Page 54 of Wish I Were Here
I can’t help but stare. He usually has that teasing grin on his face, and it’s startling to see him looking so peaceful. I’mtempted to pull the blanket up higher and tuck it around him. I’m tempted to climb into his nest next to him.
Instead, I turn to Mrs. Goodwin. “He had a late night,” I whisper.
Her eyebrows rise. “Did he, now?”
My cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean like that.” But then I pause, a little smile tugging at my lips at the memory of his mouth pressing against mine, the warm breeze teasing my hair, the city sparkling in the background. I didn’tnotmean like that, either.
Mrs. Goodwin gives me a knowing look. “Well, let’s definitely not disturb him then,” she whispers.
I glance back at Luca. “Why does he sleep on the floor? He said he has an apartment upstairs.” Is it possible that’s not really true? Maybe he really is homeless and doesn’t want anyone to know?
But Mrs. Goodwin nods. “He does. On two.”
“So why…”
She shushes me again.
“Sorry.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Are you waiting here because the elevator is broken again?”
“No.” She nods at a couple of boxes next to the bench. “Luca was going to carry those over to the community center for me. I have some donations for the fundraiser. We’re doing an auction. Eleanor up on five donated some of her designer clothes from the sixties. She was a fashionable lady.”
“Oh.” I glance at Luca again, and his chest rises and falls rhythmically. “I hate to wake him. Maybe I can carry the boxes.” I pick them up, and though they’re a little bulky,they’re not too heavy. With another glance at Luca, who hasn’t stirred, I follow Mrs. Goodwin out the door.
The community center is around the corner from the DeGreco in a sprawling redbrick building that looks like it used to be a Catholic school. Large, curved windows reveal high ceilings, and the original brickwork looks to be in great shape. A wooden wheelchair ramp has been added to the front, but otherwise, everything still looks original. I can see why developers want to buy the place and turn it into condos; they’d probably go for a million dollars each. I realize how lucky I am to have found an affordable apartment at the DeGreco since so many people are getting priced out. It must be especially hard for all the families with multiple generations rooted here to see their neighbors unable to afford their homes anymore.
Inside the building, we approach a front desk, and a sixtysomething Black woman with graying hair and a purple tracksuit greets us. Mrs. Goodwin introduces her as Mrs. Flowers.
“This is Catherine,” Mrs. Goodwin tells her. “She’s a special friend of Luca’s.” Turning toward Mrs. Flowers, she cups a hand around her mouth. “They were out late together last night.”
“Ohhhh,” Mrs. Flowers says, clapping her hands together. “Any special friend of Luca’s is a friend of ours.”
I imagine Luca has flirted with everyone at this community center, just like he has with the residents of the DeGreco. Knowing Luca, he’s probably made his way down the block, tossing his charm like candy at the Memorial Day parade. Of course they love him. But my heart warms at the way they automatically welcome me just by association.
Mrs. Goodwin gestures at an upholstered chair. “Wait here, Catherine. I’ll go get the key to the storage closet.”
I set the boxes on a table and sit down near a group of older people in a small sitting area. Someone has moved aside a couple of chairs to accommodate one of the women’s wheelchair, and everyone forms a neat circle around a coffee table with teacups and paperbacks scattered on top. I check out the books and realize that all of them match. On each cover, a muscular man in old-fashioned breeches and a flowing white shirt unbuttoned to the waist clutches a long-haired woman in a torn blue gown. His chest glistens in the sunlight, and her bosom heaves.
The Viscount’s Secret. I read that one in high school.
“Montague should have told Penelope about his past before he deflowered her,” an older Indian woman in a red kurta argues passionately. “She had a right to know.”
The plot of the book starts to come back to me.
“He couldn’t tell her until he trusted her completely,” the white woman in a blue dress argues.
“I didn’t like that Montague,” the silver-haired white man in the navy sweater says, slapping a mottled hand down on the book cover for emphasis. I realize I’m completely eavesdropping on their conversation now. “He was so in love with that house of his. Always fixing it up and worrying over the renovations. He loved that house more than Penelope.”
I can’t help but cut in now. “He didn’t love it more than her. It was a symbol of his happy childhood from before his mother passed and he had to live with his domineering father.” I turn in my chair to look at the group. “He fixed it up to try to re-create the idyllic days of his youth. But whathe didn’t realize was the house would never fill the hole in his heart. Only Penelope could do that.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” The older Black man sits up, straightening the hem of his white button-up shirt. “I think she’s right.”
“The house was asymbol,” murmurs the woman who had objections to the deflowering.
“Exactly.” I point at the book in her hand. “When the house was burning, and the evil Archibald kidnapped Penelope, Montague could only choose one to save: his beloved house or his true love.”
“And in the end, he chose Penelope,” the first man chimes in.
“Yes. Because she represented love and happiness. He didn’t need that house anymore.”
