The Matriarch Read Free Page B

are on the table along with a pot of tea and some cups. There’s also a basket of cornbread, some paper plates, and an open jar of honey. A half-filled bottle of Jameson Scotch whiskey stands next to a basket of fresh figs. A cooler sits nearby on the floor.
    “You remember Carla and Dante Russo, don-cha Cassidy?” Frank asks. The old man rises and extends a hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Cassidy,” Dante says. I grin as we shake hands; I’m genuinely pleased to see this man again. “You remember this fellah, my love?” Dante gestures toward the white-haired woman.
    “I surely do,” she says, getting up and coming around the table to me. “Though he’s certainly changed a bit.” She chuckles and envelopes me in a warm hug. I remember her clearly now, a large woman with hazel eyes and short, mussed brown hair. “Carla Russo,” she says helpfully into my ear. I return her hug and draw in the faint scent of Scotch whiskey, though she has an empty wine goblet in one hand. I remember this woman as being somewhat pushy—never shy about expressing her opinions—but always kind and caring toward me.
    “A pleasure, Carla,” I say. It’s good to see her again. Her hair is completely white now, but still thick and wild.
    “And these lovely young ladies are Dante’s nieces.” Frank stands behind the seated women and puts his hand on the shoulder of the one with red hair. “Charlotte Russo,” he says, “and her sister, Shelly. They’ve come for a visit.”
    I smile at them. The redhead is beautiful, the direct opposite of her sister who is still stuffing figs into her mouth. Charlotte, the lovely one, raises a cup to her lips and gazes at me with huge green eyes, and I feel a sudden and delightful warmth low, in my belly. Her pale skin is set off by auburn shoulder-length hair—straight and thick. She wears a skimpy green tank top. She’s an absolute knockout.
    I’m amazed at my sudden response to this woman. Here I am not three days out of a serious relationship, and I’m already hooked by another woman? Well … maybe so. I know I sure as hell want to see a whole lot more of this beauty.
    The fig eater, Shelly, a brunette, raises her Heineken to me in friendly salute.
    “And Cassidy, this here is Lester-Lee, my helper.”
    The big red-haired fellow nods at me, then drops to his knees to pet the puppy. “His name’s Louie?”
    “Yeah, that’s it.” These two are taken with each other, I see; they’re instant best friends.
    “Can I take him out in the yard?” Lester asks. He’s like an excited child.
    “Sure.” I give Lester the leash, and he and Louie race down the stairs and off toward the nearby horse ring. “They really hit it off.”
    “He’s good with animals,” Frank remarks.
    “Perhaps you’ll join us for dinner some night next week, Cassidy,” Carla says as she sits back down. “When it cools down a bit. You and Frank.” She helps herself to a fig from the basket. “Charlotte will be there of course …” she nods toward the redhead, “with Shelly.”
    “Sounds wonderful, Carla.” Charlotte, her name is Charlotte. Carla mentions these girls, I notice, with a decided lack of warmth. She reaches for the Scotch bottle and pours a dollop into her wine glass.
    “That honey there on the table is from Arty Banyon’s hives,” Frank says. “It’s the best in the county. Have some on that corn bread there, Cassidy.”
    I shake my head. “Not hungry just now, Uncle Frank … thanks though.”
    “Well then, how about a beer?”
    “Yeah, that sounds good. But let me hit the john first. It’s been a long trip.”
    I open the screen door and walk into the living room. The room plunges me back in time, back to the youth of a boy protected and cared for by a loving family. A boy who bears no resemblance to the man I’ve become.
    There are floor to ceiling windows with brightly patterned café curtains drawn across the lower half, giving the old room a colorful, refreshing