Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I sigh. “Yes, unfortunately, I can’t fault him there.”
“So what’ll you do now?”
My gaze drifts back to Nonna. It could be her and me, every night, tucked in together like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
“I’m not sure, but I want a change of pace. Something different.”
Do I?
Truly?
The answer just spilled forth before I’d fully registered it. Up until this moment, I was still fairly sure I was going to continue job-hunting in the city, keep moseying down the same path I’ve been on for the last few years.
I nudge his shoulder, half-teasing, half-serious as I ask, “You need someone else behind the wheel?”
My uncle’s been a driver for the last thirty years. He’s got an in with all the right people, very discreet and respectful, completely by the book. He’s always shuttling around these glamorous people. “Big tippers, real nice folks” is how he describes them. I know for a fact there are some celebrities in the mix. We beg him for the inside scoop, but he always keeps his lips zipped, never one to drive and tell.
“Let me put some feelers out. See what I can do.”
Next Sunday dinner, Uncle Antonio shows up late and walks through my parents’ door with a proud grin. He heads straight to where I’m playing cards with Nonna and shoves a bent-up business card my way.
“I asked around. One of my guys, Pat—you met him at your cousin’s wedding, real tall, skinny—he says he might have a position open that you could fill. Easy, property management type thing. Only catch is you’d have to go and live out there, but I told him maybe that’d be okay since you said you were lookin’ for a change. Maybe it’d be nice to get away from the city for a while.”
I study the business card. Patrick Alessi is the man’s name.
“What exactly is the position?”
“It’s like I said, you’d be the caretaker for the house.”
Oh…
I start to pass the business card back to him. “I’m not that handy, not like my dad and Gio.”
He shakes his head adamantly, holding up his hand to block me from giving it back. “No, no. It’s not that sort of thing. No fixin’ nothin’.”
My brows crinkle in confusion. “So I’d just live there and they’d…pay me?”
He laughs. “It’s the way these rich people are. Too much money, too many problems. They want one less thing to worry about. Hamptons house ain’t worth the trouble. Anyway, Pat’s number is on that card if you wanna call him. Just see what it’s about. It might be right up your alley.”
THREE
LUKE
I’ve never been confronted with a challenge quite like this.
Pitching in game seven of the World Series—difficult. Recovering from shoulder surgery three years ago—excruciating. Traveling to city after city, game after game, season after season—daunting.
But this…it’s something else entirely.
“DAD! You’re pulling too hard!”
I wince. “I’m trying, kid. Rewind that video a few seconds.”
“We’ve watched it through eight times!”
Hair braiding isn’t for pansies, let me tell you. I wouldn’t even be attempting it, but it’s International Day or Heritage Day or some kind of other hellacious dress-up day at my daughter’s school, and it’s my job to make sure she looks the part.
She came into the kitchen two nights ago as I was burning dinner and boldly stated, “I need you to give me milkmaid braids to go with my outfit.”
“Milk whats?”
She rolled her eyes like I was an absolute idiot and then said again, more slowly, “Milllllkkkmaaaiiid brrraaidddss.”
“Got it, smartass. Now set the table for dinner.”
“Oh! Add a dollar to the swear jar!” she joked. There is no swear jar. If there were, I’d probably be out a million dollars by now.
So here I am, a 6’4” dad with veritable bear paws for hands, hunched over his daughter trying to somehow piece together dainty hair so it creates a braided crown on top of her head. I’m failing, miserably, and Harper sees that. She’s really trying to keep her composure. She’s like that, wise beyond her years. Some kids would already be throwing a fit, but Harper sits stoically, letting me claw at her hair even though we both know by now that this ain’t happening. There’s a better chance of hell freezing over.
I sigh and let her hair fall. We’re right back at square one.
“Okay, how about this? I drive you to school early and we see if Mrs. Treadwell can help you out. I bet she’s good with hair.”
Harper’s teacher knows the deal. We talked about it at the start of the year. Harper’s mom passed away when Harper was two. It’s just me, single dad and certified bad braider. Mrs. Treadwell has stepped in just as I hoped she would, giving me feedback and advice on the sly whenever needed.
We strive to handle conflict with respectful dialogue. Telling Harper to, and I quote, “Rub Corey’s face in the dirt” after he pushed her on the playground isn’t quite in line with our policies here at Trinity Prep.