Getting rid of Olivia isn't going to be an easy thing. Her money's found a home here, the city council is practically falling all over themselves for her time, and closer to home, Kaylee is madly in love with anything and everything the woman touches.
"I have to show you what Liv got donated for your dance classes, but first things first." Kaylee makes a big sweeping gesture with her arms, and I look up. "Meet Teddy."
We're in a foyer of sorts. To the right is Kaylee's office. To the left are the bathrooms, and there above the entrance to the multipurpose room is what appears to be the head of a dead animal.
I squint into his marble eyes. "What is it, exactly?"
"I don't really know," she says. "It's like a deer or a moose. Maybe a yak. I really have no idea. I bet your dad would know."
"I bet he would," I say, tilting my head. "His nose is too wide or something."
"I know. And the antler thingys are gigantic."
Our laughter echoes off the walls, and a scissor-wielding scrapbooker pokes her head out of a room to our right.
"Sorry, ladies," Kaylee says, lowering her voice. "So, Teddy. The mayor had him installed yesterday. Some kind of tribute to the history of the center. I guess he used to hang in the Elks Club that was here before us."
"He's an elk!" I say.
She gasps, "He is!"
This time our laughter is silenced by a man in an apron. "Sorry, sorry. How are the muffins turning out, Mr. Hamilton?"
Kaylee pulls me across the basketball court and onto the stage, the same stage I danced on Saturday afternoon.
She makes another mad gesture with her hands. "Aren't they awesome?" She's talking about the portable ballet barres lined up in the wings. "I don't have a clue what to do with them, but Liv says they'll be helpful for your class."
I frown at them, at just how much easier they'll make our volunteer efforts here at the center.
"Oh gosh, Elle. They'll be helpful, right? Are they all wrong? I should have asked you first."
I put a hand on her arm, stilling her, stopping the panic. "They're perfect. They're just perfect. Tell Olivia thank you."
That last sentence cost me. I smile bravely for Kay.
"You can tell her yourself. Tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow?"
"Fourth of July, crazy. We're doing a picnic thing out at the lake. Liv said you and your dad were coming."
Liv said? Why is she speaking for my family? I scratch at my nose, irritated. But I'd forgotten tomorrow was the Fourth, and there are no plans to fall back on. "I didn't know anything about it," I say.
"Oh, please say you'll come! I already talked Delia into closing Jelly's for the day. And I bought her a bathing suit."
"Oh my. I've never even seen Delia's legs."
"Right. It's time she unleashed them upon the world. So see, I'm invested in this thing-fifty-four dollars-and if you don't come it's going to be me and a bunch of old people."
"Olivia's not that old, Kay."
"Please, please, please."
"Okay. Sure. Of course. I mean, Dad and I usually spend the Fourth together, so if he wants to set off fireworks at the lake, I guess I'm in. I'm just . . . I'm not a huge fan of Olivia."
"Because she's canoodling your dad? I totally get that, but I swear you'll love her. You just have to get to know her. She's got these ideas on how to secure donations and raise money. She's a mad scientist, you know? She knows how to push buttons and get folks to cough up cash. And her ideas . . ."
"I get it, Kay. She's got ideas."
"Yes! Ideas!"
8
Brielle
Jake's sitting on the porch swing when I pull into the drive in Mom's old bug. I slide Slugger into Park and climb out wondering how many more trips down Main she can handle. She's a 1967 Volkswagon Beetle with a rusted rack on top. Dad's done everything he can to keep in her shape, but she's starting to sound a little tired. I pat her hood gently and make my way toward Jake.
His hair's damp and he's changed out of his work clothes. He looks relaxed, much more relaxed than the last time I saw him. The swing moves slowly as he thumbs through his old Bible. I love that thing. It's old-really, really old. The paper has yellowed and the leather has cracked, but he continues to cram the margins with words I can't decipher, his handwriting's so bad.
We still haven't talked about the thing with my dad-just cryptic text messages conveying our undying devotion in the face of adversity. I hate texting. It's all so melodramatic in tone and underwhelming in content. Nothing like seeing him face-to-face.
"Hey," Jake says, smiling at me, closing the Bible.
"Hey." I drop my dance bag at the foot of the stairs and climb toward him. I'm still wearing my dance clothes, but Jake doesn't seem at all offended by that. "Whatcha reading?"
"A story from the book of Acts. Philip and the Ethiopian. Have you read it?"
"Haven't gotten there yet," I say, climbing onto the swing.
"One of my favorites. Angel fingerprints all over it."
"Do angels leave fingerprints?"
"I don't think so, no."
"So you were being histrionic."
"I don't know what that means," he says, smirking. "But I was being figurative."
"Ah."
"Speaking of histrionic," I say. "I really am sorry about my dad."
Jake kicks off the ground, swinging us back and forth. He takes my hand in his, running his index finger down each one of mine. I let him, relishing the butterflies dancing like idiots in my tummy. I wonder if we'll have a porch swing one day. If we'll do this every night till we're a hundred.
"You heard me, right? I was apologizing for my dad."
"I heard you," he says, turning toward me. I love the darkness of his brows juxtaposed with the brightness of his eyes. A brilliant green iris with a tawny starburst exploding at the center. "And you don't have to apologize for him. Look, Elle, I don't have many good things about my dad to cling to. In fact, I don't even know his last name. My real last name."
I feel the shock on my face. "I never realized. I thought you took Shield to avoid questions."
"It helped, but if I ever knew it, I forgot. It's been a pain lately because I've been looking into possible connections between Marco and myself, but it's near impossible without a last name."
"I'm so sorry, Jake. That's hard."
"It's fine, and I didn't mean to change the subject. What I'm trying to say is that I envy what you and your dad have. You're close, and that's rare. I don't want to mess that up. I don't want you to have to choose between us, between family and me."
"You are family," I say, wishing he'd relax again. Wishing he'd smile. "At least you will be soon enough."
"Right," he says, his eyes searching my face. "Soon enough."
"Tell me you won't worry about my dad, please."
"Okay," he says. "I won't worry about your dad. Not tonight."
"Good. Thank you."
He stops the swing. "I, um, meant to tell you. Marco's home . . . er, here."
"Is that my surprise?" I ask. "I had no idea he was coming home today."
"No, Marco's not your surprise. I didn't know either. He was crashed out on the couch when I got back from work today."
"You really should lock your door."
"If I had, Marco would have been sleeping on my doorstep."
"Where is he now?" I ask.
"Ran into town to pick up a few things. Canaan's making dinner, and I wanted to invite you."
"I'd love to. Let me change, okay?"
"You don't have to," he says, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "I like tutus, remember?"
"This," I say, standing, twirling, "is not a tutu. It's a skirt."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes. Tutus aren't soft."
I lean in for a kiss, but he makes me wait for it.
"You don't like soft?" I ask, brushing my lips against his.
He closes his eyes, a sound deep in his chest answering for him.
"I like soft," I say, our exhales mingling. But he remains still, his self-control far too refined for my taste. So I stand and turn toward the door.
He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. The porch swing squeals in protest, but I get my kiss. Or two.
Or twelve.
Canaan goes all out at dinner. Grilling up prime rib and corn on the cob, sprucing up potatoes and concocting a fruity iced tea drink.
"These things must be celebrated," he says.
For his part, Marco is fairly subdued. Quiet and calm. His dragon-green eyes clear, clearer than I've ever seen them, actually. His hair is shorter, and he's gained back some of the weight he lost during his imprisonment.
"Why didn't you tell us you were coming home?" I ask.
The four of us are at the kitchen table, reaching across one another for second helpings.
"It happened pretty quick. Last week the doc said he'd submitted a good report to the authorities, and this morning I woke to the news that the state was satisfied and now considered the matter closed."
"Wow, just like that?" I ask.
"Yeah, just like that."