A Valentine's Day Gift (Clover Park, Book 11) Page 2

  “No problem. How’s your son?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s good. I think I needed the phone call more than he did.”

  She shook her head, smiling, and he was struck with her sunny brightness—her light blond hair up in a high ponytail, her eyes bright blue, her skin glowing with health. She looked so much younger than him. He was thirty-six, but the past few years had taken a toll, making him feel ancient. “Isn’t that just like a kid?” she asked. “They’re fine while we’re worried sick. Feel free to stop by same time tomorrow if you want to check in with him again.”

  That small kindness reached in and squeezed his heart. “Thank you. I just might do that.”

  She nodded once and turned back to the grilled cheese, flipping it over. She was a tiny thing yet radiated so much life. So different from the heavy sense of impending death he’d lived with for so long. He wanted to get closer to that light.

  He turned and walked straight out the front door.

  Chapter Two

  Vinny returned to Allison’s front door the next day at the same time to call Angel. And the day after that. A week later, he couldn’t even pretend it was for Angel anymore. He was there for that moment of brief connection in Allison’s kitchen, standing there smiling at him, asking after his boy. She understood that close tie of family, that love for your children. His mother-in-law, Loretta, had become irritated with him checking in, but he didn’t care. If he wanted to check in, he would.

  He felt a little less alone in those brief moments talking to Allison about their kids. She told him about her three boys, close in age to his own, and what they were into. Gabe and Luke loved video games and riding their bikes. Jared, the kindergarten kid, was the daredevil and already skilled at skateboarding. He told her about his boys. Vince and Nico were into sports—football, basketball, and baseball—like him. Angel was just starting in baseball. That one was too shrimpy for football. His wife, Maria, had decreed it, and Vinny honored her request. Vince and Nico were big like him. Those daily talks were the bright spot in his day.

  Today was the Friday before the long Memorial Day weekend, and he was looking forward to having the time off to spend with his kids. He went and got the cordless phone himself, Allison already expecting him while she fried up a couple of hot dogs for Jared, acknowledging him with a wave and a smile. He found himself smiling back, a foreign feeling.

  He called Angel, asked him about his day, and then Angel unexpectedly touched a nerve. “Gotta go! Nonna and I are working in the garden today.”

  That had been Maria’s garden and hadn’t been touched in a year. “What’re you doing with it?” he managed over the tightness in his throat.

  “First we have to pull weeds; then we’re planting new stuff. Bye!” He hung up.

  His eyes were suddenly hot. The garden was an eyesore, dead plants, overrun by weeds, but somehow looking at it had reminded him of Maria. Slowly dying as she did. It was morbid but comforting, reflecting back his reality. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. This was how it should be. The young breathing life into the world. New things should have a chance to grow.

  “Can I use your hammer?” a little voice asked.

  He opened his eyes to find Jared standing in front of him, pointing at the hammer on Vinny’s tool belt. Vinny had a kid-size hammer in his toolbox he let his boys use. “You’ll have to ask your mom if it’s okay.”

  “Mom!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “Can I use the worker’s hammer?”

  Allison walked in, saying to Jared, “I thought you were watching TV. I told you not to bother the workers. And his name is Mr. Marino.” She looked up at Vinny. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  Jared ran back to the living room, probably figuring he had no chance of using a hammer now.

  “How’s Angel doing today?” she asked.

  “Good.” His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “He’s working in his ma’s garden.” His throat closed and he needed to get out fast before he broke down. Allison was blocking the way to the kitchen, where he usually put the phone back. He handed her the phone. “Here.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Nothing would ever be okay again. He met her blue eyes reflecting real concern. In that moment, he needed to share the pain with someone. Sometimes it was too much to keep bottled inside, being strong for his boys.

  His voice came out hoarse. “Some days are harder than others. My wife died last month. It’s been difficult for all of us.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is. I’m so sorry.” She stepped closer, her hands lifting, and for a moment he thought she might hug him. But then her hands lowered and she squeezed his hand with her smaller one in a firm warm grip. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you.” There was nothing she could do, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

  She nodded, releasing his hand, gazing at him with so much sympathy he had to turn from her.

  “I’d better get back to work,” he muttered and quickly headed out.

  He threw himself back into work, trying to keep his focus on anything but what was in his head—young Allison making him feel less alone. He was drawn to her, wanting her comfort, and it pained him that he wanted that from another woman. Maria was his comfort, always had been.

  He and Tony were loading up the truck at the end of the day when he felt a soft hand on his arm. He turned to find Allison standing there, holding a covered dish.

  “I made you and the boys chicken parmigiana. I thought it would be nice for you to have a break from kitchen duty.” She gave him a small smile. “You know, start your long weekend off a little more relaxed.”

  He never cooked. Loretta left dinner warming in the oven every night, frozen meals in the freezer for the weekend. Allison cared. She saw his pain and wanted to lessen the burden.

  He took it from her. “Thank you, Allison. I really appreciate it, and I’m sure the boys will too.”

  “My friends call me Allie.”

  He cracked a smile, so out of practice it felt strange. “Thank you, Allie.”

  She leaned close, her hands lifting again for a hug before she backed away. “Sorry. I’m a hugger.” She put her hands in the air. “Look out for the strange woman hugging everyone.”

  “It’s nice. Have a good weekend.” He lifted the glass container. “Thanks again.”

  She beamed a smile that made something in him light up too. “Stairs look great!”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the stairs they’d built last week. It wasn’t the main event. The real work was inside. “Thanks. You should see inside.”

  She blushed, her gaze falling to his shoulder then his neck then his lips. A sudden awareness of attraction made him stand straighter. He’d only been with one woman, had never even been tempted.

  “Have a good weekend,” they said at the same time.

  She laughed and rushed back to the house. He quickly got into his truck. Tony appeared a moment later from where he’d been tying something down in the back.

  He handed over the container for Tony to hold.

  Tony lifted it. “What is it?”

  “Chicken parm.”

  “For me?”

  “For my kids.” And me. She cared enough to cook for me.

  He dropped Tony off at the construction office, where his car was parked, and drove home, feeling lighter than he had in years. He walked in the door of his ranch home, set the container a safe distance away on the coffee table, and announced, “I’m home!”

  The boys rushed in, hugging his legs and middle, all of them talking over each other in their excitement to see him again. He greeted each of them, hugging them close and ruffling their hair.

  “What’s that?” Loretta asked, appearing from the kitchen in her apron and zeroing in on the food container. Her gray hair was in a bun, her figure stout, and her tone authoritative.

&n
bsp; He picked up the container. “The woman at the job I’m working made us some chicken parm for the weekend. I’ll just stick it in the freezer.” He headed for the kitchen to put it away.

  She intercepted before he could get to the freezer, taking the container from him and opening the lid. She frowned. “A woman cooked for you?”

  “She said she wanted to give us a break for the weekend.”

  Loretta sniffed. “What break? I do the cooking around here.”

  “I know. She was just being nice. I’ll freeze it. Maybe we’ll have it when you want a day off.”

  She leaned down and smelled the chicken parm. “It’s terrible.” She pointed at it. “This isn’t even real mozzarella. What is this? American cheese? It’s not even real cheese.” She yanked the garbage can out from under the sink and dumped it in.

  He lurched forward and stopped. Too late. Besides, he understood why. She wanted him to honor his wife’s memory, her daughter, not move on to another woman, however innocent their friendship. Guilt sliced at him. He was a grieving widower; he didn’t get to have sunshine and light, didn’t get the comfort only a woman could give. Not to mention Allie was married. You didn’t take comfort from a married woman.

  Loretta wiped her hands in an exaggerated gesture of good riddance and set the dish in the sink, pouring water in it to soak. She turned off the faucet and turned to him. “I will teach you how to cook. Real Italian cooking. In this way, the boys will know their mother.”

  “They’ve got you,” he said. “Nothing’s better than Nonna’s cooking.”

  “You will learn,” she ordered.

  He leaned down and kissed her soft cheek before heading for his shower. She meant well, but he didn’t see the point in him cooking. Her real point was, don’t let another woman take Maria’s place. And she was right. He hadn’t even been thinking of Allie that way. Well, maybe for a moment. He’d just been touched deeply that she cared.

  He’d honor his wife’s memory. Always.

  Chapter Three

  One year later…

  Allie stared out the window of her art studio, sipping her tea, enjoying the early morning light and the quiet. Her three boys were in school full-time. Ever since her art studio had been completed and, in no small part due to Vinny’s open admiration of her artwork, she’d fully embraced being an artist. Funny how it took the guy who built the studio of all people to give her the confidence she needed to believe in herself. Once Jared started full-time at school, she’d signed up for an illustration class in the city. She’d decided to become a picture-book illustrator and now had a portfolio of work. In fact, just last month her illustrated work had been published in an Easy Reader series featuring a frog named Finkle. And next weekend she would have her very first art show. Though it was a small venue, it was still an honor for her illustrations of forest animals to be displayed at the Clover Park library.

  Unfortunately, the more she’d grown as an artist and a person, the worse her marriage became. Maybe because she had more respect for herself, standing up for what she wanted. She and William used to fight about what he called her neediness—her attempts at conversation and affection—and money. He resented her spending “his” money on nonessentials like the drapes, nice frames for pictures of the kids, and knickknacks to warm up the chilly atmosphere of their home. Now that she’d given up on intimacy, their fights were just about money, more specifically, money she spent on art supplies and her illustration class. He called her illustrations her little cartoon hobby and thought what she’d been paid for the Easy Reader series was pathetic. She’d just been happy to be paid and had stashed the money in a savings account of her own for any future art-related expenses. William wanted her to either get a real job or magically become the corporate wife he needed. He alternated arguing with the intensity of the blood-sucking corporate lawyer he was and keeping a cold distance.

  What it came down to was that she was not the wife he wanted anymore. This was made abundantly clear when he took an apartment in the city, saying he was tired of the commute, and only came home on weekends. She suspected he had a mistress. She’d confronted him about it more than once and got nowhere. She was tired of arguing, tired of crying, just so damn tired.

  Sometimes she thought of divorce. It wouldn’t be all that much different from the way they lived now, but then she’d look at her boys and think she just needed to hang on until the kids were grown. She had to know they would be okay. Jared was only six. She didn’t want to rock the foundation of their world. Her own parents were still married, even if they didn’t seem all that happy. Divorce had been a dirty word in her household growing up, said only in whispers about other people who’d failed at marriage. Her parents had taught her and her sister that divorce was shameful. It was a hard thing to shake, that feeling of shame and failure.

  She set her tea on the table and ran her finger along the beveled edge of the bookcase Vinny had made her to thank her for the dinners she’d given him. She’d cooked Vinny and his boys dinner every Friday while he’d worked here, and he’d always accepted so graciously. It was a little thing, giving him a small break on the weekend, but it was what she could do.

  She bent and pulled out the thick art book on color, flipping it to the center, where she’d stashed a holiday card from Marino and Sons Construction. She opened it and ran her finger over the large confident scrawl of Vinny’s signature. They’d become friends during the six weeks he’d worked on her art studio, chatting after his call home to his son on Vinny’s lunch break. Soon they were chatting when he was done work for the day too. Mostly they talked about their kids, but he was such a good listener she’d confided her dream of becoming an illustrator. She’d even shared some of her early efforts based on classic picture books she admired. The last thing he’d said to her on his last day on the job, with clear respect and admiration in his eyes, was to “keep that fire in your belly, keep going with your art. It’s a gift.”

  She’d cried when he drove off. It had touched her so deeply for someone to really see her and acknowledge her as an artist. Their goodbye had felt bigger somehow than a casual goodbye.

  She thought of him often, wondering how he was doing as a single dad to three boys. She hoped his sadness had lessened, that he might have some small joys in his life. Like she did with her art and her boys. He’d only sent this holiday card because she’d sent one to him through his company. She didn’t know his home address and hadn’t wanted to get too personal. Both Vinny and Tony had signed it. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept it, but every once in a while when her thoughts drifted, she pulled it out, remembering his sadness, but also remembering his warmth and encouragement.

  That was it. She would invite him to her art show, along with his boys. The illustrations were made for children, after all. She pulled out her sketch pad and drew a quick illustration of a happy-looking golden retriever. Then she added in bold letters: You’re Invited to Allie’s First Art Show. Next line: Featuring picture-book illustrations of forest creatures. She added the address, date and time she’d be there on Saturday morning, and mentioned she’d be giving out free early readers of the series she’d illustrated.

  She mailed it to his work. Either he’d show up or he wouldn’t.

  She didn’t even know if he was local.

  He could be busy. Three boys in May were probably crazy busy with baseball games.

  She wouldn’t get her hopes up.

  ~ ~ ~

  Vinny drove like a man on a mission. He had exactly thirty minutes to catch Allie’s art show. Nico’s baseball game had just wrapped up, Angel’s was done super early this morning, and he had Vince’s game in the afternoon. His boys were in their baseball uniforms in the backseat of the minivan, quiet with their mouths full of deli subs. He’d been so happy for Allie when he got her invitation in the mail. She’d wanted to be an illustrator and she’d made it. Her own art show, her own published books that she’d illustrated. He knew she had talent and was thrilled to see h
ow far she’d come in only a year.

  He’d never forgotten her kindness, asking after his boys, cooking for them every week to give him a break. It hadn’t given him a break since Loretta wouldn’t stand for it, but he’d accepted the offer gratefully every week and given it to his bachelor cousin Tony, who was equally grateful to have a home-cooked meal. The irony was, now Vinny really was the cook in the family. His father-in-law’s health had taken a turn for the worse, and Loretta had become a full-time nurse for her husband. She’d given Vinny a crash course in Italian cooking and then followed up, having him and the boys go to her place for supervised cooking every Sunday. He now made a pretty mean sauce and had become a whiz at ravioli. That was what his boys liked best, so he made it often, secretly hiding vegetables in the cheese filling.

  The note he’d written Allie burned a hole in his jeans pocket. He wasn’t sure what had come over him, putting his deepest thoughts into words, but he didn’t know when he’d ever have a chance to see her again, and he just wanted her to know how much she’d helped him during a dark time of his life. Still helped him when the darkness closed in.

  A crumpled paper wrapper shot into the cup holder next to him from one of the boys. He glanced back at the big hand of his oldest, ten-year-old Vince. “Don’t put your trash up front. Stick it in the bag it came in.”

  Vince complied, making a big noise about it. “How quiet do we gotta be to get ice cream after my game?”

  “Library quiet,” Vinny said. “Whisper.”

  “I’m a great whisperer!” six-year-old Angel shouted, his Ss lisping with his missing front teeth.

  “That’s not a whisper,” Nico said, then lowered his voice. “This is a whisper. We’re gonna look at pictures an artist made and have ice cream.”

  “Her name is Allie Reynolds,” he told them. Just saying her name sent a zing of anticipation through him. She’d remembered him after all this time, and that meant something. Maybe she’d enjoyed their talks as much as he had. Or maybe that had just been a matter of circumstance. He’d been depressed and she’d been a bright light of caring and comfort. He wasn’t depressed anymore, but he wasn’t exactly happy either.