Michael's Father

скачать книгу бесплатно


Shelly nudged Jen under the table and then looked pointedly toward the door of the library.

Devon Hamlisch came in with his social studies partner and closest friend, Skyler Wight. Devon was the cutest boy in junior high school, with his short dark hair, deep blue eyes and cool swagger. His smile made Jen go all fluttery inside. Not that he smiled at Jen very often.

Devon and Skyler were jocks, so they were part of the popular crowd. Playing on a school sports team practically guaranteed you were “in.” Even Flavio Martinez, who’d been the fat kid everybody picked on just last year, made the seventh-grade flag football team and was suddenly cool.

Kids like Jen and Shelly, who were too uncoordinated to be a cheerleader or play girls basketball, were stuck in the ditch of unpopularity. It didn’t help that Jen and Shelly were about as developed as a fence post. Jen was still in a training bra and she was almost thirteen years old. There was no hope of Devon Hamlisch smiling at Jen anytime soon. The social lines were clearly drawn.

Devon and Skyler walked past table after table, ever closer to Jen and Shelly. Jen couldn’t believe it. Devon Hamlisch and Skyler Wight were going to sit with them. She tried to look calm, as if popular boys walked up to her every day, but her hands began to shake and her eyes widened.

What do I say when they sit down?

Then, at the last moment, the two boys turned away and sat at the table next to them, where Veronica Anderson and Kitten Alley had been giggling for an hour. Jen should have known. Ronnie and Kitten were both cheerleaders. They wore stylish low-waisted jeans and tight sweaters that hugged their small breasts. Jen hoped they’d get an F on their social studies assignment.

“We’re such dorks,” Shelly whispered, obviously having been caught in the same fantasy as Jen.

Jen nodded her head in miserable agreement and pretended to return her attention to the book in front of her. No matter how hard she tried, the words weren’t sinking in. She didn’t want to let Shelly down, but Jen just couldn’t seem to focus lately.

A few minutes later, Shelly nudged Jen and motioned almost frantically for her to look toward Devon’s table.

Devon leaned back into his chair, a thin strand of pink gum linking his mouth to Ronnie’s. The gum stretched too far and broke apart, hanging like two lizards’ tongues from each of their mouths. Devon, Ronnie and Kittie dissolved into near-silent laughter.

The librarian stared menacingly from her post behind the desk. Skyler glanced at Jen and shrugged almost apologetically, his fingers fanning the pages of his book.

“Oh. My. God. That’s disgusting,” Shelly whispered, pulling Jen’s attention back to her own table.

It was the grossest thing Jen had ever seen in her life. And yet she yearned with all of her adolescent being to trade places with Ronnie.

“Let’s go. Blake should be outside.” Jen closed her notebook. She didn’t think she’d ever felt like such an outsider. She wanted to go home and play her music really loud. At least while she sang alone in her room, she felt like she belonged somewhere.

The two girls walked out of the library, hugging their notebooks to their slim chests as if the bound paper could hide the fact that they lacked cleavage. Sometimes Jen thought her plain brown hair, gray eyes and pale skin made her invisible, like a ghost to boys like Devon.

Jen stepped out of the library first and skipped down the steps with Shelly right behind her, anticipating Blake pulling up in his new, shiny black pickup truck. At least her brother had the decency to own such a smooth vehicle. He wasn’t so bad. Some of her friends even thought he was cute. Maybe Devon would come outside and see Jen get into the truck. Jen smiled, imagining Devon salivating over her cool ride.

A faded, dented truck that looked a lot like their old one pulled up to the curb. It even sported a big gray spot of primer in the back. Thank heavens Jennifer knew Blake never drove the old wreck anymore outside of the vineyard. That was the last thing she needed tonight.

The driver honked just as Jennifer was halfway down the steps. Jen’s feet planted themselves so quickly that Shelly bumped into her from behind, sending Jen’s notebook flying from suddenly limp arms. Papers scattered everywhere.

It was their old truck. What was her brother doing driving that piece of junk?

Shelly and Jen scrambled to pick up the papers. Jen needed to leave quickly before anybody spotted her in that pickup. Blake was such a geek. Why was he doing this to her?

Jen chased her math homework as it danced up the steps on a breeze. She had almost reached it when Devon Hamlisch bent in front of her and picked it up. He handed it to Jen with a casual toss of his beautiful head and a smooth “Hey.”

“Thanks,” Jennifer managed to choke out. Devon Hamlisch had picked up her math homework. She’d tuck it under her pillow and never turn it in.

Blake revved the truck. Jen knew he had to keep the idle running fast or the engine would die.

“Is that your ride?” Ronnie asked, her voice rich with derision.

Jen cringed in horror. She hadn’t noticed the others come outside. She’d only had eyes for Devon. Jen’s face flamed with heat and she was grateful for the darkness. With her light coloring, she couldn’t hide even the barest blush.

Jen managed a weak excuse. “It’s our work truck.”

“Farm workers.” Kitty sniffed scornfully, looking away.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard one that loud.” Ronnie wrinkled her nose.

“It sounds cool,” Skyler offered, as Blake gunned the engine again.

Jen thought she’d pass out. Skyler Wight was sticking up for her against the most popular girl in school?

“Definitely not. God, can you smell the fumes from that thing?” Ronnie cocked her hip and rested her fist on it. The pose threw out her A-cup cleavage, making Jen feel even more like a loser. Jen wanted to melt into a puddle so that Ronnie could more easily stomp all over her.

“I gotta go,” Jen said, escaping down the steps. She tried to walk normally, but too much adrenaline coursed through her legs, making her hips sway almost uncontrollably.

Shelly waited for her at the bottom of the steps. “Skyler Wight talked to you.”

Jen dragged her friend toward the truck, opened the door and pushed Shelly in next to Blake.

Jen hopped in and slammed the old metal door.

Blake shifted the truck into gear. Predictably, it died.

“Satisfied?” Jen sniped at her lame brother, willing her eyes away from the snickering group in front of the library. If there was such a thing as dorkdom, Jen was in it.

BLAKE TOOK A SWIG OF BEER and put the cold bottle to his forehead. He’d needed something stronger than chocolate tonight. Things weren’t getting any better. Jennifer had cried silently in the truck after they’d dropped Shelly off. He realized now that driving the old truck into town was a mistake. Given that he and Cori used to sit in it and talk for hours when it got too cold to sit outside by the river, and had almost made love on the bench seat of that old pickup, he’d wanted to flaunt it in Cori’s face. Kind of like saying “I don’t think of you every time I slide behind the wheel.” What a lie that was. Look where that smart move got him. Cori had never even seen him driving the truck. Instead of making sure Cori realized he was over her, he’d crushed his teenage sister’s fragile ego.

Muted sports scores buzzed irritatingly on the television. Blake switched to the weather channel and turned down the sound. Upstairs, one of Jen’s favorite songs about being misunderstood ended. There was a brief respite before, predictably, the same song started again.

Blake stared down at the book filled with parental advice on his lap, unable to concentrate on the words. His own teenage years had been relatively happy ones. Blake was sure he hadn’t given Kevin Austin, his adopted father, as many headaches or near-ulcer episodes as Jennifer was giving him. What was he doing wrong?

The music started again. The haunting melody tugged at Blake’s floundering spirits and jolted him out of his seat.

SALVATORE STARED BLINDLY at the figures in front of him, while he tried to gather the strength to go upstairs. The trip was a double agony at the end of the day now. His hips ached all the time. It hurt to walk, much less climb, the tall, sweeping staircase he’d been so proud of when he’d approved the architectural plans years ago. Once on the second floor, Salvatore could barely bring himself to look at the wan face of his dying daughter. How could God be so cruel as to take his two most precious gems early—his beloved Anna and now their precious Sophia? Both victims of breast cancer.

With hands on each chair arm, Salvatore pushed himself painfully to his feet. It was becoming harder to keep his torment hidden. Yet, how could he complain when his daughter suffered with such grace? If only the doctors had been able to save her. Salvatore’s own doctor wanted him to undergo double hip replacement surgery. Salvatore couldn’t afford the two-month recovery period. He was risking quite a bit on the international introduction of his wines and needed to stay sharply focused.

He moved with deliberate steps toward the office door and the dreaded staircase, toward the light of his life, Sophia. And his pills. He’d spend fifteen minutes with Sophia. Then, he’d swallow one of those chalky pills and fifteen minutes later he’d feel relief. He told himself he only needed to endure the pain for another half hour. He could take it. He was a Messina.

It had cost him all his energy to hold things together when Anna died nearly twenty years ago. Salvatore would have lost his sanity and his business many times over if not for Sophia. With her brilliant smile, endless energy and quiet dignity, Sophia stepped into the social role created by her mother. A man couldn’t ask for a better daughter. What was he to do now? Lucas held other priorities and Corinne was not an option. It was unfortunate that she’d been unable to break the chain of illegitimacy that seemed to plague the Messinas. At least she was making a name for herself in the public relations world. Salvatore tried to discreetly keep track of her career, in case she needed his help.

He reached the staircase and had started grimly up when he recalled Corinne’s lack of respect at dinner last night. Clearly, she was raising that boy all wrong. Salvatore should have stepped in before this and provided the firm guidance the child so obviously needed. Refusing to eat dinner and asking, right there in the dining room, for fast food! It was inconceivable that the boy shared the same blood as Salvatore.

Halfway to the top. Sixteen more steps to go. The pain in his hips radiated up his backbone. Salvatore clenched his teeth and concentrated on his frustrating thoughts.

It wasn’t like the old days when children didn’t dare talk back to their elders. No. The old days were different. Children and grandchildren obeyed their patriarch, were silent when receiving their comeuppance and then did what the patriarch thought was best for the family. And heaven help the person that wronged the family.

The caustic words of Francesca Camilletti, his wife’s sister, echoed as sharply as if she were beside him today rather than fifty-some-odd years ago. “The Messinas are cursed with wine-making talent in America, a land that doesn’t appreciate wine. They’ll work their fingers to the bone and still be poor and unhappy. Don’t go, Anna. He’s a failure. He’ll ruin your life.” She’d spit out those words of bitter advice to Anna on the New Jersey train platform, as she, Salvatore and Sophia, just a baby with wisps of silky black hair and sparkling brown eyes, were about to board the train to California. Francesca already believed Salvatore Messina had ruined her sister’s life by getting her pregnant before they were married. Taking her away from the family was almost a worse sin.

Salvatore had known that if he and Anna stayed in New Jersey, Francesca would have made Salvatore’s life a living hell. As luck would have it, Anna wanted to break free of her family’s influence and her sister’s suffocating love.

Anna had kissed her sister’s cheek, told her she’d write, and then slipped her delicate hand into Salvatore’s, her dark eyes radiating trust and love. Salvatore knew then that he’d have to make something of himself to validate the love Anna blessed him with. Come hell or high water, Messina Vineyards would grow and succeed, outliving them all and proving Francesca Camilletti wrong.

He paused to catch his breath, wondering for the first time if his desire to punish the man responsible for Cori’s pregnancy was in any way similar to Francesca’s irrational vendetta against him, which had lasted until the day she died. He frowned, unhappy with the notion, and shoved the thought aside. More pressing matters required his attention.

Salvatore stepped heavily onto the second-floor landing. Thankfully, Sophia’s room was just at the top of the stairs. After a few shuffling steps, he swung Sophia’s door open, leaning some of his weight on the door handle.

“Do you need anything, Mama?” Cori asked.

“No, thank you.”

Corinne. Salvatore wanted to spin around and come back later. But any quick move would send him tumbling to the floor.

Sophia’s gaze settled upon him. Even in the dim light, he could tell Sophia wasn’t comfortable. He moved resolutely forward, intent on easing things for his daughter in any way possible.

From her perch on the bed, Corinne turned and stiffened when she saw him. She wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt. Without makeup, she looked barely seventeen. To her credit, Corinne didn’t shrink away when her eyes met his, but there was no mistaking the unwelcoming expression on her face. A part of Salvatore preened with pride at her strength. Simultaneously, the voices of his Italian ancestors railed against her open disrespect. Not that any of that mattered at the moment. Sophia needed him.

Salvatore made every effort to move his legs smoothly under two pairs of dark, watchful eyes. With luck, Sophia’s pain medication and Corinne’s contempt would cloud their perceptive powers.

“It’s time you retired, Corinne.” He stopped in front of the two women. This close, he could see Sophia’s pinched features. Yes, something was definitely wrong.

Eyes flashing, Corinne straightened her spine and opened her mouth, only to be cut off by her mother.

“Yes, dear. It’s getting late. Why don’t you go to bed? I’m sure my grandson is an early riser.”

Corinne wasn’t quick enough to hide the hurt in her eyes at her dismissal, but she didn’t fight. She gave Sophia a small smile and a quick kiss on the cheek, then bid her mother good-night.

Salvatore didn’t receive as much as a glance from his granddaughter.

When he heard the door close behind him, Salvatore reached for his daughter’s delicate hand. He longed to sit next to her on the bed, but doubted he could stand back up without giving away his weakness.

“Tell me what you need, cara.”

IT WASN’T UNTIL BLAKE stood outside the kitchen door of the main house that he realized where he’d been heading. A soft glow through the kitchen windows lit the night. A shadow too large to be Cori moved past one window toward the refrigerator.

Suppressing his disappointment, Blake climbed the two steps to the door and entered without knocking. He didn’t want to see Cori, anyway, not after the way he’d humiliated himself that morning.

“Beer or wine?” Luke asked, not at all surprised to see Blake at this hour. Both were night owls. Many a late night they’d shared a drink in this kitchen, illuminated, as they were now, by the light above the stove.

“Beer.” Blake didn’t equate drowning his sorrows with wine. He was one beer down already and could use at least one more to numb the feelings of helplessness he confronted in almost every aspect of his life. Blake slouched into a wooden kitchen chair and stretched out his legs. “Any reason the lights aren’t on?”

Without getting up, Luke reached into the refrigerator to get a bottle, then slid the beer across the table to him. Blake opened the bottle before he realized it was the same brand Cori had purchased earlier. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a swig. It wasn’t anything special.

“Seemed the right thing to do at the time,” Luke said, shrugging.

“You okay?” Blake uncapped his beer and took a sip. They drank for a few minutes in silence. Luke was a true Messina. Catch him in any social situation with any mix of people and he would fit right in, setting others at ease and never missing a conversational beat. As with the other Messinas, when you got too personal or they didn’t want to tell you something, he shut down. It was one of the reasons Blake would never be one of them. After nearly six years of evolving friendship, they had never let him get that close.

“Have you seen Sophia tonight?” Blake asked.

“Briefly. Cori’s been up there.”

“And you can’t be up there with her?” That seemed odd.

Luke shrugged again. “My grandfather heads up about now and he wants time alone with her, too.”

“So you file in one by one? Is there a time limit?”

Luke rubbed the skin below his eyes, shadowed from the dim lighting, lack of sleep, or both. “It’s…odd.” He shook his head. “It was easier when we were younger. Before…” The Messina response kicked in and Luke went mute.

Blake waited a full five seconds before filling in Luke’s thought. “Before Cori left?”

Luke didn’t answer verbally, just gave his beer a rueful half smile.

AFTER CHECKING TO MAKE sure that Michael still snoozed peacefully in his sleeping bag on the floor of the pink room, Cori took the back stairs to the kitchen in search of a drink.

Maybe she should have been trying to make up with her grandfather instead of avoiding him these past few days. She’d been dismissed, as if she were a child of twelve, not twenty-five, a mother with a career and responsibilities. Everyone in the Messina household treated her as if she needed to be protected and couldn’t make contributions of her own.

Some things never changed.

It was as if her own family was fooled into believing she was nothing more than the polished facade they’d created. As if they’d forgotten she’d been charming businessmen and politicians at the finest of restaurants in San Francisco while other girls were playing with Barbies. As if they assumed she didn’t know the difference between a Chardonnay and a Zinfandel vine. As if grape growing, wine-making and business acumen didn’t flow in her veins.

Now, if she’d been a man…

She trotted down the steps in the dim stairway, unhappy with the familiar train of thought. Cori hated those mental “what if” games, but couldn’t always stop playing. She stepped into the large kitchen before her mind registered that she wasn’t alone.

Luke and Blake sat at the kitchen table in the semidarkness, each nursing a beer. Nightshades.

“Hey, Sis.” Luke greeted her. “Everything okay upstairs?”

Blake took a drink from his beer, gray eyes regarding her sharply. Cori felt his disapproval target her as clearly as if he’d spoken. She should be the one sending him dark glances. He’d accused her of being selfish today, hinted that she might have a drinking problem.

As if she had time to drink in her hectic everyday life.

“Grandfather is with her now.” Cori looked away and crossed the black marble to the refrigerator. They both wanted news about Mama. Cori didn’t want to talk. She’d get a beer and take it out by the pool so she could wallow in self-pity in private.

Chrome-plated, the refrigerator was twice as large as hers at home. Cori practically stepped into it to escape from view. Somewhere in this cavernous thing there had to be a beer. She’d put in four earlier, saving the rest for PR inspiration. She poked around until she found one long-necked brown bottle that had somehow managed to get shoved behind everything else.

Luke stood as Cori clutched her prize. “I’ll go up and say good night.”

Cori nodded, practically charging for the back door before Blake had time to say anything to her.

The fifty-degree air welcomed her back to Northern California, just as Cori’s bare feet reminded her it was only February. Still, she wore blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Compared to the alternative of going back into the kitchen with Blake, she had no choice but to stay outside. On the bright side, her beer wouldn’t become warm before she finished it.