Page 18 of Say It Isn't So

I gave Perla a lot of credit. She was currently blissfully in love with a man she’d married out of convenience (long story). And Frankie was great, really, but the sort of all-consuming love they shared—like the kind my parents had—was far too risky, if you asked me. I didn’t want any part of it.

Instead, I was just trying to hold on to what I did have so I wouldn’t lose any more. That was why as I walked the oh so familiar steps of the house I lived in with my dad, I smiled at the oil painting of my mother he’d commissioned after her death. “Hi, Mom. You would’ve loved this fashion week. It was exhausting as usual, but amazing as ever. Berlin had nothing on this one in our own backyard. Now I’m off to Maria’s for a sleepover with the girls before I fly out tomorrow. You know how it is, we never sleep during this time.” I blew her a kiss and walked to the foyer where Martin, our family driver, was carrying the last of my bags to the car.

“Oh, Martin, you always consider my needs even before I make them known,” I joked, then sighed as I walked out of the house with him and closed the door behind me, locking up. “You know, you could’ve taught my exes a thing or two about manners.”

No response.

The thing was, Martin had gotten used to me over the years. He’d been with our family for so long, he practically was family. Only, he was the family member that acted like a royal guard and tended to his job, hardly moved, and never spoke unless he deemed it absolutely necessary.

I snapped my fingers as a thought struck me, watching Martin load up the trunk. “Do you think they would’ve been more attuned to my needs if they’d been on Daddy’s payroll?”

Martin gave me a lopsided grin that was full of familial love as he opened the rear passenger door for me and waited for me to climb in. After I tossed my duffel bag for the sleepover on the seat beside me, I looked up at him—his stoic hazel eyes, freckle-filled and wrinkled face weathered from time—and shook my head. “Ignore me. I don’t think that’s the difference. I think the difference is that you’re a good guy, and your wife is one of the lucky ones.”

When he closed the door, I rubbed my hands together and waited for him to get in before asking, “Now it’s just you and me, so give it to me straight—am I your favorite Morelli?”

He started the car, glancing in the mirror. I spotted his arched eyebrow. “I’ve been working for your father a long time, Ms. Bianca.”

“Daddy doesn’t count. Between me and my sisters.” When he didn’t budge and just continued looking ahead at the road, I smacked a hand on my thigh. “Come on! If you had to choose one, who would it be?”

“In this hypothetical scenario, why would I have to choose one?”

I supposedbecause I’m dying of curiositywouldn’t work in this case, would it? Instead, I tried, “You’re stranded on an island with one other person who has the very last morsel of food in the palm of their hand, but they need an answer. Which Morelli sister is it?”

“Why would they want to know? Do they know you all?”

I groaned aloud and looked up. That was it, I was giving up. Sometimes Martin was all work and no play. “Forget it. I’m just going to keep on believing I’m your favorite.” I leaned forward and stared at him. “I’d be shocked if it wasn’t me, frankly. Be honest, I’ve made your job more fun.”

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, Ms. Bianca.”

I leaned back, still watching him. “The best kind, right?”

He looked in the mirror again and furrowed his brows. “I’ve never heard of trouble being anything but bad.”

I let my mouth drop open in feigned shock, grabbing my chest. “Martin, are you telling me wehaven’thad some pretty memorable times together?”

Point in reference: he was the first person I called to pick me up from my first night out at a club with my friends.

I could’ve taken a taxi, but I’d called Martin. Technically, he should’ve felt honored. Minus the vomit smell I was later told he’d worked overtime to get out of the carpet, I was always a treat, and that night was no different.

Martin was a big part of all my firsts—er, well not the important first. You knew what I was talking about. That would just be weird.Thatfirst was with Peter—my high school boyfriend—but now we were getting way off topic.

“We’ve had many memorable times together,” he agreed before adding, “and I’m sure we’ll have many more.”

“Yeah, we will.”

Then out of the blue, he said, “You know, you have the same vibrant energy and zest for life as your mother. That’s my favorite thing about you.”

Getting all choked up, I clutched my chest and this time I wasn’t pretending. “Martin!” I cried. “How do you always know just the right thing to say?” I asked as he pulled up to Maria’s three-bedroom house in Commack, perfect for her and hersituation(that was a story for another time). My favorite part was the front porch—so cozy, especially with the wooden posts. It used to be a log cabin, not that you’d ever know since Maria renovated it before her daughter, Isabella, was born.

“It’s a gift,” he joked—yes,actually joked—and winked at me in the rearview mirror, pulling me from my thoughts. “Shall I leave your things in the trunk until I pick you up tomorrow, Ms. Bianca?” Martin asked, getting back to business.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” I collected my stuff and, as expected, Martin came around the car to open the door for me.

“Have a good evening.”

“Thank you, I will. I’ll see you bright and early.”

With one last smile before turning away, he added, “I’ll be the one with two cups of coffee.”

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