of watching her work
with the crew.”
“Okay,” Willa said.
“I know Collette will enjoy that.”
“Besides,” Veronica
continued, an edge to her voice. “She’s the comic relief. Something tells me
we’re going to need that today.”
Chapter Six
Whomp !
Willa hefted the
sledgehammer over her shoulder again and swung it against the interior wall
between the dining room and the bedroom.
Whomp !
Plaster shattered.
Particles of dust and debris flew into the air.
She paid no
attention to Steve the cameraman standing in the corner. All her focus was on
this wall. She was going to tear it down. Yank out every nail. Rip out every lath.
With each stroke of
the sledgehammer, every blow against the stubborn wall, she felt another brief
flare of satisfaction, another small release of an anger that was so deep she
wondered if she’d ever reach the bottom of it.
At its core was her
father. Visions of him swam in front of her eyes as she swung the hammer. His
face loomed close to hers. “Think, Wilhelmina. Use that brain of yours. That
brain I gave you. Stop playing games.” But she’d wanted to play games. She
had wanted to get lost in her pretend stories of knights and magicians and
strange, mystical lands. She’d wanted to play outside with the other girls and
boys that she had seen from her bedroom window.
Whomp !
She felt the tight
grip of her father’s hand, his fingers digging sharply into her arm. “What
did I say about reading those ridiculous fairytales? You won’t win the Nobel
Prize if you allow that fluff to clutter your mind. You’ll read what I tell you
to read. Do you understand? Look at me, Wilhelmina. Stop daydreaming.”
She’d tried once to
recall any memory of him where he’d been warm and kind. But there were none. Any
softness of character that he might have possessed had died along with her
mother.
Whomp !
Take that, all of
you people that didn’t see, or chose not see: neighbors, her father’s
colleagues, her teachers and professors, those primping, fatuous television
interviewers.
Whomp !
Who was this Julia
Kelly? What was she like? What did she look like? Was she pretty? Gentle and good?
She must be. Willa couldn’t envision any other sort of woman for Joe. This Julia
sounded like a veritable saint. She’d been there every day to take care of Tony
and Sylvie. Had she made their dinner and packed their school lunches and
washed their clothes? Had she waited at the door every night for Joe—tired,
hard-working Joe—to come home?
And she owned her
own business now. She must be smart. Not as smart as Willa. But Julia probably
had street smarts. The kind of smarts Willa wished she had. Julia was probably
like the girls in those chick-flick movies: pretty, witty, and flirty—a bright
young thing. She didn’t take practically every spoken word literally like Willa
did, didn’t have to weigh and consider and analyze. She probably had a lilting,
lovely voice, not one that usually came out flat and stilted.
Whomp !
Damn Tony Rossetti
for telling Willa about Julia. For killing the fragile seed of a dream Willa
had only just acknowledged to herself today.
Whomp !
Damn Joe Rossetti
for holding her hand that way. For treating her with a kindness and tenderness she
had never known. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
Whomp !
And damn herself
for allowing herself to fall under his spell.
“Willa.”
A hand pressed
against her shoulder.
She spun around,
the sledgehammer falling from fingers that had gone numb.
Tony jumped
backwards, the sledgehammer missing his foot by inches. “Hey, now. Watch it
there.”
He kept a grin on
his face as he slanted a quick look at the cameraman and then back to Willa.
But the grin didn’t reach his eyes; they were filled with worry. “You need to
take it easy, Willa. You’re going to injure yourself.”
Her chest rose and
fell with her heavy breaths. She wiped a hand across her forehead, feeling the
damp tendrils of hair
with the crew.”
“Okay,” Willa said.
“I know Collette will enjoy that.”
“Besides,” Veronica
continued, an edge to her voice. “She’s the comic relief. Something tells me
we’re going to need that today.”
Chapter Six
Whomp !
Willa hefted the
sledgehammer over her shoulder again and swung it against the interior wall
between the dining room and the bedroom.
Whomp !
Plaster shattered.
Particles of dust and debris flew into the air.
She paid no
attention to Steve the cameraman standing in the corner. All her focus was on
this wall. She was going to tear it down. Yank out every nail. Rip out every lath.
With each stroke of
the sledgehammer, every blow against the stubborn wall, she felt another brief
flare of satisfaction, another small release of an anger that was so deep she
wondered if she’d ever reach the bottom of it.
At its core was her
father. Visions of him swam in front of her eyes as she swung the hammer. His
face loomed close to hers. “Think, Wilhelmina. Use that brain of yours. That
brain I gave you. Stop playing games.” But she’d wanted to play games. She
had wanted to get lost in her pretend stories of knights and magicians and
strange, mystical lands. She’d wanted to play outside with the other girls and
boys that she had seen from her bedroom window.
Whomp !
She felt the tight
grip of her father’s hand, his fingers digging sharply into her arm. “What
did I say about reading those ridiculous fairytales? You won’t win the Nobel
Prize if you allow that fluff to clutter your mind. You’ll read what I tell you
to read. Do you understand? Look at me, Wilhelmina. Stop daydreaming.”
She’d tried once to
recall any memory of him where he’d been warm and kind. But there were none. Any
softness of character that he might have possessed had died along with her
mother.
Whomp !
Take that, all of
you people that didn’t see, or chose not see: neighbors, her father’s
colleagues, her teachers and professors, those primping, fatuous television
interviewers.
Whomp !
Who was this Julia
Kelly? What was she like? What did she look like? Was she pretty? Gentle and good?
She must be. Willa couldn’t envision any other sort of woman for Joe. This Julia
sounded like a veritable saint. She’d been there every day to take care of Tony
and Sylvie. Had she made their dinner and packed their school lunches and
washed their clothes? Had she waited at the door every night for Joe—tired,
hard-working Joe—to come home?
And she owned her
own business now. She must be smart. Not as smart as Willa. But Julia probably
had street smarts. The kind of smarts Willa wished she had. Julia was probably
like the girls in those chick-flick movies: pretty, witty, and flirty—a bright
young thing. She didn’t take practically every spoken word literally like Willa
did, didn’t have to weigh and consider and analyze. She probably had a lilting,
lovely voice, not one that usually came out flat and stilted.
Whomp !
Damn Tony Rossetti
for telling Willa about Julia. For killing the fragile seed of a dream Willa
had only just acknowledged to herself today.
Whomp !
Damn Joe Rossetti
for holding her hand that way. For treating her with a kindness and tenderness she
had never known. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
Whomp !
And damn herself
for allowing herself to fall under his spell.
“Willa.”
A hand pressed
against her shoulder.
She spun around,
the sledgehammer falling from fingers that had gone numb.
Tony jumped
backwards, the sledgehammer missing his foot by inches. “Hey, now. Watch it
there.”
He kept a grin on
his face as he slanted a quick look at the cameraman and then back to Willa.
But the grin didn’t reach his eyes; they were filled with worry. “You need to
take it easy, Willa. You’re going to injure yourself.”
Her chest rose and
fell with her heavy breaths. She wiped a hand across her forehead, feeling the
damp tendrils of hair
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