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Authors: Cynthia J Stone
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approaches, the greenhouse has worked its magic. In complete calm, I return to my kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Nothing appeals to me, but I pull out some containers of leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I dump French cut green beans from a can into a pot and turn on the gas burner.
Looking around my kitchen, I smile as I contemplate the improvements I’ve made to this house over the years. Mother left it to me, but she never managed to finish plans, much less a single project. She and Grandmother Mason would be proud of me, if they could only see it now.
When the aroma of garlic and pungent meat sauce fills the kitchen, I step into the entry and yell “Dinner!” up the stairway. No way will I knock on Colton’s door. The calm has disappeared.
The food grows lukewarm before I decide to eat without him. I pick apart the slab of meatloaf. The green beans might as well be plastic sticks. If I had opened a bottle of wine before I started reheating the food, it would be half empty by now.
When I take my last bite, his bedroom door opens and his footsteps tread down the stairs toward the kitchen. I chew slowly while he pours a large glass of milk. My gaze follows his movements until he sits at the table across from me.
“Food’s probably cold,” I say, looking down at my plate.
“S’okay.”
“Colton, you don’t seem to understand.” I study his face. “Your little stunts this past year have cost me a pretty penny, but they were accidents. You broke that vase on purpose.”
“Art glass.”
I want to smack him, but I pound my fist on the table instead. “Now it’s in pieces, thanks to you, and I can’t afford to reimburse Mr. Donatello right now.”
“So what? Big Jack will pay for it.”
“We don’t take money from Big Jack to pay for anything. Besides he’s in the hospital.”
“Dad did.”
“Did what?”
“He took money from Big Jack. Last year I heard him talking on the phone to someone about it. A lot of money.”
“You heard wrong.”
“I was standing right there listening. You were in the greenhouse or somewhere else.”
“Regardless of what you think you heard, he’s not writing checks for anything until–” I put down my fork and glare at him. “What makes you think Big Jack would ever foot the bill for your foolishness?”
“I overheard Officer Avery tell Mr. Donatello my grandfather would pay for it.”
Despite my protest, doubt surrounds me like a wave of noxious air. “Officer Avery is fully aware of Big Jack’s condition. How could Mike promise–” I blink. Which grandfather?
“Why don’t you ask him?”
I decide to do just that. Right after I ask my mother what the hell she is up to now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Colton and I finish out the workweek like programmed robots. By Saturday morning, we have hardly uttered more than a dozen words to each other. Prickly silence accompanies us as we strap on our seat belts and I start the engine.
When we arrive at Mr. Donatello’s gallery, we park next to a limo with Louisiana plates, no doubt belonging to one of his fancy clients from New Orleans. Mike Avery stands in the hallway outside the office chatting with the owner. “Hey, right on time,” he says with a smile.
Mr. Donatello retrieves a push broom from a storage closet and escorts Colton out the back door to the storeroom. Their voices exchange instructions and questions.
“Isn’t Max coming?” I ask.
Mike shrugs. “He knows he has to be here now.” He takes a few steps into the gallery’s display area and stops in front of an oil painting of indeterminate subject. “How ‘bout all this modern art? Sheesh, I couldn’t hang some of this stuff in my house without getting nightmares.”
“What do you like?”
“I dunno. Scenery, I guess. As long as I can tell a tree’s a tree.”
“Mike–”
Before I can continue, all five Cromwells burst through the front entrance as if responding to a fire alarm. “Here we come,” Judith sings.
Looking around my kitchen, I smile as I contemplate the improvements I’ve made to this house over the years. Mother left it to me, but she never managed to finish plans, much less a single project. She and Grandmother Mason would be proud of me, if they could only see it now.
When the aroma of garlic and pungent meat sauce fills the kitchen, I step into the entry and yell “Dinner!” up the stairway. No way will I knock on Colton’s door. The calm has disappeared.
The food grows lukewarm before I decide to eat without him. I pick apart the slab of meatloaf. The green beans might as well be plastic sticks. If I had opened a bottle of wine before I started reheating the food, it would be half empty by now.
When I take my last bite, his bedroom door opens and his footsteps tread down the stairs toward the kitchen. I chew slowly while he pours a large glass of milk. My gaze follows his movements until he sits at the table across from me.
“Food’s probably cold,” I say, looking down at my plate.
“S’okay.”
“Colton, you don’t seem to understand.” I study his face. “Your little stunts this past year have cost me a pretty penny, but they were accidents. You broke that vase on purpose.”
“Art glass.”
I want to smack him, but I pound my fist on the table instead. “Now it’s in pieces, thanks to you, and I can’t afford to reimburse Mr. Donatello right now.”
“So what? Big Jack will pay for it.”
“We don’t take money from Big Jack to pay for anything. Besides he’s in the hospital.”
“Dad did.”
“Did what?”
“He took money from Big Jack. Last year I heard him talking on the phone to someone about it. A lot of money.”
“You heard wrong.”
“I was standing right there listening. You were in the greenhouse or somewhere else.”
“Regardless of what you think you heard, he’s not writing checks for anything until–” I put down my fork and glare at him. “What makes you think Big Jack would ever foot the bill for your foolishness?”
“I overheard Officer Avery tell Mr. Donatello my grandfather would pay for it.”
Despite my protest, doubt surrounds me like a wave of noxious air. “Officer Avery is fully aware of Big Jack’s condition. How could Mike promise–” I blink. Which grandfather?
“Why don’t you ask him?”
I decide to do just that. Right after I ask my mother what the hell she is up to now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Colton and I finish out the workweek like programmed robots. By Saturday morning, we have hardly uttered more than a dozen words to each other. Prickly silence accompanies us as we strap on our seat belts and I start the engine.
When we arrive at Mr. Donatello’s gallery, we park next to a limo with Louisiana plates, no doubt belonging to one of his fancy clients from New Orleans. Mike Avery stands in the hallway outside the office chatting with the owner. “Hey, right on time,” he says with a smile.
Mr. Donatello retrieves a push broom from a storage closet and escorts Colton out the back door to the storeroom. Their voices exchange instructions and questions.
“Isn’t Max coming?” I ask.
Mike shrugs. “He knows he has to be here now.” He takes a few steps into the gallery’s display area and stops in front of an oil painting of indeterminate subject. “How ‘bout all this modern art? Sheesh, I couldn’t hang some of this stuff in my house without getting nightmares.”
“What do you like?”
“I dunno. Scenery, I guess. As long as I can tell a tree’s a tree.”
“Mike–”
Before I can continue, all five Cromwells burst through the front entrance as if responding to a fire alarm. “Here we come,” Judith sings.
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