Page 13 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

“It would be a massive restoration project,” I say, leaning against the railing of a bridge that’s rarely used since the interstate rerouted commuter traffic around the city instead of through it.

Mayor Wilkins doesn’t want to be seen talking to me but hiding won’t keep the vultures away. I’ve already caught the glint of a camera’s lens behind a dumpster sitting next to a pizzeria, and our photo will be splashed all over the papers tomorrow.

It won’t be the first project that will need security twenty-four hours a day to protect it from vandals.

“That’s the wrong side of the river.” Wilkins sags against the rail, the St. Charlotte River flowing below us.

We’re standing in the pedestrian lane, six in the morning, the sugary scent of glazed donuts in the air drifting from a rundown bakery down the street.

Speaking of the wrong side of town. Wilkins thought it would save us from detection, instead we stick out like sore thumbs.

“I can invest millions, Wilkins. It wouldn’t be the wrong side for very long.”

Someone told him I’d checked out the nursing home and the crappy little businesses opposite the 1100 block. Just as I intended.

He’s sweating, thinking I’m going to put my development dollars elsewhere.

Somewhere I don’t have to pay for his approval.

My PA came through like I knew she would, and the list I needed landed on my desk the second I told her I wanted it there.

All those shitty buildings would be easily bought, their owners kissing my feet, thanking me for taking that garbage off their hands.

“Besides, you’d think I’d be doing you a favor, doing your job and all. You promised years ago to clean up that area, but you never did. That neighborhood needs a good drug raid. How much do you want to bet there’s at least ten meth labs on that street alone.”

Wilkins humphs , but he knows that his platform was built on lies. Dirty politician.

“I can buy up the properties, turn that neighborhood into someplace actually livable, and I’ll make it clear it’s no thanks to you. Maybe when your term’s up, I’ll run for mayor.”

The rising sun glints off the lens again, and I position my body to keep Wilkins from seeing it.

The photographer has a good shot at our profiles.

There’s no doubt Wilkins and I are meeting and trying to keep it a secret, but it wasn’t my idea.

Jimmy’s restaurant is just as good as anywhere and at least there’s coffee.

My stomach rumbles, and I think about dinner at Jemma’s tonight. What will she cook? Where will we eat? Inside her cottage? She didn’t want me inside her space or she would have invited me in last night. I’m eager to see where Leo spent so much of his time.

“Everyone hates you. You’d never win.”

I grin. “Don’t be too sure about that. The reason you won at all was because you promised you’d create more jobs and restore Oakdale Square.

The area’s in such disrepair, all it’s good for is finding cheap booze and cheaper hookers, and hey, if you’re a druggie, you can find a dealer there, too.

Right, Wilkins? Wasn’t a woman on the news last night begging you to do something?

Someone gunned down her son in a bad drug deal.

Fentanyl, wasn’t it? Said her son had back surgery and now he’s hooked.

Well, not anymore. Someone put the poor son of a bitch out of his misery. ”

Wilkins loses what’s left of his color. If I was a decent guy, I’d clean up Oakdale Square out of the kindness of my heart.

Get all that riffraff off the street. It would take years to make any money back, for anyone to believe that the neighborhood was safe, but my ancestors chose this part of the country in which to make their home. I should feel some sense of obligation.

Too bad I don’t.

“What do you want, Milano?”

I’m wearing him down. It’s only a matter of time.

“You know what I want. Your public approval of the purchase of the 1100 block. Pitts won’t sell to me if you’re not behind the project, you know that, but I don’t need to buy the 1100 block.

St. Charlotte is a big city, Mayor. I can invest my funds elsewhere, where the price of doing business isn’t so steep. ”

“I need a couple more days.”

“To do what? Tell me no? I’m a big boy. I can handle the disappointment.

It’s you who can’t handle what I’ll do if you don’t give me what I want.

Think about it. I’ll give you until Wednesday next week.

If you’re not holding a press conference Wednesday evening endorsing the sale, I’ll put my money somewhere else.

Maybe not even in St. Charlotte. I know you love this godforsaken city, it’s the only thing I admire about you, but I don’t have to invest another penny in these streets. ”

I turn toward the sparkle of the lens and smile, pausing and letting that scum get the exact photo I want him to have.

The early morning sun bathes the city in an orange and pink shimmer, humidity already turning the air into thick soup.

It’s going to be fucking hot, and I look forward to driving out to Hollow Lake all the more.

I push away from the railing and head toward my car that’s waiting on a gravel frontage road.

A light breeze blows in my direction bringing with it the stink of rotting fish and smoke from the factories that line the river’s shore.

Wilkins stays where he is and stares out over the water, his hands clenched at his sides, sweat glistening on his bald head. It’s not such a difficult decision, but he wants the easy way out. He should know by now there is no easy way, not in life, not in love, and not in death.

My phone chimes as I’m checking email on the way to the office.

My mother’s name glows on the screen, and I almost dismiss it.

She never calls me. I doubt I’m going to like what she has to say if I answer, but I think of Nonna ’s disappointment and I accept the call.

It has always hurt her that Mother and I don’t get along, but it’s never been my choice.

“Good morning, Mama,” I say, settling back into my seat and waiting for the eruption, or the tantrum, or the recrimination. Whatever she has in store for me today.

“Dominic. Have you spoken to her?”

I haven’t forgotten her request to meet Jemma, but how do I tell her that Jemma doesn’t want to mix with the Milano family?

At least, she doesn’t want anything to do with me.

She extended the invitation to dinner out of respect for Leo’s memory, not because she wants to talk to me or help me deal with the pain of missing my brother.

No, she wouldn’t mind if she never saw me again, but that’s nothing my mother wants to hear. Wilkins accuses me of getting whatever the fuck I want, but my mother is no different.

“I have,” I say hesitantly, feeling her out, “but not about that. She’s grieving, Mama, and I don’t want to bother her.”

The tears she shed when I asked about the night Leo died tore me apart. I wanted to hold her, convince her she wasn’t to blame, even though I know no matter how much time goes by she’ll always carry the guilt of letting Leo go home and not begging him to stay.

That’s a curious thing. Leo never spent the night. If Jemma was mine, no one could pry me out of her bed.

Rage simmers through the phone and I’m surprised my cell doesn’t burn my ear. “There is no bother meeting the mother of your dead lover. I want to look into her eyes and see what Leo found in her.”

She’ll see the things I saw. Jemma’s love of life, her kindness, her understated elegance. She was Leo’s match in every way.

“I’ll ask her to go to the fundraiser with me tomorrow night, but I doubt she’ll say yes.”

“No one tells you no. Force her to join you and I will attend as well. We’ll donate in Leo’s name and honor him.”

“I’ll do my best, Mama.” I disconnect before she can say more.

If I beg Jemma to go to the benefit and she agrees, I’ll owe her for more than spending time with me and letting me know Leo through her.

Everyone will be shocked if my mother attends the fundraiser so soon after Leo’s death, but it will be good for her to surround herself with friends and the donation in Leo’s name will give her purpose, though neither of those things will do as much good as meeting Jemma, holding her hand, looking into those big blue eyes, and together mourning a man they both loved.

It would be so much easier if she could be bought like Wilkins.

If she was the greedy and selfish woman I’d thought she was.

People are easy to manipulate when they want money, jewels, and social status.

If I could promise her a luxury apartment in the city and a limitless credit card, she would be my puppet and she’d spread her legs just like my father’s mistress trades sex for Chanel.

And I would hate her.

I don’t hate Jemma Ferrell, but I can’t spend much more time with her.

Because I don’t hate her, but I can’t love her, either.

I stop and buy flowers on the way out to her cottage.

I’ll arrive at seven-fifteen, though that’s not the time we agreed upon.

I don’t have her cell number, but I could access it easily enough.

I didn’t call the gallery’s phone, either, to confirm a time.

I didn’t want to give her a chance to back out on me, and the fifteen minutes after she closes her gallery for the evening will give her time to lock up and maybe change her clothes. I want to be there while she cooks.

Keeping Nonna company in the kitchen as a boy are some of my fondest memories, and I haven’t sat in a kitchen while a woman puttered around for quite some time. I’ve missed it.

I’m not sexist. I can cook. Nonna saw to it I wouldn’t starve if I had to depend on myself. Listening to Jemma clink together pots and pans while I sip wine will bring me back to a time when things weren’t so complicated. When I had people in my life who wanted to be there.