Coming Home by Laurie Breton

onto the piano bench between them and wrapped an
arm around her waist.  “How soon can we work it into the act?”
    Rob flexed long, slender fingers.  “We could run it by Jake and
Travis at rehearsal on Sunday.”
    Danny’s eyebrows drew together.  “Not soon enough,” he said.  “I
want them to hear it tonight.”
    “It’s not going anywhere, Dan.  Sunday’s only two days away.”
    “Tonight,” he repeated, and Rob shrugged amiably.  Satisfied,
Danny turned her in his arms and kissed her.  “Since we have company,” he said,
“and I can’t have my way with you, how about some dinner?  We have to be at
Martucci’s in a couple of hours.”
    She brushed her knuckles briefly across his cheek. “You’re working
too hard,” she said.  “You’ll kill yourself, working two jobs.”
    “You mean I haven’t told you my philosophy?”
    She eyed him skeptically.  “What philosophy?”
    “Live hard and fast,” he said, “and die young enough to leave a
good-looking corpse.”
    A cold draft trickled down her spine and spread into her
extremities.  “Stop it,” she said.  “Don’t talk that way.  It gives me the
willies.”
    He grinned.  “You’re too touchy.  And I’m unstoppable.  Give me a
hot shower and a home-cooked meal, and I always get my second wind.”
    They had agreed when they got married that they wouldn’t allow
their marriage to interfere with Danny’s career, and Casey knew she should be
grateful that the band had steady work.  Not for anything would she admit to
him that she was lonely and restless.  Not for anything would she admit that it
was Trish’s letters, her sister Colleen’s occasional phone calls, that saved
her from succumbing to the isolation.  He would think she was unhappy with
their marriage, and nothing could have been farther from the truth. 
    She lived for those early breakfasts and quiet dinners when they
faced each other across the table.  She lived for Sundays, for those languid
hours of lovemaking when he would drive her to the brink of insanity and let
her hover there in exquisite agony before plunging with her over the edge.  She
lived to wake up beside him each morning and to fall asleep in his arms each
night.  The hours they spent together were perfection.  It was the time they spent
apart that was the problem.
    But she didn’t tell him that.  Instead, she smiled and said, “You
get your shower, and I’ll get dinner.”
    The next morning, while Danny slept late, she breakfasted on black
coffee and a croissant, then set out down the back side of the Hill to
Haymarket, where she spent an inordinate amount of time choosing from the vast
assortment of produce.  After trading good-natured insults with the merchants
who now recognized her as a regular, she skipped over to the North End and bought
from the butchers there, doing her best to ignore the bloody rabbit pelts that
hung in their shop windows. 
    Since she was already in the neighborhood, she ended her excursion
with a visit to Danny’s grandmother.  While Mrs. Fiore brewed tea, Casey sat on
an overstuffed armchair in the gloomy parlor. The bulky furniture was
upholstered in a drab maroon that time had faded to a dull brown.  Yellowed
lace curtains kept the sun at bay, and a small Philco television rested atop a
mahogany table.
     On a matching table beside her, nestled in amongst a thriving
community of African violets, was a framed photo of a young woman.  Casey
picked it up and was studying it when Mrs. Fiore returned with the tea.  The
girl in the picture was pretty, with lively, dark eyes and the devil himself in
her smile.  “Danny’s mother?” she said.
    The old woman’s face darkened.  “My Annamaria Teresa.  He don’t
tell you nothing about his mama?”
    Casey set the photo back down.  “Only that she died when he was
five years old.  I got the impression he doesn’t remember much.”
    “He remember.  He just don’ want to.”
    Surprised, she asked,