I approve?”

She
would
have to throw that one in. “He’s not Italian, if that’s what you mean.”