Page 47 of Loss and Damages
“How are you feeling?” she asks, squinting up at me.
The wound. Not what’s going on inside my heart. “It burns a bit.”
“Do you get shot at often?”
“Mmm. Not often. Less than you’d probably think doing what I do.”
“I’ve never been shot at.”
I squeeze her fingers. “I hope you never are.”
“My brother thinks you’re part of the mafia.”
A car full of teenagers drives by blasting rap music and the loud bass jerks me out of the moment. The driver turns a corner and the beat fades.
“Because we’re Italian?” I ask, amused. It’s not the first time we’ve been accused, and my actions today would give anyone pointing fingers valid evidence.
“No, because of the way you do business.”
“What does your brother know about how I run my business?”
“He knows as much as anyone else who watches the news.”
Boats bob in the distance, the lake appearing a brilliant navy blue. The sun isn’t thinking about setting yet, and I sweat in the evening heat. Jemma walks by my side holding my hand,unaffected except for the rosy sheen on her cheeks and the tendrils of hair that stick to her forehead.
“I do things some people don’t like, and I do things some people do. You run a business. I’m sure not everything you do pleases everyone all the time.”
“I suppose not, but I don’t hold people’s lives in my hands, either.”
“What if I told you I’m going to buy Oakdale Square?”
“Can you do that? Isn’t that like, a five-mile radius or something? You can just circle part of St. Charlotte on a map and say, ‘I want this, ring it up?’”
“Ican. I don’t know about anyone else.”
“And then what?”
I frown. We’re coming to a fork in the sidewalk. We’ll either cross the road and walk toward the shops and lakeside restaurants or keep going around the perimeter of the lake.
She tugs on my hand and leads me across the street. The sidewalk is busier than the path near the water, tourists from St. Charlotte milking the last of the weekend, unwilling to drive back into the city just yet and face Monday morning.
“And then what, what?”
“What are you going to do with the buildings?”
“Tear them down, probably. There’s not much worth keeping. Strip clubs, some shitty liquor stores. What’s the point?”
A rustic-looking restaurant that has outdoor patio seating sits on the corner of the street and overlooks the lake. The tables are full of people eating burger baskets and drinking tall beers. They look delicious, condensation dripping down the glasses. The scent of French fries catches my nose in the breeze along with the flowers that are growing in huge planters near a low fence that separates the outdoor dining area from the sidewalk.
“Hey, Jemma. Got a new man with you tonight,” the hostess says, grabbing two menus and two sets of utensils wrapped in white paper napkins. The restaurant is barely air conditioned, and sweat, yeast, and sunscreen sticks in the air. I have a difficult time picturing Leo enjoying sitting in a crowded restaurant like this, elbow to elbow, eating greasy food and licking salt and ketchup off his fingers. I place him more easily on Jemma’s porch drinking her wine and picking at a meat and cheese platter as they talk.
“They’re a dime a dozen, Syb,” Jemma says, grinning at me.
“Ain’t that the truth. You want your regular spot? Rusty just cleaned it off.”
“That would be great.”
The hostess named Syb, short for Sybil from what her nametag says, leads us up a creaky set of stairs, historic black and white pictures of Hollow Lake hanging on the walls. She pushes a wooden door open and steps out onto the rooftop. People are eating up here too, but the atmosphere isn’t as rowdy as downstairs. It’s casual, twinkle lights strung on the railing and more potted flowers sitting on the floor. I follow Jemma and Sybil to a small table tucked into the corner that has a pleasant view of the lake.
