Power Play (20 page)

“He's a guy, Gaby. You have him on this invisible pedestal, but he's just a guy,” Michelle reminded me.

My best friend catapulted herself into sainthood for driving in from Chicago just to hang out with me this weekend. I didn't even have to ask. I sent a text telling her Landon and I broke up and she jumped in her car. True friendship is worth a million relationships.

“He gave me confidence, ya know? When I was with him, a different person came out. The best me. The person you know me to be, that I can't be in public for fear of ridicule or mocking. But with Landon by my side, the quiet book-nerd, store-clerk me was cool. And I believed him.”

“You threw mints at hockey hags. That's something you and I would talk about doing after the fact. Not something you'd ever do in real life,” Michelle said.

“Exactly! In what universe would I ever confront anyone, let alone girls who had been talking about me behind my back?”

“Only in Landon-Land.”

“Yep.” When I fell back on my bed, I felt a stuffed animal lodged between my shoulder blades and the mattress. I reached under and pulled the fuzzy friend out, then chucked it across the room.

Michelle reached up with both arms and caught it in midair. “Don't take it out on Paws.”

As she turned it over in her hands, I realized it was a replica of the fuzzy stuffed tiger I had thrown at Landon the day of Papa's heart attack.

“You do it with all guys.” Michelle stopped flipping the tiger.

I turned my head toward her, too exhausted to sit up. “Do what?”

“Put them on a pedestal. It's not just you,” she added. “A lot of people do that, whether it's with celebrities or leaders. We have these ideal images of people, and when we see them as human beings, it deflates what we had them built up as. Maybe you should focus on seeing people for who they are.”

I nodded. She had a point. I did think of some people as larger than life. Like when I thought Landon could never like me because he was a famous hockey player and I was plain old, never-went-to-college, never-left-her-parents'-house Gaby.

“Tell me something about Landon that makes him a regular old human being like us,” Michelle said, encouraging the conversation.

“I don't want a Landon-bashing ceremony, Michelle.”

“See! That's what I'm saying. It's not bashing. It's talking. The things that make him human aren't bad. It's just life.”

Part of me wanted to tell Michelle about Landon's selfish feelings about his brothers, but that would be bashing, because Landon was entitled to feel jealousy just like anyone who had siblings. You can't deny someone their feelings no matter how much you disagree or don't understand. And that's what Michelle was trying to say.

Plus, Landon had been getting better. He'd been talking to his parents and trying to take some of the pressure off himself by changing his look-at-me-look-at-me-I-need-attention way of life.

“I get it,” I said after a few minutes of silence. I still wouldn't throw Landon under the bus.

Michelle gathered her long, brown hair off her shoulders and flipped it behind her back. “So what happened exactly?” She settled deeper into the zebra-print beanbag on my floor.

“I went to the garden to see what I could pick to bring to Capuchin's and Landon was there. Taking the food and handing it out to kids.”

“Taking the food from your garden?”

“Yes.” I sat up on my bed.

“Did you see him take the food?”

“Uh, yeah. Strawberries. I literally caught him red-handed.”

“Did he know it was your garden?”

“No. I mean, he knew we had a garden, but I never told him our old address or anything, so he couldn't have known that garden belonged to us.” I dropped my head into my hands in my lap. “He didn't know.”

“But still, he was taking food from someone's garden and giving it to kids. He knew it didn't belong to him.”

“I'm a horrible person.” I fell back onto the mattress. “He was feeding hungry kids from a garden we don't even use.”

“But he didn't know that, Gaby. I understand why you got upset. That garden could have been some elderly couple's only means of eating. He had the means to take those kids to a grocery store and buy them food.”

“But it
wasn't
an elderly couple's only means of eating.” I slammed my fist onto the bed. Angry at myself, not at my best friend. “It's a fairly well-off family's garden and those kids knew we only harvest a couple times a year. They probably saw all that food sitting there and wondered why it was off-limits. I thought I was helping the hungry by giving it to the soup kitchen. I could've been giving it to them.”

“Gaby. You were helping the hungry. You were doing a wonderful thing with that garden. I understand why you freaked out.”

Was this my moment to come clean and confess without sitting behind a screen and having a dude in a robe on the other side tell me to say ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers to absolve me of my sins?

Yep.

“I wasn't upset because he gave away my donation for the soup kitchen. I mean, I was, but that wasn't the entire reason I freaked out.”

“Then why did you freak out?”

I took a deep breath, just like I would've if I were kneeling behind the screen in that creepy little room in the back of the Catholic church where my family had been parishioners since before I was a glint in my parents' eyes. The room with the painting on the wall that you couldn't help but stare at, because it had those weird eyes that followed no matter where you stood, mocking mere mortals for sinning in the first place. I always thought the figure in the painting was Kenny Rogers, which confused me. Why in the world would a pop country singer be in a confessional? Evidently it was Jesus, as I learned when Mom corrected me. I felt slightly more comfortable confessing to Kenny. Since he'd sinned, too, by recording “Islands in the Stream.”

“There was a huge mess up at work, and we didn't get our produce delivery for the shed. I thought I could use the fruit and veggies from our garden to save the day. But the garden had been raked over and there was nothing left. When I went back, I saw Landon jump over the fence and give the kids the food. I knew he had been stealing and I blew up, but for all the wrong reasons. I wanted to be the hero. Turns out I'm the villain.”

Michelle didn't speak, and the whole no judging people came to mind. But I didn't want to call out my best friend in the whole world, especially when she was there to help me.

“You didn't know, Gaby,” Michelle said, her voice quiet and unsteady. “You reacted as anyone would have in your situation.”

I sat up and faced her, folding my legs criss-cross-applesauce in front of me. “You don't think I'm a horrible, selfish person?”

“Gabriella Bertucci, you are the least horrible person I know. Your whole reason for creating that garden was to give the food to a soup kitchen. I remember. I helped plant it.” She leaned forward in the beanbag. “And I know for a fact that you have called and ordered pizzas at the end of your shift and left them on the bus bench outside your store for homeless people to have something to eat. And I know that when we were kids, you were the one who started your family's tradition of volunteering at the soup kitchen every Thanksgiving.

“So you overreacted because you were trying to prove yourself to your impossible father. Does that damn you for all eternity?”

“No, but it lost me a boyfriend. The best person to come into my life—” I paused. Michelle and I weren't normally sappy with each other, but she just sapped the crap out of me, so I felt comfortable returning the favor. “—since you.”

“Quick! Hit me with a really crappy song lyric before I start crying,” Michelle said. We both burst into a fit of giggles.

“What now?” I asked.

“Now, you get him back.”

Just as I opened my mouth to ask how, I heard footsteps stomping down the hallway toward my room.

Papa barreled in, a man on a mission as he waved a newspaper in the air.

“Shit.” I hissed. I knew what it was before he even stopped fanning it around.

“It's in there again, Gabriella! Two weeks in the
Metro Times.
I thought you said you would cancel this ad.” He thrust the paper in my face. “Can't I count on you for anything anymore?”

His comment was so unnecessary, I almost felt smug about the ad.

I lifted my eyes from the paper to Papa. “I called, Papa, I swear. The print run had already been finalized for the week. I couldn't change it. It won't be in there next week.”

“How am I supposed to believe that, Gaby? You already told me you'd canceled it.” Papa continued to shake the paper at me as if each angry word hadn't emphasized his point enough.

“Call the
Metro Times
yourself, if you don't trust me.”

“I have no clue what's been going through your head recently, Gaby. I had a heart attack and you lost your mind.”

Lost my mind?

I'd lost my boyfriend. I'd lost my family's confidence in my ability to make good decisions about the store. But I hadn't lost my mind. Well, not over this.

“Sales were up two hundred and fifty percent after that ad ran last week. Two hundred and fifty percent!” My tone emphasized my point, but I stood up anyway. Even on my feet, I came up only to Papa's chin, but it made me feel better than having him look down on me while I sat on my bed.

“Excuse me?”

“You haven't been in the store to see it, or read the reports, but I have. The store was as packed as any Saturday at the shed. And people didn't just window shop, they bought. That ad increased our traffic significantly.

“Landon may have ran that ad without our permission or knowledge, but I, for one, am glad he did. I worked my ass off to make that ad. I took photography lessons in my free time and shot all the pictures. I bought a computer program with my own money and learned it so I could manipulate the photos and create an ad that would highlight our family's presence in the community, and convey the hip, cool vibe of our new store and its products. I think it turned out fantastic.”

“Are you kidding me?” Papa asked.

“No. Someone should be proud of the work I've done to generate business for the store. If it has to be me, well—” I reached over my shoulder and patted myself on the back.

The slow crinkle of the paper being squeezed in his angry grip drew my eyes to his hands. His other fist hung clenched at his side and his eyes widened, as large as ping-pong balls, as I patted my own back.

Papa has never hit me. Not once, as far as I can remember. I don't know, maybe he swatted my rear end as a kid. But I don't think so. Papa's eyes swirled with an anger that had never been directed at me, and I thought he might slap the shit out of me.

“Keep smirking, Gaby the Great. You think you're so smart. Let's see if the business generated from these ads”—he shook the paper at me again—”is a fluke or not.”

With that last paper shake, he spun around and stomped back down the hallway. I hadn't realized I'd been smirking. Must've been my I-don't-have-Landon-so-I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass face.

Silence descended in my room like a rain cloud in Seattle. After a few minutes, I broke it. “He called me ‘Gaby the Great.' That's something, eh?”

“Yeah, I don't think he meant it as a compliment.” Michelle burst out laughing.

“Ya think?” Then I laughed, too. The nervous laughter of a madwoman with nothing to lose.

I'd stood up to Papa. Over the ad. Landon would be so proud.

I lowered myself onto my bed and searched for my phone. I needed to call—

No one. Because I'd messed everything up with him, too. I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying, but it didn't help, and my top teeth caught on the chapped flesh when my lips quivered.

“What?” Michelle jumped off the beanbag and came and sat next to me on the bed. “Your dad will get over it. He's probably shocked you stood up to him.”

I shook my head, as tears started running down my cheeks. “It's not that. It's…I just want to call Landon.”

“I'm sorry.” Michelle put a hand on my shoulder.

“My first thought was to call him. He would be so proud that I didn't back down.”

“Well, you stood your ground, that's for sure.”

I looked at my best friend through tear-filled eyes and smiled. “Did you just Tom Petty me?”

Michelle shrugged. “You gave me no choice with that setup.”

“You're the best.” I laughed as I wiped away my tears.

“You needed to smile. Things will get better, I promise.”

A line of people down Russell Street and around the corner of the building where 313 Artisans was located detoured me to a different lot than I usually parked in. I tried to keep abreast of any large events happening in and around Eastern Market so I'd be prepared for traffic delays. Nothing had been on my radar for today.

Even in the increasing heat of a June morning, most of the people leaning against the building wore Detroit Pilots or Charlotte Aviators jerseys and shirts. When I reached our front door, it took me a moment to realize that's where the massive line began.

Why did 313 Artisans have a line before we even opened? I didn't dare ask one of these people what was going on in my own store. That would be awkward.

“Are you Gabriella Bertucci?” a lady in a black suit who had been leaning against the front door asked. The rectangular name tag on her lapel read: Jessica—Detroit Pilots.

“I am,” I said, clutching my keys in my hand. What in the world was going on?

“Can you open the store so I can set up?”

“Set up for what?” I asked.

“Turn down for what!” someone in line yelled. A few people giggled. Even I couldn't keep the smile off my face because it was so random.

“I'm here to set up for the signing,” Jessica explained.

Without speaking, I unlocked the front door of 313 Artisans and ushered Jessica in. She pulled a rolling suitcase behind her.

“I'm so sorry. I have no clue what is going on,” I admitted once we were in the store. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead in total confusion, already feeling like an idiot for showing my ignorance in front of potential customers.

“Pavel Gribov and Luke Daniels are signing here today. Ten to twelve. You really didn't know?” Jessica asked.

I flipped the lock on the door so no one else would be able to enter. “No. What? I—”

Jessica didn't waste any time. I hadn't even answered her question, and she had already kicked in to full gear, shoving two of our display tables together and lifting a pile of shirts off the table.

“Can you find a place for these?” She shoved the stack of T-shirts into my chest.

Once she'd cleared the merchandise off the tables, she unzipped her suitcase, removed a black tablecloth, and draped it over the tables. When she flipped the fabric down, the Detroit Pilots logo sat front and center. Then she retrieved two boxes out of the suitcase and fished a tiny, silver box cutter out of her pocket.

I was dazed and felt like an idiot just standing there. “Jessica, I'm so sorry I didn't know this was happening. I would have been prepared. What can I do?”

“There's a box of Sharpies in my suitcase. Can you grab a few and put them out?”

I nodded, finding the Sharpies right away and scattering them on the table. Jessica set two stacks of paper on the table. Eight-by-ten photographs of Gribov and Daniels.

Jessica pulled a buzzing cellphone out of her pocket. “Yep. Yep. Let me see.” She held the phone against her ear with her shoulder. “Is there a back door the guys can come through?”

“Yeah.” I explained how to get to the back entrance.

“Thanks.” Jessica pressed a button on her phone and stuffed it back in her pants pocket. “They'll be here in a few minutes.”

“What's going on?” Joey asked, having come in through the back door. Wow. He'd shown up early today.

“Two Detroit Pilots players are signing here from ten to twelve,” I told him as if I was the one with all the answers.

“Gaby, you didn't—” Joey had that oh-shit look on his face. Papa must not be far behind him.

“I didn't.”

“Like the ads in
Metro Times
?” He asked, the tone of his voice dripping with accusation.

“I didn't do that either. Joey, I swear.”

“Then how?”

“Landon Taylor set it up,” Jessica said matter-of-factly, cutting through the family feud bs that Joey and I were about to drum up. “My assistant was supposed to call you yesterday, Gaby. Sorry about that. We're having communication problems.” She pointed to the door to the back. “Is the back door this way?”

I nodded and she strode past me and Joey and through the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door that led to the office.

“I'm on your side, Gaby, but Papa was straight-up pissed about the advertising thing.”

“I know, I know.” I glanced at the front door. “But what can we do? Look at the line.”

Joey brushed past me, unlocked the front door, and popped his head out. Then he actually left the store and came back a few seconds later. “I can't even see the end!”

“I know!” I said again. “What's that saying? ‘It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.' ”

“If even a tenth of those people buy something, you won't need forgiveness.”

“Well, that's a start, but we need them to come back. And tell all their friends, too.” I smiled.

“Good job, Gabster,” Joey told me. “You knew exactly what this place needed.”

“Landon did it.”

“Landon set it up. But I know this was all your idea. I heard you try to tell Papa. It was really smart.” Joey gave me a quick hug. “Sorry I've been a huge pain in the ass. It's hard to be a Bertucci boy who hates retail.”

Everyone is selfish to an extent. Everyone looks out for their own happiness. It's easy to get caught up in our own problems. Me, me, me. I always felt shafted, because Papa obviously wanted one of his boys to take over Bertucci Produce just like he and his brother had. I never stopped to see the situation from my brother's eyes. As much as I wanted to prove myself to my father, so did they. In their own way, by doing what they loved to do, not being forced into the family business.

“Chairs?” Jessica yelled, her head the only thing visible through the back door. “Do you guys have two chairs?”

“I'll get them,” Joey told me, putting a hand on my shoulder as he walked by. I followed him to the back and went to the office to grab a box of business cards and flyers. We always had a stack of each sitting next to the register. I placed small piles of them all around the store, even on the Pilots signing table. If someone didn't purchase anything today, they could still take a card and know that we were the place to come back to for unique, locally crafted gifts.

For the sake of the store, I really hoped today went well.

“Do we get chairs?” Pavel Gribov asked. He straightened the black Pilots logo baseball cap on his head.

Which made me think of Landon. Because Landon always wore an identical hat.

“Stop being a whiney little bitch and put on a fake fucking smile before I call someone else to sign with me,” Luke told him.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing, glad that Luke directed his annoyance at someone other than his former photography student. “The chairs are coming. I'll check on them.”

Just as I moved toward the office door, Joey came out holding a metal folding chair hooked under each arm. He leaned them against the table and opened the first one, setting it down in front of Gribov.

“Thanks,” Gribov huffed. Then he plopped into the chair and leaned back. Part of me wished he'd fall backward. Not get hurt or anything, just bust his ego a little bit.

“Good thing you used me in the ads, Gaby. Taylor could never draw a crowd like this,” Luke said as he unfolded his own chair and set it down.

Joey nodded his thanks and moved toward the door, ready to flip the lock and let the crowd in when he was given the word.

“You have Taylor to thank for your crowd of devoted fans, Lukey.” I patted his shoulder. “He's the one who changed the photo to your mug.”

“He's smarter than I give him credit for.”

“ ‘Lukey'?” Gribov elbowed Luke. “You sign like this today.” He reached across his teammate and grabbed one of Luke's headshots and a Sharpie. Then he pretended to sweep the marker over the photo. “Lukey Daniels. Number 14.”

Luke chuckled. “That shit would be a collector's item. Thousands on eBay.”

“Do you guys want a water or pop or something?” Joey asked from his post at the door.

“I'm good,” Luke said.

“Got vodka?” Gribov asked, which earned him a slap upside the head from Luke.

“I have a flask in back if you want me to get it.” I nodded to the office door.

Gribov's eyes widened. His first smile of the day, not directed at Luke, crept onto his face.

“I'm kidding.”

Gribov muttered something in Russian. At least, I assumed it was Russian, because it certainly wasn't English.

“Ready, guys?” Jessica asked. Luke and Gribov both nodded. “All right, Mr. Bertucci. You can unlock the door.”

I took a deep breath and watched Joey. He stood still, but craned his neck to peer out the window.

“Joey!” I yelled.

He looked back in. “Yeah?”

“She said you can unlock the door.”

“Oh, sorry, I heard her say ‘Mr. Bertucci.' ”

“Yeah, that's you.”

Joey laughed, deep and loud. “Hell, no. That's Papa. That's Nonno!”

“Just open the door.” I giggled. Leave it to Joey to be confused by his own last name. He probably had a different identity in Colorado.

Joey cranked the key in the lock, before stooping to flip a metal latch on the bottom of the door. He pushed the door open and disappeared behind the surprisingly orderly crowd flooding through the entrance. I hadn't seen so many people in Pilots gear since the last game I'd attended.

My heart sped up as a rush of adrenaline flashed through me. I hoped that at least half the people would hang around to shop. If half of the crowd shopped and a quarter of the crowd bought something, I'd be a happy girl. If more than that hung around or purchased, I'd be ecstatic.

I stood next to Luke and Gribov to direct people, answer questions, and help the guys if they needed it. Jessica walked outside to talk to the crowd still waiting on the street.

On a normal Saturday, hundreds of people packed into every nook of Eastern Market. For the first time since we'd opened, 313 Artisans felt like a major part of it.

“Holy shit!” Joey leaned against the door after he'd closed and locked it. “That was the craziest day in the history of existence. How do stores that are busy all the time keep up?”

“Hopefully we'll find out.” I smiled. Excitement shook my fingers as I tapped the keys necessary to print out the report I wanted to view. Today had been the busiest in 313 Artisans' short history by far, but I needed to see the numbers.

The numbers were real. Tangible. Papa couldn't argue outstanding numbers.

“Holy shit,” I mimicked my brother's curse as I scanned the paper jumbled with numbers completely foreign to any report from this store's printer. The report matched the numbers from a Saturday at the shed, our longest-running, most frequented produce stand. We'd rung the most we ever had on both registers. Granted, beating any previous day's sales wasn't a difficult feat, since the first register rarely got used, but to have to use the second register amazed me.

Papa would be surprised. And proud. Hopefully proud. Joey and I had come together to make today a success even if it had been a surprise to both of us.