Mrs. Chancellor appeared apologetic. “I shouldn’t have told you all that.”
“Yes, you should have. Actually, Nick should have told me himself, but—”
Mrs. Chancellor patted her shoulder. “You have to understand the shame, my dear.”
“Shame? Why should he feel ashamed? It wasn’t his fault.”
“I know, I know. But he’s a proud young man. The last thing he would want is pity.”
Yes, Nick was proud. And stubborn.
“And he felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Of course. He’d failed to protect the ones he loved.”
Understanding rushed over Paula in a torrent. Now—now when it was too late—she’d been given a reason for Nick’s overprotectiveness. A clue to his obsessive behavior. He’d never lied to her about his past, but, oh, he’d omitted so much.
“What about his brothers and sisters?”
“Teresa died of a drug overdose when she was thirteen. Anthony was killed in a gang fight. And Frankie is in prison for grand larceny.”
“Nick has a brother who’s alive?” Paula didn’t know if she could take any more shocks like this today.
Mrs. Chancellor nodded slowly. “You really should talk to your husband.”
“No, Nick really should talk to me.” And he would. Oh, yes, he definitely would.
After that, Mrs. Chancellor showed her around the rest of the projects, including the youth activity rooms where Paula would work if she was hired. Her heart wept as she pictured a young Nick in this setting, scrambling about the makeshift gym after a volleyball game, playing checkers with one of the counselors, fighting off the encroaching decay and evil that hovered outside—and within.
Mrs. Chancellor finally told Paula, “We have a desperate need for help here, Mrs. DiCello. If you want the job, it’s yours. But think about it for a few days. Talk to Nick—now, now, don’t get your hackles up—he’s in a position to give you good advice. Listen to what he has to say. Then call me.”
As Paula walked toward her car, she pondered all she’d seen that morning. She put her fingertips to her lips, still bruised from Nick’s many kisses. Her body, as well as her emotions, had been battered the past week. The upcoming divorce. Her job search. Nick’s refusal to accept the end of their marriage. His persistent, endearing efforts to woo her back.
Through the mist of her tears, she had to smile, picturing the impossible erotic fantasies he had created for her. Who would have imagined Nick going to the trouble of making an Arabian Nights oasis on a New Jersey beach? Or the Senior Prom dream—come-true? Or the Highway Sex Scene?
Hmmm. A pattern began to emerge in Paula’s mind. What was the big lug up to here? Was it merely seduction, trying to get her back? Or something more?
Well, she had more important things to discuss with him now. How dare he call a prospective employer and try to undermine her job efforts? The interference reeked of his obsessive protectiveness. And she planned to put a stop to it now. Obviously, their divorce was the only way to convince him of her seriousness.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mrs. Dickhead—I mean, Mrs. DiCello. I saw that asshole cop driving this bug . . . uh, car off the lot last week.”
Paula was jarred from her deep thoughts by the drawling remark of a youth with a red bandanna tied around his head, gang style. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, but the deadness of his dark eyes bespoke no youthful innocence.
“Kindly step away from my car,” Paula demanded, refusing to show her fear. He half sat on the hood, his long, jeans-clad legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest.
Paula wanted to scoot inside the protection of her car’s interior—not that the tiny VW, with its soft top, would give her much protection. Oh, Lord, she wished she’d driven that damned, practically bulletproof Volvo. Pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel, she sidled around to the driver’s side, but the boy
“Yes, you should have. Actually, Nick should have told me himself, but—”
Mrs. Chancellor patted her shoulder. “You have to understand the shame, my dear.”
“Shame? Why should he feel ashamed? It wasn’t his fault.”
“I know, I know. But he’s a proud young man. The last thing he would want is pity.”
Yes, Nick was proud. And stubborn.
“And he felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Of course. He’d failed to protect the ones he loved.”
Understanding rushed over Paula in a torrent. Now—now when it was too late—she’d been given a reason for Nick’s overprotectiveness. A clue to his obsessive behavior. He’d never lied to her about his past, but, oh, he’d omitted so much.
“What about his brothers and sisters?”
“Teresa died of a drug overdose when she was thirteen. Anthony was killed in a gang fight. And Frankie is in prison for grand larceny.”
“Nick has a brother who’s alive?” Paula didn’t know if she could take any more shocks like this today.
Mrs. Chancellor nodded slowly. “You really should talk to your husband.”
“No, Nick really should talk to me.” And he would. Oh, yes, he definitely would.
After that, Mrs. Chancellor showed her around the rest of the projects, including the youth activity rooms where Paula would work if she was hired. Her heart wept as she pictured a young Nick in this setting, scrambling about the makeshift gym after a volleyball game, playing checkers with one of the counselors, fighting off the encroaching decay and evil that hovered outside—and within.
Mrs. Chancellor finally told Paula, “We have a desperate need for help here, Mrs. DiCello. If you want the job, it’s yours. But think about it for a few days. Talk to Nick—now, now, don’t get your hackles up—he’s in a position to give you good advice. Listen to what he has to say. Then call me.”
As Paula walked toward her car, she pondered all she’d seen that morning. She put her fingertips to her lips, still bruised from Nick’s many kisses. Her body, as well as her emotions, had been battered the past week. The upcoming divorce. Her job search. Nick’s refusal to accept the end of their marriage. His persistent, endearing efforts to woo her back.
Through the mist of her tears, she had to smile, picturing the impossible erotic fantasies he had created for her. Who would have imagined Nick going to the trouble of making an Arabian Nights oasis on a New Jersey beach? Or the Senior Prom dream—come-true? Or the Highway Sex Scene?
Hmmm. A pattern began to emerge in Paula’s mind. What was the big lug up to here? Was it merely seduction, trying to get her back? Or something more?
Well, she had more important things to discuss with him now. How dare he call a prospective employer and try to undermine her job efforts? The interference reeked of his obsessive protectiveness. And she planned to put a stop to it now. Obviously, their divorce was the only way to convince him of her seriousness.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mrs. Dickhead—I mean, Mrs. DiCello. I saw that asshole cop driving this bug . . . uh, car off the lot last week.”
Paula was jarred from her deep thoughts by the drawling remark of a youth with a red bandanna tied around his head, gang style. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, but the deadness of his dark eyes bespoke no youthful innocence.
“Kindly step away from my car,” Paula demanded, refusing to show her fear. He half sat on the hood, his long, jeans-clad legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest.
Paula wanted to scoot inside the protection of her car’s interior—not that the tiny VW, with its soft top, would give her much protection. Oh, Lord, she wished she’d driven that damned, practically bulletproof Volvo. Pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel, she sidled around to the driver’s side, but the boy
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