“Pastore, we have to leave. Give the chicken back,” William said, voice tight.
“Aw. I don’t want to leave yet.”
“Don’t argue with me.” He took the chick from the boy’s hands, put it with the others in the little cage, and brushed his hands furiously. Then, he turned and walked out, barely waiting to ensure the boy followed him. Pastore’s head was low, eyes darting back to us and the chicks we were holding, before leaving the building completely. My anger at the uncle disintegrated into sadness for the child.
“What an utter ass-tank,” Brady said before looking around at the kids and adding, “Sorry.”
“I believe your father would use the word,bastardis,” the dean said in Latin, causing us all to chuckle.
“Can’t believe you used to be his best friend,” Emerick said.
I looked up in surprise again. Even though I’d heard the same thing before, it still constantly came as a shock to me that Brady had grown up in this town. In Gram’s town. It felt like he should be a recent addition, like me, but he had more history with these people than I did.
“He was always full of himself, but never quite a…jerk,” Brady said.
Brady took a chick from the cage and sat down on the floor with the rest of us, spreading his legs wide. Hannah’s chick escaped her hands and walked in between Brady’s legs to join its sibling.
“He upset you,” Brady said quietly, and I met his eyes over the top of Hannah’s hat.
“I can’t talk about it. Not right now,” I said, looking toward my daughter.
He nodded curtly, jaw clenching and unclenching as if he was truly distressed because William Chan had angered me.
“Can I take one home, Mommy?” Hannah asked.
“I’m not sure Molly would love the addition of a chick in the house,” I told her, wanting to say yes just so that I would be doing the opposite of William Chan.
The kids played with the chicks for a while, disheartened that none of them were coming home with us. We promised we’d be back soon and made our way outside with the dean and her grandson following us.
Before we got into Stacy’s car, the dean called out to me. I turned back to her with a smile.
“There are only a few days left on the art contest the college is holding for a centerpiece to go in the theater. I was surprised to hear you hadn’t submitted one of yours,” she said.
My heart thumped. “I didn’t know anything about it.”
“We’d love the winner to be someone local, but it’s open to anyone in the state,” she said. “The information is on the school’s website. I hope you check it out.”
“I will. Thank you for telling me,” I said.
“There’ll be prize money awarded to the finalists as well as the winner,” she said.
I flushed in embarrassment, knowing she’d heard the conversation with William. I didn’t want my art to be chosen as some sort of charity case any more than I wanted the town to know the bank was foreclosing on the store.
As if she could read my mind, she said, “I’m not on the selection committee. I have no sway in the votes because I’m entirely unqualified to judge art. Give me an economic forecast to tear apart, and I have no problems, but ask me if it’s a Matisse or a Derain and I’m lost.”
The fact that she knew Matisse and Derain belied her words, but I was grateful she was trying to put my unease to rest. She was as good at reading people as she was at running the college.
We said goodbye, and I turned back to the others who were waiting for me in the SUV. My brain was whirling with thoughts, and the mood was solemn as we headed back into town.
“Where should I drop you?” Stacy asked Brady, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
“Just drop me with Tristan. I want to talk to her about the as?bastardis,” Brady said. Stacy shot a glance at me, and I shrugged. There wasn’t anything to say. I certainly wasn’t going to be going into all my grandmother’s personal business with him. It was bad enough that the dean had heard.
At Grams’, the three of us got out of Stacy’s car, and it hit me hard—the little family we might look like to an outsider. A mom and dad and their daughter walking up the steps to their front door. I’d never gotten to have that with Darren. He’d been there for Hannah’s birth and then was back out on a mission. He’d barely been home again before he’d left on the one that had taken his life.
But God, he’d loved his daughter.
The image of him, bare-chested with our baby lying on him, little fingers twisted about his pinky, with that gorgeous smile on his face hit me hard in the gut. What would he think of her now? What would she think of him if he’d lived? A dad who was in and out of her life for months at a time. The thoughts hurt, stabbing at me.
