Chapter 18

Present Day

(Manny, 32; Ricci, 25)

Manny

I groan getting out of my truck; my latest trip to deliver some custom furniture had been a bit harrowing due to the extreme weather I drove through. Thankfully, the wardrobe arrived at the customer’s home without any damage. After locking up my truck, I head into the house, still marveling over the fact that I now own my grandparents’ old farmhouse complete with Granddad’s workshop in the back.

Once inside, I take my duffel bag into the laundry room and start a load of clothes before I meander into the kitchen and grab a beer. “Fuck, I’m tired,” I mutter after drinking almost half the bottle.

With my clothes now washing, I sort through the mail that my uncle brought in for me, tossing all the junk to one side before I open the bills, snorting when I see the property taxes are due soon. I gather the important envelopes in my hand, grab another beer as well as a bottle of water and make my way to my room.

Ten years ago, when I was released from prison on parole, my Uncle Jorge brought me here for what I thought was a welcome home party. Since Granddad had passed during my incarceration, I just figured either he, my mom, or my Aunt Juanita would move into the farmhouse. Instead, once we got here, the three of them sat me down and let me know that the house and land were now mine. They wanted me to have something to start my life with, and because I was always over here helping in the workshop, they decided giving it to me would be perfect.

“Manny, you gave up five years of your life,” Uncle Jorge stated. “None of us need the house and even Pops was in agreement before he died. He wanted us to do this for you, boy.”

“But y’all are his children, I’m just a grandson. One of many, in fact,” I protested, still overwhelmed at what they’d told me.

“And every one of your cousins agrees too. You did the world a favor by killing Turo,” Aunt Juanita spat out. When I tried to protest that it hadn’t been my intention to do that, she held her hands up. “I know, I know, it was an accident, but based on how he treated others before our Luci, he would’ve done it again.”

“He’s right, Manny,” Mama whispered. “Even though we didn’t wish death on him, in fact I prayed to the Virgin Mary every night for his healing, he would’ve hurt another woman like your hermana.”

“Well, then thank you. Because I’ve always loved this place,” I finally said.

“You’ll start at the shop on Monday,” Uncle Jorge decreed. “I need a good apprentice.”

I grinned, knowing that he’d been using a lot of my drawings for tattoos while I’d been gone. To keep my mind occupied while I was locked up, I took an art class and quickly found my passion. Now, I was looking forward to learning how to actually ink someone, as well as use some of the designs I’d come up with to make furniture like my granddad. He was well-known throughout the southeast for his custom creations, and I suspected there were possibly some unfinished pieces out in the workshop.

Shaking my head clear of the memories, I toss the bills onto my dresser, then strip down on my way into the master bathroom. A steaming hot shower is definitely on my mind after the long day of driving I just finished. I have no clue how long-distance truck drivers do it day in and day out because traffic was insane today. I spent more time sitting idling while accidents were cleared than I did actually moving.

“Fuck, that feels good,” I groan out, once the hot water hits my back. I’m not one to linger in the shower; I typically get in, wash up, then get out, but tonight, I stand there for long minutes allowing the warmth to permeate my tight muscles so I can hopefully get a good night’s sleep.

It hasn’t come easy lately and I suspect it’s because my old girlfriend, Leanna, is back in Possum Run, since she got divorced. While my mind wanders once again, I grab my shampoo and begin washing my hair.

“Leanna, I’ll only be in for a few years,” I begged, fighting back the tears that wanted to fall.

“Manny, you’re a murderer,” she hissed, glaring at me. “I can’t be with someone like you.”

“But I didn’t mean for him to die,” I insisted. “Besides, he killed my sister and niece!”

A look I couldn’t decipher crossed her face. “I know and I’m sorry that happened. I liked Luci a lot. But you can’t really expect me to put my life on hold waiting for you.”

“What about our plans?” I asked. “We were going to go to college, then get married and raise a family.”

“Plans change.”

Shutting the water off now that I’m finished with my shower, I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist, then proceed to brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair, then slap on some deodorant. A quick walk-through of the house to make sure everything’s locked up tight and I’m soon back in my room, settling into bed for the night.

* * *

With my coffee in hand, I walk out to the workshop, breathing in the crisp spring air. One of the perks of now being in charge at the tattoo shop is I can take the weekends off if I want to do so and after the past few days, I need the downtime. Uncle Jorge is still willing to come in and work during those times, but I think it might be time to find one or two younger artists so he and my aunt can truly retire. Unlocking the door, I open both sides wide since I plan to put a coat of varnish on my latest project, a triple dresser with a hand-laid mosaic top.

“Well, that’s weird, I don’t remember sweeping up before I left,” I mutter as I turn on the lights and see how clean the floor looks. I was in such a hurry to get the furniture loaded, I let my uncle lock up so I could get on the road. “Doubt he did it for me either.”

My Uncle Jorge is a good man, he truly is, having stepped up after my dad passed away when me and my siblings were still young, but he’s not the cleaning type.

Shrugging, I turn the radio on, then start a pot of coffee in the ‘kitchen’ area, once again thanking God for my grandfather. His workshop is a work of art, that’s for damn sure. It’s large, with barn doors that open outward in order to move stuff in and out down a slight ramp that leads to a paved walkway, but the real secret is the inside. He added a kitchenette of sorts, with a smaller sized full fridge, a microwave, and a sink, as well as a functional bathroom, complete with a shower stall. When I asked him once why he did that, he said that my grandma didn’t like it when he’d walk through the house covered in sawdust, so he started showering before he came back inside for the night. Although I’m pretty sure based on the cobwebs that were inside the thing when I moved in, he stopped doing that once she passed away.

While the coffee is brewing, I look at the dresser with a critical eye. Prior to my trip, I carefully laid out the mosaic pattern across the top, then glued it down once I was satisfied that it looked good. I also filled the spaces with the resin I found that seems to work the best. Today, I need to smooth down any rough spots, then start varnishing the whole thing so it will look just as good years from now.

“Sure hope whoever ends up buying this likes it,” I state to myself before grabbing my fine sandpaper. After I slip on my safety glasses and turn on the overhead spotlight, I roll my stool over and start working.

* * *

Two pots of coffee later, I stand and immediately groan out loud. Seems I’m not as young as I used to be or maybe it’s because I spent most of the morning and early afternoon bent over after a long day of driving. Regardless, I can’t help the whistle that escapes me when I see the finished product. Pulling out my phone, I take several pictures that I’ll upload to my website later. Now it’s time to shut it all down and head into the house to get ready for dinner at my mother’s house. One quick shower later and I’m pulling out of my driveway to run by the local bakery so I can get something for dessert.

Not that my mom won’t make one; she always does. I just grab a sugar-free option since I know my Uncle Jorge needs to cut back on his sweets. Snickering, I signal to pull into the parking lot, park, then hurry inside. “Thanks, Paula,” I say to the owner. “You’re a lifesaver, as usual.”

“I’m just glad your mom is willing to let me do this for y’all,” she teases.

“Right?” I ask, taking the bag from her. “She’s loosening the apron strings on her recipes a little bit.”

“I’m waiting for the day she invites me over so I can sit with her and go over them,” she muses.

“I’ll put a bug in her ear.”

“You’re… that would be great, Manny,” she whispers, her eyes getting shiny. “I want to be able to make things that others would enjoy.”

“You already do, Paula,” I advise. “Gotta run, I’m cutting it close as it is.”

“Take care.”

“You do the same.”

Once back in my truck, I continue on to my mom’s, my thoughts swirling. A lot of the town treated me like I was a leper when I was first released. They’d go so far as to leave an establishment if I was in there.

However, my family, which is quite large, had my back. Not only did my Uncle Jorge put me to work at his tattoo shop as an apprentice, but he also made it clear to his regular customers that he would fire them, and they’d have to find another tattoo artist if they said one wrong word to me.

My mind is stuck in the past as I pull into my mom’s driveway and see I’m the last one to arrive. Uncle Jorge doesn’t know we’ve been substituting his dessert for something that’s sugar-free, so I grab the bag and go through the back door which leads into Mama’s kitchen.

“You’re late,” she teases, stirring something on the stove. “Put it over there,” she instructs, pointing to where the cake she made for the rest of us is sitting. Leaning in, I kiss her cheek, smiling because she’s timeless, at least to me.

When I was younger, she wore dresses all the time. I asked her once why she did it when pants and a shirt would be more comfortable, and she said it was because my dad loved her in dresses. Even after he died, shortly before I turned thirteen, she never stopped wearing them.

That’s the kind of woman I need,I thought. One who I can take care of, but who will also do things because she knows they make me happy.

“Do you need me to do anything, Mama?” I ask after putting the cake on the counter. While I wait for her to answer, I wash my hands in case I’m needed to stuff something.

She may be protective of her recipes, but she never objects to one of us helping if she needs it.

“Get the enchiladas out of the oven for me, please,” she replies. “The sauce is nearly ready to add.”

I groan out loud, my mouth already watering for the delicious food I know I’m about to eat. Looks like I’ll be adding a mile or two to my daily workout. After pulling the steaming pan from the oven and setting it on the hot pads she has set out, I walk through to the family room.

“Uncle Jorge, look at this,” I say, walking over to him and pulling out my phone.

I quickly find the pictures of the dresser then hand it to him to look at. I value his opinion as he has dabbled with woodworking over the years; he just doesn’t have the same passion as my grandfather and I have. But he likes to see what I come up with, and I enjoy showing off my work.

“What are you going to do for the knobs?” he asks, slowly swiping through each picture.

“I was thinking of doing a smaller version of the pattern on them,” I admit. “It’s going to be a bit tedious, but I believe once I get started, it’ll go pretty fast.”

“This looks fantastic. Do you have a buyer already?” he questions, handing my phone back to me.

“Not yet. Going to put it up on the website once it’s completely done,” I reply.

“Don’t think it’ll take long for it to sell, boy,” he says. “Because it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. I wanted to try something a little bit different.”

“Got any clients next week at the shop?” he asks.

“Yeah, Sunday Blake is finally coming in to get her piece started,” I say. “I’m a little nervous, but called Loki and we talked about what I was going to do. Sent him pictures of what I’m working on, and he gave me some suggestions.”

“It was a blessing for you to meet that man several years ago at the tattoo convention,” Aunt Juanita states. “He didn’t care about what you had done, just saw someone who was as committed to helping people cover up their scars.”

I shake my head, still amazed by that fact. The man is a highly decorated Navy SEAL for fuck’s sake, yet he took me under his wing shortly after I ‘earned’ my tattoo gun. I spent two weeks with him at his shop in St. Mary’s, where we worked side by side on several clients, including one with mastectomy scars.

“I’ll probably never be as good as he and Kaya, the woman who works with him, but I haven’t had anyone complain so far,” I say.

“Let’s eat, dinner’s ready,” Mama calls out.