Page 72 of Married With Malice

“My sweet sisters.” Daisy has crept up behind us and wedges herself right in the middle, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other around Sabrina’s.

She’s wearing a red and white retro apron with a flared skirt and adorned with gingham ruffles and decorative bows. Embroidered across the front in thick white script are the words ‘Bowie Loves Daisy’.

Kind of corny, but adorable. Impossible not to hug her back. This is the first Christmas the three of us aren’t all living under the same roof.

“Are you having a Merry Christmas?” Daisy says.

“Sure, total joy to the world,” Brina grumbles. “After four hours of sleep Mama yanked me out of bed and forced me into indentured servitude as her buxom Italian kitchen maid. When Daddy woke up he bellowed about his missing hemorrhoid cream and then wandered in here to glare at me for failing to be born as a man.”

Daisy takes this vivid description in stride and nods. “Where is Daddy? I haven’t seen him since we got here.”

Sabrina motions to the window. “He dragged the menfolk through the tunnel to go admire his stupid cars.”

When we were little, the tunnel was forbidden to us. A corridor that runs underground from our father’s study out to the cavernous garage, we used to refer to it in whispers as ‘the secret passage’. Back then, we imagined ourselves as princesses in a castle.

When we finally saw for ourselves how the secret passage was just a dark, boring hallway that smelled of musty blankets, the passage lost its mystery. As did our ‘castle’, which is really just a gaudy mansion built with blood money, a place where I would have been horribly unhappy while growing up not for my sisters.

“What about you, Anni?” Daisy props her chin on my shoulder. “Are you having a good day?”

Not really. Two of my fingers are covered in band aids thanks to a small mishap as I was removing the hot cakedish from the oven. Could have been worse. I could have dropped it and then three hours of kitchen struggles would have been in vain.

But I didn’t drop it. After safely sliding the dish to the counter, I hurriedly sprinkled a very generous helping of cinnamon over the top so it would look just like my mother’s and then tended to my battle wounds.

By then, Luca was long gone from the kitchen, having grown weary of scowling and blocking the sink like a bridge troll. It was probably always a futile hope that we’d somehow get along today after last week’s blowup. The fact that he’s opted to sleep on the couch lately is a very stark declaration of where he stands.

I hate how things just keep getting worse between us.

Even more, I hate how I’m still waiting for a sign that he wants this to change.

In any case, there was no Christmas magic to be found at our house this morning. Luca thinks I threw away some special pen that I didn’t know he had, then he hit me with the news that I incinerated his dead father’s tuxedo on the prom night from hell.

Oh, and just to add to the day’s festivities, he decided today was a fine time to reveal that half the country knows Matthew Pentone bragged about taking my virginity. Apparently, I’m the last one to find out.

Awesome stuff. Merry Christmas to me!

To be fair, I’m no endearing bundle of sunshine. Some people might say that I’m a real pain in the ass. I’ve never had many friends. Guys usually thought I was too much trouble.

But I still wish for what everyone wishes for; someone to notice all my faults and mistakes and somehow decide to love me anyway.

“Of course I’m happy,” I tell my sisters and hug them tightly. They smell like cookie batter and candy canes. “This is one of the few days a year when I’m committed to being in a good mood.”

I see no need to confess that I have my husband’s wrapped Christmas presents hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

Neither of us said a thing about exchanging gifts. For days I fretted over what to get him and finally I sought out a bottle of the pinot noir he enjoyed during our honeymoon. I also purchased more of his favorite cologne. I might have even guiltily removed it from the box a few times to inhale the cedar scent that will forever make me think of his body and hot sex.

The gifts, however, remain in my drawer. Luca has given no hint that he wants the impasse between us to break. I wasn’t expecting any kind of a gift from him and I didn’t get one. Except for our brief, ugly argument in the kitchen, he’s kept his distance today. Even in the car on the drive over here, his eyes stayed glued to the road and he cranked the music up to avoid conversation.

“I love you both so much.” I’m feeling oddly choked up. Or maybe I really need to hear the words echoed back to me.

“Love you too, Anni.” Daisy gives my cheek a lip glossed kiss.

Brina scuttles around to my other side and lays her head on my shoulder, clipping me in the chin with her reindeer ears. “Love you tons, big sis.”

This is a nice moment, snuggled warmly between my sisters, safe from the dreary world outside the window. A few of the brittle layers guarding my heart peel away. Whatever else happens, at least I have my girls.

The rain is still slicing out of the sky in dense sheets. One of the showroom cargo bays rolls open to reveal a collection of men. I have no idea how many gleaming automobile antiques are now in my father’s collection. He never drives them. He doesn’t allow anyone else to drive them. I don’t understand the point.

The sight of Albie Barone never stirs anything except dread and loathing. He’s now gesturing a lot, probably telling some highly exaggerated bawdy story. Laughter breaks out. The men surrounding him are all clumped up together, wraiths in their dark holiday suits, huddled just inside the shelter of the garage.

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