Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (29 page)

"What do you want?" Puma asks in an extra deep voice.

Fat dudes always have to act tough. It's amusing to me.

"Last Saturday. I need someone's info."

"A member or a guest?" He looks over to Henson for some sort of sign that it's okay to give me the information I'm asking for.

"A guest."

"I don't have that."

"Why?"

"The members are in a database on the computer in the office. The guests that night were all written in the red book. That book has been long gone. It's missing or destroyed. Can't find it in this mess."

"Wait–she came with a member."

"You know the member's name?"

Damn ... what did she call the skinny chick that night?

"No."

"Then you're shit out of luck homie."

Oh for fuck's sake.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ELIZABETH

I STAND NERVOUSLY WITH an awestruck look on my face in front of a massive, pristine, red brick townhouse, while firmly gripping the extended handles of my two oversized candy-red rolling suitcases. The broad limestone steps and perfectly painted black shutters frame each window and add an additional element of rich original detail to the house. There are two wooden window boxes located on each side of an elegant mahogany front door and each holds an assortment of live begonias–which add a pop of pink color and give the effect of a place that's more lived in instead of one that is simply camera ready. The house has obviously been expensively restored, but it still feels like it's brimming with rich history.
 

Before I can even place my hand on the brass knocker to announce my arrival, the door jerks open, and there stands a slightly out-of-breath aged version of myself. It's absolutely eerie to see a reflection of yourself in another human being whom you've only briefly talked to on the phone over the holidays. I haven't seen her since I was very young, so in a way, it's like we've never met. I know that I'm suppose to feel some sort of strong connection to her because she's my dad's sister, but the only feeling I can muster up at the moment is reluctant gratitude.
 

"You're here." She breathlessly declares with one hand on her hip and the other leaning on the doorframe.

"I'm here." I respond with a small smile on my face.

"Please come in Elizabeth. Welcome home."

My Aunt Juliette is short and curvy with pear shaped hips just like me. Her skin is flawless and flushed, and her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She is dressed in a pair of black cropped yoga pants and a multi-colored athletic bra. Based on her sweaty appearance she has obviously been working out, which I find an interesting activity for her to be doing, considering that she knew I would be arriving at this time. I don't know if I should be offended or impressed at her dedication.

I'm originally from Penn-Washington, Pennsylvania. A small suburb outside Philadelphia with tree-lined streets, low taxes, and blue ribbon schools. I've lived in Philly ever since I moved here to attend the University of Pennsylvania as a freshman, but have never visited my aunt the entire time I've lived here. We don't really know each other, except for the occasional Christmas card or phone call, and this temporary arrangement for me to stay with her has been several phone conversations and countless emails in the making between her and my mother. Not my ideal solution, but I was quickly running out of options. Sloan's place just isn't big enough for the two of us, plus I didn't want to impose myself on her any longer.

I remember flashes of my one and only visit to Aunt Juliette's when I was very young. Now looking back, I realize that she must have been quite young herself at the time, and that she had just married a man who barely said three words to any of us while we were there. I didn't understand the dynamics at the time, but for some reason my father was agitated about the visit or maybe about us specifically staying in their home, and I remember him insisting that we sleep on the sofa bed in the living room instead of the guest room that she had all decked out for us. I teared up when I heard my parents arguing about it in the kitchen, but distinctly remember that my father won that battle; so the living room is where we slept.

I remember being excited that I was going to be sleeping between my parents in the living room of such a big beautiful house. First of all I'd never slept in anyone's living room before, and secondly I was thrilled that we were in the "big city" having never left Penn-Washington before. But most importantly I was grateful that I wouldn't have to sleep anywhere near the boy with the mean eyes who also lived there. Roman.
 

When we were first introduced, the dark-haired boy seemed to be as quiet as my new uncle, except for the fact that he stuck his tongue out at me while no one was looking. When I told my mother what he did, she laughed and said that all boys were like that. The next day she forced me to play with him in the backyard while the adults caught up over coffee.

He was a couple of years older than me, so naturally he assumed the role of babysitter, when he was hardly qualified to watch any living thing as far as I was concerned. I was no baby and he certainly was not the boss of me. What I was though was sheltered, and I never saw his treachery coming.

My aunt's house didn't have a huge backyard like we did back home, but there was a small patio area in the back with various potted flowers, and a large rectangular patch of grass with a small garden area. Roman explained that Aunt Juliette was planting a small garden of tomatoes, squash, and sunflowers and that he knew a secret to help me grow as well.
 

"You'll grow as tall as a sunflower," he said. "I know because I helped my friend Peter grow last year. Now he beats everyone in basketball."

I was quite petite when I was a child, so it didn't take a rocket scientist for anyone to figure out that I probably had a strong desire to grow. I could never see much on my tippy toes when we went out to parades or sporting events, because it seemed as if every human being on the planet was taller than me. I hated being short. So it didn't take much for Roman to convince me that if he planted me in the ground, watered me, and we waited, that I'd grow at least three inches by the end of the day.

I believed him.
 

I was six.

After he handed me a miniature sized gardening shovel, we spent the next fifteen minutes digging the hole together as he told me stories about how he was going to be a professional athlete one day, and how he was going to buy his mom a big house and move in with her when he became rich like his dad. I didn't understand what he was talking about though. I thought my Aunt Juliette was his mother, but I was too excited about the prospect of growing in a day to ask him to explain.

Once the hole was deep enough, Roman told me to jump down in it and he'd fill the hole back up with soil, add a little Miracle-Gro, water me, and wait. Ten minutes later I was buried to my neck in dirt, with the sun beating down on my wet and bushy head of hair with no Roman in sight. After an hour I figured I'd grown enough and wanted to get out, but I couldn't move my arms. He'd packed the dirt super tight. In fact it was almost two hours before my parents and my aunt started looking for us both, assuming that we'd both walked to the playground. When they finally found me, I was in the backyard sunburned, hysterical, and in tears. My father was cussing up a storm as he furiously dug me out.

"I'm getting you out sweetie don't worry ... Where the hell is that little juvenile delinquent! Don't worry honey; daddy's going to get you out lickety split... This is exactly what I'm talking about Rose. Like father, like son! I'm going to kill that little bastard."

We only stayed another day after that, although we were supposed to stay a week. Tensions were high between the adults, and I refused to speak to Roman for the rest of the visit. Not only did he leave me buried in the yard alone, but I definitely didn't grow. And that made me want to pull his eyelashes out one by one. The little liar.

"Your home is amazing." I say to my aunt while still standing and holding onto my baggage.

"Thank you sweetie. Gosh you've grown to be such a beauty Elizabeth."
 

"Thanks." I blush.

I think she may be attempting to move forward to give me a hug, but I'm not sure. I tensely grip the handles of my luggage as I wait to see what she's going to do. I've never been that big on gestures of affection, but I'm even more skittish since the incident. She notices my discomfort and stops her forward momentum.

"Look at me. I'm a sweaty mess," she giggles in embarrassment. "Why don't you go put your things in your room. It's the first door on the left at the top of the stairs."

Now I feel like crap.
 

It's obvious that I've disappointed her by my reaction. I can't help but feel badly about it, because she is being so gracious by allowing me to stay here. I know she didn't sign up for housing a twenty-three-year old she barely knows, and if I know my mother, she probably had a strong hand in this.

"Thanks Auntie. Oh, just out of curiosity, Roman doesn't still live here does he?"

My aunt chuckles. "Still holding a grudge huh? Don't worry about Roman. He has his own place across town. He won't be bothering you. He's not the same mischievous kid he once was, and he only comes by when he has to get work done with Joseph. That's usually during the day. I'm assuming you'll be very busy."
 

I nod in relief. "Yes, I will."
 

Thank goodness. I haven't seen that loser in a zillion years, and I have no interest in seeing him again.

You can learn a lot about a person by how they live. My aunt's house is immaculate but not sterile. It's evident that she takes pride in her home and enjoys decorating in warm colors all over the house, which makes me think that she is probably a kind and nurturing person. The first floor is bathed in butterscotch walls and chocolate-colored furniture, with deep red accent chairs and burnt orange pillows. My room is the color of chocolate chip cookie dough, with a sleigh bed and dresser that are both made of a rich brown mahogany wood, and a down comforter and sheets that are all hotel white.
 

When I rub my hand across the comforter, I can tell that it's really expensive because of the apparent high thread count. In fact everything in my room looks like it belongs in the Ritz Carlton or The Four Seasons Hotel. On top of the dresser are only two things. One is a sphere-shaped crystal vase with an arrangement of fresh pink, blue and purple hydrangeas, and the other is a thick, silver framed 5x7 picture of a much younger Juliette holding a big round baby. A baby that looks very much like me. I pick the picture up and examine it closely.
 

"This baby looks like me." I yell downstairs so that Juliette can hear me.

"Yes. I know." She smiles as she suddenly appears at the doorway of my new bedroom. "You were about six months old there. I loved that age. You were just learning how to sit up on your own and you smiled a lot. So sweet."

"Did you see me a lot when I was a baby?" I ask with surprise.

"Yes," she says in a pained voice. "Before I married your uncle."

"Where were we in this picture?" It doesn't look like her house or even this neighborhood.

"I was visiting a farm in Bucks County about thirty minutes from your house. Some crazy friends of mine bought a farm out there after they got married. They wanted to raise sheep or something. Needless to say that didn't work out." She chuckles.

"You took me to the farm by yourself?"

"I wanted you to get some fresh air and give your parents a break."

"Was I a difficult baby?" I remember my mom mentioning once or twice that I was colicky.

"Not at all. They were new parents and a bit older. They just needed some down time. I'm not sure if you know this, but your mother and I were really close once upon a time. She even did my hair and makeup for my prom."

Really?

"Well what happened between you and Dad?" It's the elephant in the room. I have to ask.

I place the frame back down and start unpacking my things to keep busy, while she contemplates how much of the truth she is going to tell me.
 

"Does he ever talk about me?"
 

I notice a small quiver in her voice. I think this may be a bad topic choice for my first hour in my new home. Is she going to cry? Please no.

"No not really, but to be fair, I never ask him about you."

"Well it's nothing earth shattering. No big family secret. It's just something that happens in families all the time I guess. Your father and I were once very close. Much of that changed when I met your uncle."
 

"Where is Uncle Joseph?" And what does he have to do with their rift I wonder.

"He's working in his office where he always is."
 

She quickly changes the subject. "So let's find you something to wear for tonight."

"Tonight?"

"The dinner I'm having for Joseph's birthday. You didn't forget did you?"
 

Actually I did. "Oh I didn't know if that was definitely happening."
 

"Yes it is. I hope that's not a problem."

"Absolutely not." I try to sound convincing.

"What do you like? Chicken, steak or fish?"

"I'm flexible. Anything is fine."

"I'm going to have all three entrees available then." Juliette whips out a cell phone the size of my head and swiftly types some sort of note to herself. Probably about the menu.

"I didn't want to overwhelm you your first day here," she continues. "But I've been planning this dinner for months."
 

"It's fine Auntie. Really. So what time is this party?" I ask with faux enthusiasm.

"It starts at seven tonight at one of my favorite restaurants," she smiles. "Just a few family and friends."

I pray that Roman won't be there. While I know it's been a hundred years, and we were just kids, my aunt is right. I've been known to hold a grudge. Plus I heard that the kid has only grown worse with age. I think he even did jail time. At least that's what I overheard my father saying.