On Friday, right after class, I found myself riding to New York in the back of Brandon's Mercedes while his driver, David, chatted amiably in the front with an extra bodyguard that Brandon had hired for the night.
Brandon had insisted on accompanying me to New York himself. After trying and failing throughout the week to convince me that going was a bad idea, he'd been just as stubborn about the fact that he was going too. I couldn't lie; I was sort of happy to see that he was willing to travel with me outside of his apartment. He hadn't heard from Miranda since last weekend, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. Kieran assured him she was expecting a call from Miranda's lawyers daily. Brooklyn, in other words, was a good distraction.
The security Brandon had assigned to my family had helpfully supplied the fact that Katie had her hair done every Friday afternoon at a salon in East New York, which made my job easy. The only people who would be in a salon would be other women––a potentially safer environment than trying to confront her somewhere else. Brandon wanted to go in with me, but I convinced him that he would only attract attention just by being a tall, handsome, obviously wealthy man standing in a roomful of money-hungry women.
We spent most of drive down working peacefully together. Brandon participated in several conference calls while I sat in the opposite corner studying, trying (and failing) to ignore the way his fingers massaged my feet propped in his lap. I was dreading the task I was on my way to do, but the car ride down was the most normal I had felt with Brandon in months.
We pulled up in front of Connie's Cutz just after five, when Katie's appointment supposedly began.
"Are you sure I can't go in?" Brandon asked again as I opened the door.
I turned to him. "Yes. Like I said, you'll only call more attention to yourself. If she's a pawn for Messina, it's better that she doesn't know you're in the picture. Besides, maybe I can handle this woman to woman."
Brandon watched me regretfully, then finally nodded. He leaned in and threaded a big hand around the nape of my neck.
"Come here," he said, and he pulled me close for a quick, but very thorough kiss. "I'm right here if you need me, and Andy is going to stand just outside the shop. Be careful."
"I'll be fine," I murmured. Then I kissed him again, and stepped out of the car.
The shop door jangled with a bell when I entered, causing the five women inside to swivel quickly at my presence. Four of them boasted identically massive heads of long, barrel-curled hair, all teased and styled to at least four inches above their scalps.
I had known girls like this my whole life. They were the remnants of a certain part of Brooklyn that yearned for the New York of the seventies and eighties: big-haired Italian girls who wore their acrylic nails and pancaked makeup like armor. They attached themselves to the small-time crooks of the neighborhood, bragging to each other about the newest rock or Gucci bag their boyfriends had bought them with dirty money. Some of them ended up married to these guys; others were content just to be sidepieces. They were walking clichés, caricatures inspired from The Sopranos and Goodfellas, but with none of the glamor.
Two of the women sat together in the back of the shop, chattering happily while one did the other's nails. Another lounged in an empty seat while a fourth stood at the shampoo station. Katie Corleone lay there with her head in a sink.
"Can I help you?"
The woman who was currently wrist-deep in Katie's hair looked me up and down with a critical, faux-lashed eye. Her ashy, bottle-blonde hair was partially piled on the crown of her head, the rest flowing down her back in a cascade of dry ringlets. Like the rest of the women there, she wore a revealing, ostentatious outfit: leopard-print skinny jeans, a black tank top that revealed more of her red bra than it concealed, and sky-high gold heels that couldn't possibly be comfortable to wear all day in a salon.
I had to force myself not to follow her gaze. In my simple black pants, loose gray tank, and flat sandals, with my hair tossed into a messy bun, I was clearly not a part of this tribe. But I wasn't here to fit in. I was here for my dad.
"I'm looking for Katie," I said.
"Who's asking?" said the woman with a quick glance down at her client.
Steeling myself, I stepped farther inside. "Skylar Crosby. I'm Danny's daughter."
Katie pulled herself up to look at me, her wet hair falling onto her plastic-covered shoulders with a splat.
"Hi Skylar!" she greeted me with enthusiasm that obviously masked both surprise and irritation. "Girls, this is Danny's daughter. Ain't she gorgeous?" She sighed with a terrifically fake smile. "She's so lucky she can pull off that natural look."
"That's one way to put it," one of the women at the nail station said, and the other snickered.
"Listen, sweetie, can this wait?" Katie asked, pointing to her soaking hair good-naturedly. Without her bouffant, she looked like a wet rat with a face painted like a doll's. "A girl's got to take care of herself to impress her man. You know how it is."
"Does she?" the woman at the empty hair station wondered a little too loudly to be under her breath, causing another round of low laughter to flutter around the shop.
"Um, sorry, but it can't wait," I said more loudly than I intended.
I forced myself to walk all the way to the back of the shop, ignoring the stare stabbing my back as I came to stand next to Katie.
"This won't take long," I said. "I just came to tell you to leave my dad alone."
The hum of the shop stopped completely, and Katie's pleasantness evaporated.
"Excuse me?" she asked in a way that clearly wasn't a question. "Just who do you think you are?"
"His daughter," I said, puffing up my chest even though I stood close to six inches shorter than the hairdresser next to me.
"And why is it you don't want your dad to be happy?" Katie asked with a nasty grin. "I don't think he'll want me to leave him alone, honey. Danny likes me too much."
The other women in the shop cackled and whistled. My stomach turned at the memory of my dad all over this ridiculous woman.
"Look, my grandmother saw you with Victor," I said, putting my cards on the table. "You're not really interested in my dad. He's a garbage collector who can't even play in his band anymore because Victor messed him up so much. He's twenty years older than you, has no money, and lives with his ma. You've obviously been sent by Victor to get him into trouble again, and I'm asking you, if you have any decency, to stop. Please stop."
I took a deep breath. All of the women stared at me, their plump lips dropped to the floor.
"He has nothing more to give," I said quietly, now pleading rather than dictating. A catfight wouldn't work here. They had me in numbers, and they'd dig in their claws. It was better to play dead. "If Victor's looking for another payout...he needs to know there's nothing left."
"Who do you think you're foolin', honey?" Katie asked, apparently having decided to abandon all pretense. "Nothin' left? Ain't you got a rich boyfriend? Victor knows there's a lot more there. And if he don't get it, well...let's just say your dad and grandmother might not have a place to live pretty soon." She turned to her friends. "It's a shame really. It's a nice house, just a few blocks from here."
I fought the sick feeling that was growing in my stomach.
"You can tell him that's not an option anymore," I said. "That connection is gone. And if he feels okay with tossing an old lady and her maimed son out onto the street, then he's going straight to hell."
Katie shrugged.
"Ain't you a fancy lawyer now?" she asked, her smile laced with daggers. "That's what Danny's always sayin'. He can't stop braggin' about his daughter and her fancy Harvard degree." She glanced at her friends, who were looking at me with arched, heavily plucked brows. "I think you'll be able to find plenty of funds when they become necessary."
"When will that be?" I asked with a dry mouth. I couldn't help myself.
"Oh, your dad's holding out better than most, I'll give him that. He's actually tryin' to make this whole rehab thing work. But..." She flipped a long-nailed finger around the room whimsically. "Once an addict, always an addict. He'll come back to the track. They always do."
My heart sank. This was the wrong tactic; I should have known better. Appealing to Katie's better nature was never going to work. The best thing I could do would be to get my family the hell out of New York. A lot easier said than done.
Before I could leave, the shop door jangled open again.
"Skylar?"
My heart fell even further as I realized who was behind me. Along with the rest of the women, I turned around to find Brandon standing awkwardly in the shop entrance, looking way better in his simple white T-shirt and jeans than anyone had any right to. He wore his favorite Red Sox cap, the curled brim pulled low over his face. From afar, he might have looked like any other regular neighborhood guy coming off a construction shift or a delivery route. But it didn't really matter how he dressed; Brandon couldn't mask the confidence in his shoulders, the determined set of his chiseled jaw. No hat could hide the natural magnetism emanating from every pore.
"Hot damn," someone breathed behind me. I knew without looking that all these women were practically panting.
"Skylar?" Brandon said again as his blue eyes zeroed in on me. "Everything okay?"
I closed my eyes. Shit. This was going to make everything even worse.
"It's fine," I said in a voice that sounded anything but. "We should go."
"Who's your friend, sweetie?" Katie asked behind me, saccharine-sweet. She raised a hand. "I'm Katie. How you doin' handsome? What do we call you?"
Her voice was friendly, but I knew exactly what she was doing. Every single thing she saw was going to be reported right back to Messina, and he would know exactly whom she'd seen. My entire story was completely blown.
Brandon darted a quick blue glance at her and the other women, then landed back me.
"You ready to leave?" he asked, ignoring Katie.
His question jarred me out of my frozen position.
"Yes." I wove my way back through the shop and grabbed his hand. "We need to go."
"Oh Skylar?"
Katie's voice stopped me as I tugged Brandon toward the door. I turned around. She might still have looked like a drowned rat, but she looked like a smug drowned rat. She looked down at Brandon's wrist, which bore the single giveaway of who he was: his shiny, expensive Rolex watch.
"I'll tell Victor he has nothing to worry about," she said with a particularly evil smile.
I bit my lip. Brandon tensed.
"Please," I said. For what, I didn't know.
"You know," Katie said, looking at Brandon with a desire she didn't bother to mask. Then her eyes flashed, all kindness evaporated. "For an educated broad, you're pretty fuckin' stupid."
I gulped and said nothing. Right then, I couldn't deny it.
"Let's go," Brandon urged. And we did.
~
Brandon sat quietly with me on short drive to my family's house. David navigated the backstreets of Brooklyn silently, while Andy, the bodyguard, was basically a piece of furniture. We pulled to a stop outside of my family's brown house on K Street. The sagging eaves seemed to bear a little more weight in the coming twilight.
Brandon looked up to the front seat. "Guys, can you give us a minute?"
With a brief nod at us through the rearview mirror, David left the car, followed by Andy. Their solid forms leaned against the side of the doors outside, blocking some of the excess sunlight. Brandon turned to where I sat, still numbed by the exchange in the shop.
"You have to let me help," he said quietly.
"You already did," I replied more bitterly than I intended. "That's why I'm in this mess."
Brandon sighed with a sharp look. "No, we're in this mess because your dad is an addict and got entangled with the wrong people."
"Yeah, but now they know about you." I clasped my hands in my lap, suddenly very interested in the tiny wrinkles on my knuckles.
"Skylar, did you really think they wouldn't figure that out?"
I looked up. I felt completely sick. "You can't get involved. You're trying to run for office. What if Miranda catches wind of this? Your career, your life...it could all get screwed up if you start buying people off like––"
"Skylar, do you really think that's the only option?" Brandon cut in gently. He picked up one of my hands and sandwiched it with his. "Sometimes I think you forget just who––what––I am. You see me as a normal guy, and while I love that about you, the truth is, babe, I'm just not." He took a deep breath and continued. "This guy has absolutely no idea what kind of power I have. And I can make his life a living fucking hell if I want to."
He tugged a little on my arm, begging me to turn toward him.
"You can't do this on your own, Red," he said as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Let me in."
The gesture broke me. I was so incredibly powerless in this situation, in everything lately, and more than that, it seemed like whatever I did only made things worse. I started to shake against the soft leather seat. Brandon grasped my wrists and gathered me quickly against his strong, solid form, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt.
Green eyes or blue? The question came unbidden, and I pushed it away with a sniff. It wasn't important now, not with everything going on.
"Shh," Brandon hummed, pressing my head into his shoulder and stroking my hair. "It's going to be okay. Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing is going to happen to your family. I promise."
He held me tight, forcing me to inhale his sweet, almond-laced scent. Soon, the shakes subsided, and I started to feel halfway normal again. He was right. At some point, I realized, I needed to stop holding so tightly onto everything and let Brandon in.
"Okay," I mumbled into his chest. "We'll do it together?"
Brandon pressed his lips into my hair, and I could feel him nod against the top of my head.
"Always," he murmured.
After we sat for a few more moments, I felt strong enough to get moving.
"Well, we'd better go in," I said. I nodded behind me at my family's house. "If we don't have dinner before heading back to Boston, my grandmother will make stew of us both."
Looking over my shoulder, Brandon smiled. "I'm actually pretty excited to see Bubbe again," he admitted. "I've been dreaming about that blintz of hers."
"I think tonight she's making brisket."
Brandon grinned. "Sounds great!"
I laughed. "Remember that while she's giving you the third degree."
I joked, but as we walked toward the house I grew up in, I closed my eyes to relish in the feeling. I forgot sometimes how good it felt to have the people I loved all safe around me in one place. Now that Brandon was here with me again, it felt like home.
~
After finding out that Brandon and I were going to be stopping by that evening, Bubbe had pretended to be nonchalant on the phone. But I knew better. She had been rooting for me and "that handsome goy" to work out from the beginning, so it was not too much of a surprise to find that she had spent the rest of her afternoon making a traditional Shabbat dinner, the likes of which I hadn't seen since I was a small child.
Brandon and I walked into the house and were immediately bowled over by the rich smells. A quick glance in the kitchen revealed not one but two freshly baked loaves of challah bread sitting on the counter, a massive salad and a zucchini kugel on the table, and, from the smell of it, her brisket slow-cooking in the oven.
I was a little amused. Bubbe was the only practicing Jew in our house, and Shabbat dinner was a rare occurrence. Dad only attended temple when Bubbe guilted him into it every few years, and considering the fact that my mother wasn't even Jewish at all, I only really considered myself part of that tribe by association. This was definitely a meal designed to impress our guest.
"Are you going to sing Kabbalat Shabbat for us?" I joked as we entered the kitchen.
Bubbe, who was lost in concentration as she checked whatever sauce she was making over the stove, jumped. She turned around with a hand held to her heart, then pointed her wooden spoon at me.
"I ought to, you little minx, you. If I could do it without your father falling asleep, I would. Now come here and give me a kiss."
Brandon and I both did as she said, and she grasped us each around the neck for a brief hug.
"Hello, handsome," she greeted Brandon. "Oy gevalt, did you get taller since May, or am I shrinking?" She pressed a hand against his chest and looked him over with obvious approval. "Such a big, strong man. So wonderful to see you again, Brandon."
I thought he might be embarrassed by her comments, but Brandon's massive grin over Bubbe's small form lit up the room. He seemed to enjoy my grandmother as much as I did.
"Sit down, sit down," she urged us after several pinches of Brandon's cheeks. "I'm almost done here. Danny's just getting dressed."
Brandon and I obediently sat at the table, and Brandon nodded when I offered him a glass of wine from the open bottle.
"You really didn't have to make all of this, Bubbe," I said, taking in the massive spread once again. "It's too much."
"Well, it's not so often I get to have my granddaughter and her handsome friend here for Shabbat dinner," Bubbe said from the stove. "Speaking of...did you...accomplish what you came here for?"
She glanced toward the doorway of the kitchen, as if expecting my dad to bound through at any moment. Under the table, Brandon grasped my knee.
He cleared his throat. "We did, Mrs. Crosby," he said. "But we both think it's time to tell Danny what you saw at the grocery store."
Bubbe's face fell at the thought, but she nodded her head.
"What happened at the grocery store?"
We all swung around to find my dad standing in the doorway. I brightened at the sight of him; he looked better than I'd seen him in months. When I'd left for Boston, he was still in his bathrobe. Now he was dressed like his normal self in a pair of ironed, if faded, navy blue chinos and a plaid button-down shirt that he had actually tucked in. He even wore shoes and a belt.
He still cradled his broken hand against his chest, but other than the still-fresh surgical scars over the top, it looked almost normal again. I knew he still had another month before he could really go back to work, and his disability was running out, but it would take another year before he could even think about getting full range of motion back. It was just another reason why he would be better off with me in Boston, where I could take care of him.
"Hey kid," Dad greeted me with a kiss on the cheek before reaching over to shake Brandon's hand––with his left, I noticed. "How you doin', Brandon? Nice to see you again."
Dad winked at me, then took a seat at the table and poured himself a glass of wine. We all leaned back as Bubbe set a mountain of brisket in the center of the table. She took her own seat and accepted a glass of wine for herself.
Dad looked warily around the table, which had become oddly quiet.
"Anyone want to tell me what's going on?" he asked, wrinkling his nose so his thin mustache scrunched over his lips.
I sighed and looked at Bubbe. "Go ahead, Bubbe. Tell him."
Bubbe looked like she would rather do anything else, but she set her wine glass on the table and proceeded to describe what she had seen between Katie and Victor. I continued the tale with the exchange in the shop. By the time we were finished, Dad looked like he was going to be ill.
"God," he said under his breath. "God, I have been so damn stupid."
He pulled his napkin in between his hands, twisting and turning the faded fabric while he processed. When he looked up, his expression was pained.
"You've been trying to tell me this for weeks, and I didn't believe you, Pips."
I took a big gulp of wine. Underneath the table, Brandon's hand squeezed my knee again.
I sighed. "It doesn't matter. She was so nice to you, Dad. I don't blame you for anything."
It wasn't completely true, but blaming him for an addiction and for ignoring the reservations of his family wasn't going to help.
Dad shook his head. "I'm sorry," he kept saying. "So damn sorry." He placed the napkin on the table with a slight bang of his wrist. "Well, one thing's for sure: she's toast. I ain't getting mixed up with Victor Messina again. I learned my lesson." He held up his crippled hand.
I nodded. "That's good, Dad. But Brandon wants to help too, and this time we're going to let him do it the right way. He wants to hire an investigator to help with the D.A.'s case against Messina. In the meantime, he's already assigned some extra security to watch the house. They should go with you and Bubbe when you're out and about. Especially when you go to Nick's."
I didn't like the fact that my dad still insisted on spending most of his free evenings at a small jazz club that Victor Messina sometimes frequented, but it was also where his band played. We wouldn't know for a long time whether or not he'd ever be able to play the piano with them again, but asking him not to be there when they performed would have been asking him to tear out his own heart. Music was what made my dad tick.
"Oh, Brandon, that's very nice of you," Dad said, already shaking his head, "but it's too much. I'll just make sure I steer clear of Victor."
"It's really no problem, Danny," Brandon started to say, but I cut him off.
"Dad." I reached out and put a hand gently on top of his scarred one. He flinched slightly, but I didn't put any weight on it as I traced the raw lines with my thumb. "Let him help. Brandon's...basically one of the family now."
I didn't have to look to see Bubbe's thrilled look at those words, because Brandon's wide smile caught me first. Trying not to grin myself, I just continued.
"I don't want to have to worry about you and Bubbe while I work to support this family," I said. "Okay?"
Dad ran his free index finger along the edge of the table, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in the worn tablecloth. Finally, he looked up.
"Okay," he relented. "Whatever you say, Pips."
The tension around the table melted away. I put my hand back into my lap and looked at Bubbe, whose face was shining with relief.
"All right, then," she said as she reached to grab the serving spoon in the center of the table. "Let's eat."
~