Part 12 (2/2)

Dad snorted. ”Like I want to be behind a desk.” But behind the snort, I could see the pride in his eyes. Dad and I don't get along, but don't ever mistake that for me not having respect for him. He's a hero-he's my hero. But I've never quite been able to live up to him, so, at some point, I just stopped trying and went my own way.

Julia's eyes were going back and forth between my dad and me, and I could tell the wheels were turning, but I couldn't tell what she was thinking. Maybe I'm just out of practice. I don't make it a habit of wondering what girls are thinking-most of the time that's the last thing I want to know.

”Dougal, you take care of the dishes,” Dad said.

”I'll help,” Julia chimed in.

”Oh, no! He's not getting out of it! You just sit and enjoy your coffee.”

I took her plate, and she said, ”Thank you, Dougal,” with a wry expression on her face.

I gave Dad a sharp look. ”You'll pay for that, Dad.”

The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d just burst into a loud belly laugh.

So I started was.h.i.+ng the dishes, as my dad asked, ”So you're at Harvard? What are you studying?”

”International business,” she said.

d.a.m.n.

”And when do you graduate? Do you have plans after?” My dad wasn't exactly being subtle as he pumped her for information. I filled up the sink as they talked and began was.h.i.+ng suds over the dishes.

”Well,” she said, ”I've applied to graduate school ... at the Fletcher School, and Georgetown. I'm probably going to end up going into the Foreign Service. That's what my dad wants anyway.”

”Must have been fascinating, growing up in a bunch of different countries,” Dad said.

She didn't answer right away, and I couldn't see her expression. I found myself straining to hear her next words.

”I don't know about all that,” she said. Her voice sounded sad. ”It's not a normal life, moving to a new country every three years. Kind of lonely sometimes. You leave behind everyone you know and start over, new schools and new teachers. I don't know if I'll ever get married, but if I did ... not sure it's the right life for kids. What about you? You grew up here?”

I could understand that. Even though I lived in Roxbury now and spent most of my free time in Somerville mixed up in the music scene, I felt grounded when I was in Southie. I knew every block, every park. I knew the neighbors and where they came from, and in most cases, I knew their parents and grandparents.

My dad answered her question by launching into a story of growing up in Southie, trying to stay clear of the gangs. I knew this was going to take a while. The old man had a knack for story telling and tended to stretch the truth just a little to get some laughs.

I discreetly turned and watched Julia's reactions. She looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen her, curled up in her chair, elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand. She had a broad smile, which was remarkable, and her blue-green eyes were wide as my dad waved his hands around, trying to describe the antics of one of the gangs that had terrorized the neighborhood in the 1970s. At one point, she threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, her whole body shaking.

Watching her like that, I thought she just might be one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

Not because of physical beauty, though she had plenty of that. It was in her bearing and in her eyes. This was no pill-popping, c.o.c.ktail drinking college girl who'd never experienced anything in her life. Somewhere along the line, she'd been through something. There was grief and loneliness behind those eyes. And strength like I don't think I'd ever seen before.

I didn't realize I was staring. But at one point, Dad paused in his story at the part where he was climbing in the back windows of South Boston High School, and looked at me. Then she looked at me and met my eyes, and I took a sharp breath. I realized I'd been standing there at least two or three minutes, a dripping dish in my hand, just watching her.

Stumbling over my words, I said, ”Don't stop, Dad,” and went back to was.h.i.+ng dishes like nothing had happened. I'm not the blus.h.i.+ng beauty type, but I could feel a little bit of heat on the back of my neck, probably from their eyes boring through me like laser beams.

This was getting way too cozy, so as I finished drying the last dish, I interrupted Dad's story to ask Julia, ”So how do you want to work this thing about the car?”

Dad gave me a seriously annoyed look, as if to say, 'Where the h.e.l.l did you learn your manners.'

She shrugged. ”Um ... go get an estimate and let me know how much it is? I can give you a ride back over there when I go.”

I nodded. ”All right.”

”How bad's the damage?” my dad asked.

”Not bad,” I said, ”just dented,” right at the same time she said, ”I think it's probably totaled. Frame's bent.”

Now she was a car expert, too? What I knew about cars you could fit in the change pocket in my wallet.

”That's bad,” my dad said.

”We'll find out,” I said.

”How much did you pay for the car?” Dad asked.

”A thousand.”

One thousand dollars. Which, after studio and recording fees, and the rent, and eating, and public transportation, had taken six months of cooking for me to save. Morbid Obesity wasn't exactly making the charts, and right now we were very much in the red.

She grimaced. ”It'll cost a lot more than that to fix it, if I'm right. Might be best to just buy you a new one.”

”Yeah, well, I don't exactly have the money to buy a new car.”

”I told you I'd take care of it. It's my fault.”

”Maybe we should get going, then,” I said.

She nodded, her face suddenly looking sad again. I didn't get it. Most of the time when I was here, I wanted nothing more than to run away. But here she was, suddenly making herself at home. Was her 'I don't get involved' all some kind of game, and she was one of those clingy girls who would be calling and texting me in the middle of the d.a.m.n night?

”You promised,” Sean said, not even looking up from his book.

”So I did,” she responded to him. ”Let's go check out that piano.”

She stood, and my eyes followed every inch of her as she did so, from the curve of her b.u.t.t, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to the slight hollow in the base of her neck. I'd had my share of beautiful girls. But Julia was something different.

So, somehow the three of us, my dad, brother and I, ended up following her into our living room as if we were the guests.

She approached the piano with extreme caution, her body turned just slightly away from it. ”This is a beautiful piano,” she said.

My dad said, ”It's my wife's ... it belonged to her grandmother.”

”Does she play often?”

”Not anymore,” dad replied, sadness in his voice. G.o.d, that killed me. The way he acted-like it was his fault she'd left. I'd never understand that. But both of my parents were a mystery to me. How they fell in love, how they split up, and especially how they manage to stand each other now, given what happened.

She sat down and lifted the fallboard gently, then touched the keys, somehow reverently and expertly at the same time. She positioned her hands expertly. ”I'm badly out of practice. I don't get many opportunities to play these days.”

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