My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

his car. Amity walked me to the door and suggested I go to Caldwell and Family and get myself something nice, and when Kim wasn’t looking, she pinched me on the ass and stuck her tongue in my ear. I walked to the car with a wet ear and a belief that I deserved the spree as a reward for putting up with Kim.

So here I am, in Caldwell and Family. The salesman is friendly, helpful. He probably saw me drive up in the black Jaguar, because he’s not shoveling out the usual Dallas attitude thrown upon young Yankee lads. I’m fitted for a nice pair of khaki slacks and two button-down dress shirts. I see a khaki cotton jacket with red plaid lining, and though it’s not quite the season yet, I take it.

I leave the shop and survey the surroundings, noticing a jewelry store. I stop in and decide to buy something for Amity since I’m really shopping with her hard-earned money. But as I wade through the necklaces, rings, and pendants and arrive at the fine writing instruments, I think of Nicolo and how he wants to be a journalist. If I buy him a pen, he can use it to take notes while investigating a story or while interviewing someone. After all, I’ve already bought Amity a car . sort of. I mean, she drives it as much as I do. So surely I can use the money to buy Nicolo a simple ink pen. I find a shiny sterling silver pen that is beautifully designed in the slightest curvature of the letter S. It fits perfectly in my hand, and it looks very elegant while I’m writing with it, testing it out. I tell the shop owner I’ll take it if I can get it engraved right away. He says, “Of course.” What shall I say? “With Love, Harry?” Too much, too fast. “With Love, From Your Hero?” Gag. I’m choking on my ego. I think I better go with inscribing his name on it. “Nicolo.”

I drive toward the restaurant where Nicolo works. When I get there, I find he isn’t working, but Thomas is. Thomas freely gives me Nicolo’s address and directions to get there.

I pull up to the duplex and try to breathe my heart into a normal rhythm, but it doesn’t work. I give up, grab the little gift-wrapped box, and head up to the door. Ring the bell twice.

A woman appears. His mother? She’s about the right age, but she doesn’t look anything like Evita. Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen Evita, just Patty Lupone pretending she’s Evita on a poster. “Yes?” she asks from behind the screen door, her accent noticeable in just one word. Her black hair is pulled back from her face.

“Is Nicolo here?”

“He is at school,” she says carefully.

I think about his stories, realize she’s probably distrusting of strangers. “Can I leave something for him?” Oh, God, she probably thinks it’s a bomb. “It’s a gift.”

“What is your name?”

Behind the screen I see her smile. “Of course,” she says, opening the door. “Come in.”

“You know who I am?” I ask, stepping into the apartment. “Nicolo speaks of you. You please him. He says you are funny.” I want to jump up and down and yelp with delight, “Nicolo told his mother about me! Nicolo told his mother about me!” But

I calmly tell her, “Nicolo’s cool. He pleases me too.” “And now you have bought him a gift.” “Yes.”

“Would you like to drink coffee?” “Sure.” ‘

She motions for me to sit, and as she turns and walks into the kitchen, I realize that her hair isn’t pulled into a bun, but is hanging in a ponytail, which makes her seem less severe, less frightened. She’s wearing a sleeveless dress that looks very seventies. The apartment is conservatively decorated, and the color scheme is mostly gold and deep blue. The wooden chair I’m sitting in probably came with them, as it distinctly feels like a foreign chair. The coffee must have been already brewed, as she returns directly with two cups.

I take the cup and saucer from her. “Thanks.” She nods a welcome. I take a sip and only guess that I’m now drinking Argentinean coffee because the brew is mega strong and heavily sugared stronger than a baby’s fart and sweeter than his momma’s milk, Amity would say.

“You met Nicolo at the restaurant?” his mother asks.

“Yes. I was there with my … friend. Nicolo waited on us.” “Do you like the food?”

I nod. “Oh, yes. It was great. I liked the service too.”

“He is a terrible waiter,” she laughs. “He comes home with food on his pants. But he is a very attentive, very kind boy. He is a beautiful singer. Someday if you are lucky he will sing for you.”

“That would be nice,” I say. As she lifts her coffee to her lips,

I notice that her hands free of jewelry except for her wedding ring are beautifully aged, full of life. There is elegance in their lines, veins, and creases, and I see that she’s comfortable in using her hands, unlike my own mother. I want to make small talk, but I’m not quite sure what to say. Knowing her past has made me cautious. “How long have you lived here?”

“Five years,” she answers.

I meant the apartment, not the US. I’m not sure if she understands. “Do you like it?”

“Very much. But I miss Argentina, to be truthful. It is my home. I had to leave. Did Nicolo tell you?”

“Yes,” I answer, ashamed. I’m not sure why I feel this way. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any concept of difficulty or hardship. I certainly don’t experience torture at the hands of my government other than the suffering and agony I go through whenever Nancy Reagan appears on TV in one of her little red Adolfo dresses and insists that her ballet-dancing son is all man. “I’m sorry that you lost your