Last Man Standing. Wendy Rosnau

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Gwaak! Shoot the moron. Drop and roll! Gwaak!”

      Lucky ducked as the parrot lifted off the woman’s shoulder and sailed to a perch in the corner of the room.

      “That would be Chansu,” Vito explained. “He’s part of Summ’s ancestral family. A reincarnate, if you believe in that sort of thing. He and Summ come with the house.”

      The housekeeper placed the tray on the desk. She was a petite woman, dressed in green silk pants and a high-collared tunic to match. She looked mid-thirties, though Lucky knew she was older. For years there was talk that Vito had an Asian mistress.

      She moved her long black plaited braid off her shoulder. Poured the tea. “Matcha good.” Her eyes locked on Lucky. “You like.”

      No, he wouldn’t, Lucky thought. Not if it tasted anything like it smelled. It reminded him of the stench that always clung to his neighbor’s dog after he came back from a sewer run chasing rats.

      Any minute he was sure Vito would set the housekeeper straight and send her out the door for the ordered Scotch. To his disappointment, it never happened.

      While the woman poured the tea, Vito said, “I took the liberty of informing Summ about your medical problems. It looks like she’s decided to aid your recovery in her own way. As you’ve already noticed, the tea smells like—”

      “Roadkill,” Lucky acknowledged.

      Vito chuckled. “It tastes no better. But if you can get it down, it will ease your pain. Two years ago my doctors sent me home to die. They told me my throat cancer was too advanced. The next day Summ started brewing the Matcha.” He accepted the cup of tea from his housekeeper. “After you sign the papers, we’ll toast your future as the new master of Dante Armanno. Then, I’ll tell you a story about your father. A story about the old days when Frank and I first became friends. Before he stole my wife and became my enemy.”

      The sheer curtains moved and Elena glanced at the open door leading to the veranda. A balmy breeze filtered in off the ocean, the surf making that familiar rushing noise her mother, Grace, loved so much, the one she claimed eased her pain and lulled her to sleep at night.

      “What is it, Lannie? Have I been moaning again?”

      Elena had been standing next to the white wicker bed for a long five minutes watching her mother sleep. “No, Madre,” she said softly, leaning down to gently kiss Grace’s forehead. “I just came to check on you.”

      Grace tried to raise her hand, but the attempt was met with an exhausted sigh.

      “It’s all right.” Elena rescued her mother’s hand and gently squeezed. “Everything is fine.”

      Four weeks ago Grace had suffered another stroke. It was the second in a year, the fifth in the past ten. The numerous strokes, the doctor explained, were caused from the accident her mother had incurred before Elena was born more than twenty years ago.

      The accident had destroyed her mother’s memory, along with her beauty. Elena couldn’t remember a time during her childhood when Grace wasn’t dealing with an excruciating headache or sleeping off the effects of a sedative to battle the daily pain she lived with.

      “Your father brought me a new silk scarf. Ann helped me put it on. She doesn’t do as nice a job as you do, Lannie, but she’s getting the hang of it.”

      Ann was Grace’s new live-in nurse. Elena eyed the lavender silk turban on her mother’s head. “It matches your nightgown perfectly. From what I can see, I agree. Ann’s attempt looks like she’s improving. You look stunning.”

      Grace’s eyes lit up. She loved compliments, even though she knew the scar that cut deep into her cheek had destroyed any chance of her being truly beautiful ever again. Still, the silk turbans she wore and the soft lingerie that draped her fifty-seven-year-old body salvaged a degree of her dignity.

      Over the years Frank had gotten into a routine of sending monthly gifts in the mail when he was away. Grace’s favorite had been the colorful silk scarves. To make them more usable, Elena had come up with the idea to fashion them into turbans to cover the numerous scars on her mother’s head. Grace had loved the idea, and they’d had fun buying matching nightgowns and silk pant outfits to match the scarves.

      “Your father retired from his job. Did he tell you?”

      “He told me.”

      “I’m so happy.”

      In many ways Grace lived in a child’s fairy tale. She had no idea where Frank had spent his time for the past twenty-four years, and Elena hadn’t known, either. Until a few weeks ago.

      “Rub my leg, would you, Lannie? It always feels so good. You have such magic in your hands.”

      Elena reached for a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at Grace’s mouth. One of the strokes had paralyzed her right side, and she rarely knew when she was drooling.

      The muscles in her right leg had atrophied, as well. Despite Elena’s concentrated efforts to slow the process down with massage therapy, the leg was shrinking.

      She slid the hem up on her mother’s nightgown and began to massage the shriveled limb.

      “I’m glad you suggested that Frank learn how to do this for me. He’s getting very good. He says he’s going to take over the job so you can have more free time. Would you like that, Lannie? You could take a vacation with some of your friends.”

      “Maybe a short trip,” Elena agreed, knowing she would be taking one very soon. But she wouldn’t be going with friends.

      “Guess what, Lannie? Frank says he’s going to take me out in the boat. And guess what else? He says we can go every day if I get stronger.”

      “Then you need to eat,” Elena reminded her.

      “Guess what else? Frank says…”

      Grace fell asleep with Frank’s name on her lips. Twenty minutes later Elena left the room by way of the open door that led onto the sprawling oceanside villa’s veranda. As she headed for the long stairway, Frank’s voice stopped her.

      “Elena.”

      She turned to find him standing in the shadows.

      “Where are you going?”

      “For a walk.”

      “It’s late.”

      “I’ll take one of the dogs with me.” When that didn’t seem to appease him, she added, “I’ll ask Romano to accompany me.”

      “You’ve been very distant since I told you about Chicago and…my other life.”

      For years Elena had never questioned her father’s extensive traveling or the guards that patrolled their oceanside estate. She had believed that he was what he had claimed to be—a corporate salesman—and that the guards were just a cautionary measure because he was away so much. Days ago he’d revealed that he’d been living a double life, and that his true identity was not Frank Palazzo, but Frank Masado. His occupation: a capo in the Chicago Italian СКАЧАТЬ