Power Play (3 page)

“It's just me, Gaby.” My cousin Sammy lifted his hands in front of his face, shielding himself from being knocked upside the head with a broomstick. “Sorry about Uncle Joe.”

I let out a breath and lowered the broom, relieved that I'd almost assaulted my cousin instead of a customer.

Sammy surveyed the store like a policeman scanning a scene he'd been called to. “Were you here alone?”

“Yeah.” I'd been so wrapped up worrying about Papa, I'd forgotten to enjoy my first time as a free woman in three years. “Just for a few minutes though,” I added quickly.

Seems silly to defend my being alone in the store. Though we try to have two people working most shifts, there are times when one person manages the store on their own. It's never been me though.

“Thanks for getting here so fast,” I continued, leaning the broom against the wall. “I'm so sorry to take you away from the store.”

“Don't even waste your words. We're family, Gaby. Family.” Sammy pounded his chest over his heart with a fist. The Italian horn charm dangling from the thick gold rope chain around his substantial neck bounced with the vibration.

Sammy exemplified one of the many reasons I loved my family. Always there. No questions. No hesitation.

Well, except Joey, my estranged older brother.

“Joey's flying home. He'll be here tomorrow.” Mom never looked up from scrolling through her texts, as if she didn't want us to see her red-rimmed eyes we knew she was hiding. I felt as if she needed permission to show emotion and I wanted to give it to her. She didn't have to be strong for us. We'd get through it together, as a family, like we always did.

Drew lowered the waiting-room copy of
Sports Illustrated
he'd been reading. “Who paid for that?”

I pinched his bicep. Sure, I wondered the same thing, but I would never say it out loud. It wasn't the time to talk about our slacker older brother. At least he was coming home. I hadn't expected him to drop his life in Colorado.

“If you can't be civil, why don't you go sit in your car, Andrew?” Mom snapped.

Drew lifted the magazine back up, hiding his scowl.

“Gaby, Papa will be counting on you to help Joey while he's out.”

“What's he going to be doing?”

“He'll be taking over for Dad.”

“At the shed or at one of the stores?” I asked.

More than eighty years ago, my great-grandfather, Salvador Bertucci, and his best friend, Ben Mitchell (who started his life as Blaise Mangiaracina, but changed his name at Ellis Island because he didn't think he'd be able to get work with such an Italian name) began selling produce in Shed One at Eastern Market, Detroit's historic public market. Mitchell and his family started a farm south of Detroit when they first arrived, which is where they grew the produce to sell. Their stand quickly became one of the busiest produce stands in the market, and continues to be today, thanks to loyal, long-term customers. The success of the stand allowed my
Nonno
(grandfather) Sal to expand Bertucci Produce into two freestanding grocery stores, which were currently run by Uncle Sal and Papa. It also allowed Mitchell Family Farms to relocate to Monroe, Michigan, and grow into one of the largest farms in the state. The Bertucci and Mitchell clans had been like one family for years.

Until three years ago. When one of the Mitchell boys I considered family raped me at a college party.

“He'll be at Three-one-three.”

“Wait. What?” The horror in my voice slipped out. I'd just warned Drew to shut it and I couldn't rein it in myself.

Mom lifted her eyes to me. “He'll be at the new store.”

Papa chose Joey to take over for him at 313 Artisans?
Joey?
The new store opened only six months ago. Joey had never set foot in it. Why would my parents think letting him run it would be a good idea? Drew had a better chance at running it than Joey had.

“I'm the one who's started the store with Papa. I know every inch of that store.”

Mom toyed with the string of colorful, chunky beads at her neck. “He'll figure it out. I'm sure it's what your father wants.”

“Figure it out? We don't—”

Drew stood up and kicked my leg. Hard. I doubled over and grabbed my shin, rubbing the bone as if that would ease the pain. “Let's go get some drinks. Need a water, Mom?”

“Grab me a coffee, please.”

Drew nodded. When I rose from my chair and took a step, my kicked leg buckled under me. Drew threw his arm out and caught me, propping me up until I could walk on my own.

“Jerk,” I said, but didn't refuse leaning on his shoulder for the next few steps until the pain subsided.

“You deserved it. You were going to get into a huge fight with Mom and get her more upset than she already is. Plus, you know there's no way in hell Papa's gonna let Joey run the new store. Just let it all play out.”

Drew had a good point. Mom and Papa would never trust the store to Joey. Firstborn son or not, Papa would never put our family's brand-new, faltering business in the hands of an irresponsible, pot-smoking wannabe ski instructor.

Joey, being Joey, didn't answer any texts from me or Drew. He didn't tell either of us when his flight was getting in. Nor did he tell either of us if he needed a ride from the airport to the hospital. So we were surprised when he sauntered into Papa's room just after noon the next day.

“Joey!” Mom cried. She threw her arms around him as if he were Mighty Mouse, here to save the day.

“Hey, Mom.” Joey returned her hug. He gave me a slight nod over Mom's shoulder.

I would've nodded back, but my brain was murky from the contact high I received when he'd walked in the door. I swear I could see a cloud around him, like Pig-Pen from
Peanuts,
except he emitted a haze of smoke rather than dust. The stench was so powerful, he must've smoked a bowl behind one of the massive bushes near the entrance to the hospital, or something. Couldn't Mom smell it? It overtook her signature Chanel No. 5 scent. Marijuana might make people happy and mellow, but the pungent pot odor mixed with the classic Chanel made me want to vomit.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-weed. Do what you want. I'm fed up with my older brother and his inability to grasp the reality of adulthood. I'm nineteen and I have a full-time job. I could afford to buy the pot I smoked.

If I smoked it.

“Hey, man,” Joey said to Drew.

Drew reached an arm out, offering Joey his knuckles instead of a hug. Joey knocked his fist against it.

The birth order stereotypes in our family were completely messed up. As the oldest, Joey should be the reliable and structured one on the path to the NHL, and Drew should be the screwed-up middle child acting out for attention by smoking pot and moving to Colorado to be a ski instructor. But Joey had always been a calm kid, into reading and hanging out and my parents started Drew, their high-energy middle son, in a hockey program at an early age and he loved it. Drew had been focused on the game ever since. I don't even think he drank. Well, he didn't drink around us. Not even the ever-present glass of wine that the Bertuccis drank with every dinner.

Joey, on the other hand, had always been more of a gamer—something that irked Papa to no end. Papa didn't want us kids to sit around in the house with eyes glued to the TV all day. He wanted to lock us outside from sunup until sundown. (Though he never did actually lock us out of the safety of our home, since we lived in an unpredictable neighborhood.)

Joey didn't like playing hockey, or rather, he didn't like the ice-skating part of it. Mom loves to tell the story of his first—and last—skating lesson, where he'd told my mom that the ice was “too slippery.” He tried a few other sports, but never found one he enjoyed enough to stick with long term.

Maybe he was jealous of Drew's hockey talent from the beginning. Maybe he was jealous because Papa was ecstatic with Drew's interest and talent in hockey. Maybe he just wanted someone to notice that his talents lay in areas other than sports. Like the guitar and the piano and, well, videogames. They were the only things that kept his attention. But Mom and Papa pushed him to go to college. After one semester he dropped out, packed up his things, and moved to Colorado. He'd been home only twice in five years.

And now he was back.

In Papa's hospital room.

Joey inched toward Papa's bedside, taking baby steps as if he was afraid our father would reach out and grab him zombie-style.

“Come on over, son, I'm not going to break.” Papa's low voice filled the awkward silence after Joey's arrival.

“How're you feeling, Papa?” Joey asked. He'd finally taken a full step toward the bed and stood close enough for Papa to grab his hand. A very un-Papa-like thing to do.

“Save me, Joey. They're treating me like I'm an invalid.”

“You had a heart attack, Pop.”

“A mild heart attack. Very mild,” Papa snapped, shooting angry eyes Mom's way.

“Point your dirty looks somewhere else, Giuseppe Bertucci. A heart attack is a heart attack.”

Papa rolled his eyes. “I'm fine. Doctor said I'm going home today. I'll be back at work next week.”

“Like hell you will,” Mom muttered.

“We're going to take care of everything while you're resting, Papa,” I told him. “You won't even have to think about work.”

“I can do a lot from the computer at home.”

“Drew moved the computer out yesterday. Absolutely no work for you, until after your checkup with the cardiologist next week.”

Mom was a brave lady for dropping the no-computer bomb on him. I didn't think she'd release it until Papa got home. But if he was going to wig out, better to do it at the hospital while under a physician's direct care.

“Why would you do that, Celeste?”

“You know why. You can't jump straight back into a stressful situation. You're lucky I'm not sending you to the Caribbean to relax for a few weeks.” Mom took a spot next to Joey.

“Yeah. Because
that
would suck,” Drew deadpanned. Our group laughter sliced through the awkward marital tension in the room.

“You haven't enjoyed a vacation in twenty years.” Mom slid her hand against Papa's forehead. So tender even when they were at each other's throats.

I wanted a relationship like that.

“Well, if the boss lady says I'm out of commission, we'd better figure out a plan.”

“I've already got all the shifts covered at Three-one-three,” I told Papa, happy to be able to bring some stability to the work front. “I'll be opening and closing every day. I'll manage the orders and schedule the cash pickups. And Sammy and I will coordinate with the Mitchells for the stand's produce shipments.”

“Whoa, whoa, back up a minute, Gaby.” Papa stopped me. “Those are the things that I do.”

“Yeah, I know, Papa, but you won't be at work, so I'll take over the stuff you would normally do and delegate—”

“Gaby. Stop,” Papa commanded.

I cocked my head in confusion. Despite Mom's warning yesterday, I went rogue and figured out what needed to be covered, managed, and handled at the new store. Other than Papa, I was the only person who knew 313 Artisans from storage closet to front register. And since he couldn't work for at least three weeks, maybe longer depending on the limitations his doctor set for him, I'd taken the reins to make sure everything was in order.

“Joey's going to take over at Three-one-three for me while I'm out.”

The blaze of startled confusion in Joey's eyes was as intense as the angry confusion in my own.

“But Pop, I—I—” Joey stammered.

“Joey will take care of my role, and you, Gaby, will resume your current role and manage the schedule. I don't want to hear another word. It's final.”

Arguing with Papa about it made no sense. Arguing with him never made any sense, but especially today when he was laid up in a hospital bed, anxious to be released. It would be just our luck that a stupid squabble would make him relapse.

It's almost as if Papa planned the whole thing. I could picture him sitting in the tiny office at the back of the store, elbows on the desk, tapping his fingertips together.
How do I get Gaby not to freak out about telling her I'm handing the store over to Joey? Oh, I'll tell her while I'm in the hospital after I've had a heart attack. She couldn't possibly argue or get upset with me in my fragile state. And my diabolical plan to keep Bertucci stores run only by male members of our family continues on. Muahahahaha…

Okay, I'm sure Papa didn't really think like that. And I shouldn't be so selfish, especially now. We should focus on working together until Papa got back on his feet.

“Sure, Papa. I'll do whatever you need me to do,” I told him. I was still standing behind everyone, almost in the corner of the room. No reason for me to be up in Papa's grill. His beloved lost sheep came home.

Joey stiffened, the veins in his neck popping out as he turned his head toward me. Between the freaky veins, the sideways glare, and the ramrod-straight back, his entire body screamed sheer terror.

Seriously. Rotting, undead corpses may have been closing in from behind me, judging by the look on his face. The terror must have come from my easy agreement to leave a store he'd never set foot in in his completely incapable hands. It couldn't be from surprise over me not standing up for myself. My brothers had to be used to that by now.

“Good.” Papa shifted in his bed, as if trying to get comfortable. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me about Denver, Joe.”

Yes, Joe, tell us about all your important
Halo 3
playing and weed smoking. That's a super exciting story. Let me pull up a chair.

For some reason, a desperate urge to speak with Landon hit me. I wasn't even sure where it had come from, as we weren't really even friends. I didn't have his phone number or address.

Actually, that was only half true. I didn't have his home phone number or address, but I suppose I could call Robinson Arena during a Pilots practice and ask to speak to him. I'd get laughed across the Detroit River, but technically it would be like calling someone at work.

Landon had left a few messages on the store's voicemail, asking how Papa was doing, but he never left a return phone number, so I couldn't call him back.

I'd had the same group of friends since elementary school. I told my best friend, Michelle, everything. But she wasn't in town, as she'd already gone back to Chicago for school. So why would Landon be the first person I thought of calling?

Maybe the immensity of him calling 911 and saving Papa's life? Maybe the genuine surprise that he seemed to know as many random facts about me as I knew about him? Maybe the weight of him telling me I'd been his first kiss?

Whatever the reason, I wanted to talk to him now.

But I didn't know when I'd see him again.