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"You've been trying to tell me this for weeks, and I didn't believe you, Pips."
I took a big gulp of wine. Underneath the table, Brandon's hand squeezed my knee again.
I sighed. "It doesn't matter. She was so nice to you, Dad. I don't blame you for anything."
It wasn't completely true, but blaming him for an addiction and for ignoring the reservations of his family wasn't going to help.
Dad shook his head. "I'm sorry," he kept saying. "So damn sorry." He placed the napkin on the table with a slight bang of his wrist. "Well, one thing's for sure: she's toast. I ain't getting mixed up with Victor Messina again. I learned my lesson." He held up his crippled hand.
I nodded. "That's good, Dad. But Brandon wants to help too, and this time we're going to let him do it the right way. He wants to hire an investigator to help with the D.A.'s case against Messina. In the meantime, he's already assigned some extra security to watch the house. They should go with you and Bubbe when you're out and about. Especially when you go to Nick's."
I didn't like the fact that my dad still insisted on spending most of his free evenings at a small jazz club that Victor Messina sometimes frequented, but it was also where his band played. We wouldn't know for a long time whether or not he'd ever be able to play the piano with them again, but asking him not to be there when they performed would have been asking him to tear out his own heart. Music was what made my dad tick.
"Oh, Brandon, that's very nice of you," Dad said, already shaking his head, "but it's too much. I'll just make sure I steer clear of Victor."
"It's really no problem, Danny," Brandon started to say, but I cut him off.
"Dad." I reached out and put a hand gently on top of his scarred one. He flinched slightly, but I didn't put any weight on it as I traced the raw lines with my thumb. "Let him help. Brandon's...basically one of the family now."
I didn't have to look to see Bubbe's thrilled look at those words, because Brandon's wide smile caught me first. Trying not to grin myself, I just continued.
"I don't want to have to worry about you and Bubbe while I work to support this family," I said. "Okay?"
Dad ran his free index finger along the edge of the table, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in the worn tablecloth. Finally, he looked up.
"Okay," he relented. "Whatever you say, Pips."
The tension around the table melted away. I put my hand back into my lap and looked at Bubbe, whose face was shining with relief.
"All right, then," she said as she reached to grab the serving spoon in the center of the table. "Let's eat."
~
