Her soul felt weightless. The sensation of floating through eternity at the side of this man stuck in her head.
“Have you always been a fan of The Brady Bunch? The question needs to be asked because honest to god, Summer, I can’t stop thinking about your sofa.”
Wiping red sauce off her chin, she grinned and crinkled her nose. “My childhood was heavily influenced by my 70s-loving Dad and an older brother who was all about good guys and bad guys. Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo, and Donatello were his thing.”
“Ah, the Mutant Ninja Turtles. I know them well.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” she asked with a snort of laughter. “I think The Brady Bunch fascination had a lot to do with growing up without a mother.” She exhaled and grew somber as uncomfortable memories rolled through her. “There was a time when I hoped Dad would find a Carol to love so we could have a big, happy family.”
“That never happened?”
An avalanche of truths flooded her mind. This matter was deeply personal and was far more involved than a casual remark about her father’s love life. For anyone else, she would have deflected or made an inane comment and moved on, but with Arnie, she spoke so fast that a new land-speed record must have been set.
“Well, he certainly had lady friends.” Her tone was dry but full of love for the man who raised her. “It’s complicated.” She sighed. “My bitch of a mother crushed his spirit. He never said it in so many words, but it was always there. Especially when he did dual duty as dad and mom. Like for school events. I remember the mom squad descending on him. Our neighborhood had a long memory, so mostly everyone knew the sad tale of how Howie’s wife ran off and left him with two little children. It was awful for me, so it had to be dreadful for him to be constantly reminded of his runaway wife.”
“You worried more about him—his feelings and how he was doing—than your own.”
“Totally. My rebellious, hormonal teenage years were in full swing before it dawned that my mother didn’t give a shit about me. I always focused on Dad. My brother was older when she left, so he had real memories to support his anger. I was a girl with nowhere to go and no one to talk to.”
Their long silence was punctuated by the sounds of eating. Arnie seemed deep in thought.
There was no smile in sight when she muttered, “Not everyone should have kids.”
The plink of his fork hitting the plate was followed by vehement words.
“I agree.” The way he hesitated struck her as curious. Obviously, he had strong feelings. “My stepmother is the perfect case in point,” he continued in a sober tone. “She procreated for all the wrong reasons.”
Without consciously thinking about it, she reached her hand across the corner of the table and gently stroked her fingers over his knuckles. The tenor of his voice concerned Summer. She heard guilt and regret and wondered what the hell it meant.
“It’s complicated,” he murmured. “My, uh, little brother was the means to an end for my dad’s second wife.”
There was pain in his expression. Pain that lanced her heart. He looked at her and held Summer’s gaze.
“I’m older by three hundred and fifty-three days.”
“Oh, shit.” The muttered oath was her unvarnished reaction.
“I know, right?” He turned his hand over, palm up, and she slid her hand across his.
After a slight shrug, he pressed on.
“It sucks all the way around. For my father, whose overwhelming grief led to some disastrous decisions. For my brother, who lives his whole life under a cloud. For me, in different ways.”
“What ways?” she asked.
Their hands joined atop the table. Pulses of energy shot up her arms as he held on tight.
“A part of me despises what he represents. Not him, per se, but the whole tawdry situation. At the same time, he’s my bro. See? Complicated.”
“Tell me something about him. When you were boys.”
“Okay. Um, let’s see.” Arnie’s expressive blue eyes softened. Was he looking into the past?
“We were Little Leaguers. Baseball,” he playfully snortled. “The American boy’s rite of passage.”
“I know it well.” She giggled. “Spent many a Saturday in the bleachers cheering on my brother and the Westgate Orioles. And my dad coached.”
“We lived in the city but every year as soon as school let out, we went to suburban Connecticut where Little League is mandatory. Our eleventh summer can be best described as hell on