Chapter 19: Chapter 19

C H A P T E R E I G H T

I was in a good mood as I made my way to Dad and Melinda's home. Before leaving my residence, I loaded my files onto my laptop and made some progress on my job.

I had a plan: after eating supper and quickly explaining everything to Dad and Melinda, I would hide out in Dad's den and work until my eyesight became fuzzy.

This strategy was only flawed by my exhaustion. I was exhausted since I barely had four to five hours of quality sleep the night before. In my line of work, attention to detail was crucial, and being hazy was bad. However, I believed that if I put in two to three solid hours of focus and got a good night's rest, I would be able to go full force and kick some book editors' asses the following day.

I was feeling terrific and really stoked for supper at my folks' since I had my strategy all planned out and a nice excuse—that I needed to do some work—so Dad would cut his lecture short.

That is, until I could see their house and a dark, metallic gray badass Camaro was parked outside.

When I parked behind the Camaro, it helped me better comprehend why certain people were motivated to commit violent crimes.

Even yet, I did stop to think about how unfortunate it was that Falcone and I were so over as I shut off my car and engaged the parking brake. I would have loved to ride in that Camaro.

I exited the vehicle, turned around, and retrieved my luggage and laptop. I then made my way to the residence.

I would have strolled gently to the home, weighing my alternatives, relaxing myself, and developing a strategy if I were a different sort of woman, that is, if I didn't have my mother's blood in my veins.

I didn't carry out this. I walked up to the home, kicked open the door, stepped inside after being hit by a wash of potent garlic odors.

My parents had a large home that was perched atop a hill. Stairs leading to a landing with a large window are just ahead. The front of the home contained a large living room to the left, a tiny den off of it, and another little conservatory-like area off the living room behind the den.

Large kitchen with a large space for the dining room table is to the right. A half bath and utility room were located behind the kitchen and connected to a garage. Except for the kitchen, which was tiled, the whole space was carpeted with wool. One common bathroom and one bathroom off the master bedroom are located upstairs.

A woman called Mrs. Bartolome, who owned three cats, had been renting out an apartment on the garden level from them for as long as I can recall. The cats cycled during her time in the apartment due to kitty death and, once, kitty desertion, though Mrs. Bartolome claimed it was kitty theft. I was inclined to believe her since she cared for those cats more than most people care for their children, but Mrs. Bartolome never did. Since as long as I could remember, she had aged like the hills. Her neighboring behavior was equally mute. Absence of noisy parties, loud music, and a steady stream of people. And most of all, she tolerated Isabelle because she loved Melinda, respected Dad, and cared deeply for me.

There were four bedrooms upstairs before Isabelle and I left (I never moved back after graduating from Technical Highschool; Isabelle took longer and graduated from high school by what we all considered a minor miracle). However, after I left, Dad converted one of the smaller bedrooms into a master bathroom. Because Dad is Dad, and Melinda is Melinda, the entire pad was kept up, tastefully adorned, cozy, warm, and comfy.

Like it was then, with candles lighted all around and a fire burning in the fireplace grate of the living room.

But after I quickly scanned the entire house and noticed that Dad was occupying Falcone in the living room and that the table was set for four, I turned my head to the left once more and took in Dad sitting in his armchair and Falcone lying on the couch with his back to me and his arm crossed across the back of the couch but his neck twisted to look over his shoulder at me.

I set my luggage down and started to yell.

"Honey," Dad said, standing out of his chair, a bottle of beer in his palm, "why didn't you tell us Falcone was coming to dinner?" ”

"Don't worry! No problem! " Melinda's voice came at me from the right, where I glanced to see her running into the room with a dishtowel. "We have plenty. He's a huge guy, but I usually have plenty. And thanks to Ray's suggestion last night, I'd already planned on making lasagna."

When Melinda arrived at the entry area at the same time as Dad, I was obliged to postpone my rant. Dad moved in for a kiss, and I tipped my head back to embrace it. Then I turned to Melinda and leaned to kiss her, and she extended one arm to add a shoulder hug since that's how she was.

Then I rose up and turned to face Falcone, who was standing by the side of the sofa, arms crossed across his chest, emanating badass calm as he watched my arrival.

I then opened my lips to scream.

Dad again got there before me when he announced, “I’ll just go whip up a cosmo.”

I looked at my father. "I can't, Dad; I have to work after supper."

His brow furrowed. "However, we have a family supper."

"I'm behind," I said.

Dad's look altered, and I recognized it so well that I could draw it while blindfolded (that was, if I could sketch).

Face of the Lecturer

"How many times do I have to tell you, Giabella, don't procrastinate?"

"Your Dad is correct, honey, when you postpone, you become all stressed up and in a foul attitude," Melinda said.

"Don't put off until tomorrow what you can accomplish now," Dad continued, as if Melinda hadn't said anything.

"Then you eat stuff you shouldn't eat and go out and purchase clothing you shouldn't buy and get even more angry," Melinda continued as if Dad didn't speak.

"Peace of mind, that's what strong time management skills provide you, peace of mind," Dad said.

"And you wouldn't have to take on so many clients if you didn't have to pay off your credit cards," Melinda said.

"I'm always telling you, you need to learn to focus," Dad insisted.

"And, as I always say, accessorize. Accessories are the key." You only need to invest your money on a few excellent core pieces in your wardrobe to create an altogether new ensemble by simply swapping out a scarf! " Melinda concluded her sentence. "And scarves are less expensive than 10 tiny black gowns."

"I possess thirteen tiny black dresses," I said, because it was critical to keep track.

“See!" Melinda sobbed.

Falcone was watching me, a thirty-three-year-old woman who had been taking care of herself for over a decade, get chastised like I was a teenager at the same moment the kitchen buzzer went off.

"The bread is done!" shouted Melinda.

"Soup's up," Dad said with a smile targeted at Falcone. "You may thank me later, son, for the happiness you're going to have."

"Everyone to the table," Melinda said as she dashed toward the kitchen.

"I need to speak with Falcone," I declared.

"Later, honey, Mel's garlic bread waits for no man... or woman," Dad said as he approached the table.

When I noticed Falcone heading in my direction, I turned to face him. Being denied the chance to yell at him and potentially tap out my message in Morse Code or fall into a trance and speak in tongues in the hopes that one or the other might break through his macho male anti-communication barrier, I chose to express my intense annoyance by staring.

Falcone ignored my look, and I realized he was doing it when he approached, grabbed me by the neck, pulled me to his side, and pushed me against the table while muttering, "See you're stressed and in a foul mood," in my ear.

I craned my neck to look up at him as he lifted his head, and I could see that he was beaming.

"I'm just wondering, do you know how much contract killers cost, and besides that, do you have any recommendations?

”

Once we arrived at the table, Falcone stopped us, turned me into his arms in front of him, tossed his head back, and started laughing.

I just gazed, losing all sense of anger.

He had a wonderful chuckle that came right from the heart; it was deep and resonant.

He bent his head and kissed me while still laughing. There was no tongue, but it was a kiss, a genuine kiss, hard and longish and right in front of my Dad at the dinner table.

When his mouth separated from mine and he lowered his head, I blinked and yelled, "You can't kiss me in front of my Dad!"

"I simply did, Sweet Pea," Falcone said.

"Don't do that again," I said, still snapping.

"Then don't be so amusing," Falcone said. "You make me laugh, sweetie, and I'm warning you right now that when I'm done, I'm going to kiss you."

"I didn't intend to be funny," I said snottily.

"You were, after all."

"How can I manage it if I don't know when you'll find anything amusing?" ”

"I guess you should brace yourself, sweetie, because the way you are, it might happen at any time."

When I realized we had an audience, I opened my lips to react. My head turned, and I saw Dad grin what I knew instinctively (because I'd never seen it before) was a father's knowing, satisfied smile, warm with the knowledge his daughter had caught Mr. Very, Very Right. I also noticed Melinda standing next to Dad, with hot pads on her hands and carrying a plate of lasagna, with her own smile that said it all: she'd married Mr. Very, Very Right, and she was overjoyed that her adored stepdaughter had followed in her footsteps.

Completely... flipping...screwed.

"I believe I'll have that cosmo now," I said, breaking away from Falcone.

Dad chuckled, went toward the fridge, and said, "Don't think so honey, you have to work later," continuing to move while looking over his shoulder at Falcone. "How about another beer?"

Another? Beer?

How long had he been there, and when did massive, temple-like gorgeous people consume beer?

"Yeah," Falcone said, and I raised my head to look at him.

"Do you like beer?"

"Yeah," he said again, looking down at me.

"Won't that make you sick?" I inquired.

"Life is short, darling; you have to live it every now and again, and you don't drink water with handmade lasagna and garlic bread."

His mother was half-Italian, so he'd know.

I chose to ignore Falcone and went to the kitchen. "I'll assist with getting the food."

"Thank you, darling," Melinda whispered as she placed the lasagna on the table's curly, wrought iron hot plate.

Dad ordered me a diet grape, himself and Falcone a fresh beer, Melinda's red wine was replaced, and Melinda and I piled the table with fresh, hot garlic bread, a massive salad, and every bottle of salad dressing known to man. Then everyone passed the food around and piled it on their plates, remarking on how nice it looked and smelled (or at least Dad and I did this, Falcone just loaded up his plate).

I was shoving lasagna into my mouth mentally ready for the Isabelle debate when Melinda remarked, "So, how did you two meet?"

My gaze slid across the table to Falcone as I gasped for air while eating the steamy lasagna.

Dimples appeared on Falcone's face.

As I feverishly chewed in the hopes of being able to respond before Falcone said something that may cause my head to explode or, worse still, the heads of my parents, he raised his brows in a blatant challenge.

Into the vacuum, Melinda said. What about romance? It had to be romantic, I guess.

Melinda would bet on that. Melinda's surroundings were predominantly rose-colored, with the occasional gray tint from Isabelle. Since Melinda seldom had a bad day and always saw the positive side of life, this had a lot to do with who she was.

The fact that Melinda was and would always be madly in love with my father also played a significant role in this. The moment she saw him, she knew she had found the guy of her dreams. That is what caused her to pass out a few seconds later. Dad caught her as a result of her fainting. He gently caressed her hair out of her face as she awoke in his arms, his ass on his lap, and he looked down at her as a prince would look at a princess who had just been brought back to life.

I was there when it happened, so I know this for a fact. It made my toes curl back then, and it still does whenever I think about it. We were in a fast food burger restaurant, and it was the most romantic thing I'd ever seen.

Our meeting wasn't anything like that, Falcone and I.

Although it would be foolish and embarrassing, I gave Melinda what she wanted when I swallowed because that is how she would want it to be—not for her, but for me—and I loved her more than life.

In addition, I offered her the truth, which is what I did.

"When Antonette was working at Club and screwing up the cocktails all the time and shattering all the glasses, I went there one night because she needed moral support," I continued, “my eyes glued to her, my heart beating and my mind trying to pretend Falcone wasn't there. I was drinking at the pub when I had a peculiar feeling, like if something major was going to happen. The moment Falcone stepped in, I immediately turned to look at the door. When I first saw him, I immediately thought, ‘That's the man for me; that man is the perfect man for me,’ so I immediately understood what the big deal was. Then I drank at the bar as Falcone ate supper and I attempted to grab his attention but failed. If I could select any man in the world, I would choose that man for me. Since I didn't want him to leave without coming with me, it ached when he was getting ready to depart. He did not, however, go without me. He approached me, spoke to me, and placed his hand on my back. "And when I felt his hand on my back and turned to find him standing close, it seemed like every fantasy I'd ever longed for had come true." Melinda was gazing at me, mouth wide, eyes shining, and I added, "So that's how we met."

Melinda's eyes were filled with tears; she continued gazing at me, then pulled in a breath, then looked down the table at Dad, then back at me.

"That's nice," she said quietly.

Dad swallowed and cleared his throat.