Snow covered everything, thick and cold. The trees hung heavy with it like something on a Christmas card, and the woods were quiet except for the creaking of branches beneath the extra weight.
Inside the cabin, a roaring fire chased away the chill. My father and my Uncle Christoph still sat at the table in the kitchen, finishing their coffee and laughing about something. So many in-jokes between them and they’d rarely explain, just share a knowing grin and a guilty chuckle.
“Don’t encourage them.” My cousin Greg came down the ladder from the loft buttoning up his flannel shirt. He looked at our fathers behaving like teenagers and shook his head with an affectionate smile. “You know they’ll get worse tonight, after we tap that keg.”
“You mean, my keg.” Sean, my younger brother, looked up from where he sat in one of the worn chairs near the fireplace. “Since I’m gonna be the one who gets the buck with the biggest rack.”
“What’s the rule again? No drinking before the hunt?” I needled him. The keg was a long-standing Wojcik tradition. We all went up to Grandad’s cabin on the first day of deer season. The hunter who shot the buck with the most points had the honor or being the first to tap the keg. The first round of drinks went in order of points, and whoever either didn’t get a buck or got the smallest rack had to serve.
“You got lucky last year,” Sean replied, competition keen in his eyes. “Paybacks, Mark. Paybacks.”
Just before sundown, the dying started. I’d heard all kind of wild animals out in those woods: bears, mountain lions, wild dogs, bald eagles. I’d never heard that noise before, a shriek like a cat in a blender, and before we even had a chance to look around, the creature was on us.
Dad and Sean shot first, but the bullets didn’t even make a dent, ammo that could drop a two-hundred-pound buck, and I know they didn’t miss. I took my shot, just as Uncle Christoph and Greg fired, and the bullets just seemed to bounce off the thing’s hide.
It stalked us, as if it wanted us to get a good look. Coarse, dark, matted hair covered its body, and its head looked like an elk’s skull without the skin, but with razor-sharp teeth and at least a twelve-point rack of antlers that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen in a fish and game magazine. I learned later to call it a wendigo.
We kept on shooting, and it just kept coming. The creature stood on two legs, but its long arms made me think it could drop to all fours and outrun us. It lurched forward and caught Uncle Christoph across the throat with the long claws on its huge paw, and he went down, burbling blood.
“Chris!” Dad yelled, but the beast swiped once across his chest, opening him up to the ribs from throat to belly, spraying blood across the white snow. Sean shot the thing point blank, but it never slowed down, and it grabbed him with one hand while its teeth sank into his throat and Sean went still.
“You son of a bitch!” I shouted, dropping my rifle and pulling my utility knife. Greg did the same, and we tackled the creature. We each weighed about two-twenty, and we jumped that beast at a full run, but it took our weight like it was nothing. Up close, the stench made my eyes water. Greg and I stabbed with our knives, but its hide was so tough we couldn’t cut deep enough to wound it.
The creature fixed its blood-red eyes on me and ripped me away from its body with one hand, throwing me across the clearing before it swung its claws and took Greg’s head right off.
My knife was useless, my gun was empty, and I was the last one left. I scooted backward like a crab and felt something hard press against my back. I still had my flare gun, and as the creature loomed over me, I pulled the trigger.
The flare hit square in its chest, and the matted hair ignited. The wendigo screamed, in pain this time instead of dominance, and the flames engulfed it. It backed up, beating at its burning pelt, back arched, howling, and the woods filled with the smell of burning flesh and hair. It kept on screaming, and I collapsed back into the snow, too battered to move, and too heartsick to want to.
I sat up in my bed, gasping for air, the wendigo’s shrieks ringing in my ears, and the smell of stinking smoke in my nose. I swallowed hard and guessed I’d been screaming in my sleep. Again.
I ran a shaking hand back through my hair and wiped away cold sweat. Ten fucking years, and when I closed my eyes, it was just like yesterday. The alarm clock read three a.m. I sighed and got up, stumbling to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. I wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight.
On the way, I saw the picture of the five of us on the mantle. Dad, Uncle Christoph, Greg, me, and Sean, all with our arms slung over each other’s shoulders in front of the fireplace at the cabin, holding our hunting rifles, big cheesy grins on our faces. We’d taken that photo the morning of the hunt, and it hurt every time I saw it, but I couldn’t bear to put it away. I needed a reminder of how badly I’d failed.
If bullets didn’t hurt it, I should have known knives wouldn’t either. I forgot all about the flare gun, until it was too late. I lived, but that screw-up cost me everything.
I made myself turn away from the photo. The cuts on my shoulder where the wendigo slashed me burned, and I chalked it up to imagination. Then again, with supernatural creatures, maybe it did leave some of its taint behind. If so, it wasn’t merciful enough to finish the job it started.
I made a pot of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table until it brewed. It had been a while since I’d dreamed of the wendigo, and I wondered if the Nazi ghost stirred up old memories. I fired up my laptop while I waited on the coffee and started looking for new cases.
By seven a.m., I’d started on my second pot of coffee and made notes about several promising leads. All that research hadn’t completely pushed the dream from my thoughts, but denial is one of my specialties, and I’d managing to get this far into the day without spiking my coffee, which I took as a win.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, which felt like I’d poured sand in them. Damn, but I needed some time off. And I was going to take it, too. I had a whole week of vacation written onto my calendar in red ink. I’d lined up someone to cover for me at the garage, made sure my fishing license was current, and made a list of everything I’d need. Spend a few days by myself fishing and watching movies on my laptop and tramping around the woods, and then my poker gang were going to come up on the weekend. Nice, simple, relaxing.
My phone rang, and I grabbed it without looking at the number. “Mark! Did I wake you?” Father Leonardo “Leo” Minnelli sounded far too chipper.
“No, I was up,” I managed, running a hand over my face and realizing I needed to shave. “Look, Father, if this is about what I owe you for the poker game—”
Father Leo chuckled. “You do owe me—or, I should say, you owe the Poor Box—but you can pay me on Friday before we start the next game.”
Nothing is normal about my life; why should my poker buddies be any different? My regular group includes Chiara and Blair, Dave Ellison from Ellison Towing, Tom Minnelli and his brother Leo—the priest. Father Leo’s winnings go to the parish poor fund. He said he learned to play in seminary, and I guessed all that unrequited libido had to go somewhere, because he’s probably the best player at the table, and we’re all pretty damn good.
“You called me about poker at this hour?”
“No, I called because I need your help. Can you meet me at the diner? I’ll buy breakfast.”
Considering that I’d been up for hours and only had coffee and a day-old donut, he had me at “hello.” “I’ll be there in fifteen,” I said.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” he replied. “Get us a table and a pot of coffee, and I’ll join you.” He paused. “Take a spot in the back, where we can talk.”
I closed down my laptop, set my notes aside, and shambled to the bathroom for a quick shower and a shave. I planned to go straight from the diner into the garage, so I dressed for the shop. Pete Kennedy, my shop manager, would open, so if I came in by nine, I wouldn’t miss much. And I figured having breakfast with a priest came with a side of automatic atonement.
The Original Best Lakeview Diner was a local institution. It sat on stilts at the very edge of Conneaut Lake, with a great view and even better food. Pictures of local celebrities dining in the booths hung on the walls, as well as framed restaurant reviews spanning sixty years and vintage ads and placemats from the diner’s long and storied past.
“Hiya, Mark!” Sandy called from the register when I walked in.
“Hey, Sandy,” I replied. “I’m meeting the padre—got a table for us someplace quiet?”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to start confessing your sins, Mark Wojcik, you’ll be here all night.”
“Good thing you’re open 24/7,” I quipped. Sandy went to high school with me; we go way back. Sandy had short dark hair, blue eyes full of mischief, and a figure that, even now, could stop traffic. She and her husband Vince run the diner now that her parents are retired. That’s the thing about living in the town where you grew up. Everyone knows where the bodies are buried. In my case, that’s not even a joke. I tried to leave after the whole wendigo thing, but that didn’t work out, and now I’m back.
“Take the back table on the right,” Sandy said with a jerk of her head. “I’ll get Amy to bring out coffee and menus, although I don’t imagine either of you will look at them.”
I wended my way toward the rear of the diner, nodding to people or stopping to say hello as I went. The early morning crowd here doesn’t change much, and most of us have been coming in for years. I was just lucky that the table in the back didn’t “belong” to a regular.
I’d barely poured myself a cup of coffee before Father Leo slid into the booth across from me. “You look like crap, Mark.”
“Need to work on that bedside manner, Father.” I didn’t take offense. He was right.
Father Leo is Tom’s older brother, which makes him about four years my senior, or just shy of forty. He looks younger, with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes. I bet he was the guy who got carded until he turned thirty. Leo was ahead of me in school, and the way Tom tells it, he left a string of disappointed girls in his wake when he announced his intention for the priesthood. He’s funny and easy to talk to and has the boy-next-door looks women seem to fall for. I wondered if that made for better attendance at Mass.
On the other hand, I had my dad’s straw-blond hair and light green eyes, with the high cheekbones and broad forehead that mom always said was like having a “map of Poland” on my face. Whatever that meant. The solid, stocky build came from mom’s side of the family and made it clear I came from a long line of farmers and laborers with big hands and strong shoulders. I’m not the guy any of the girls notice first in a room, but back in the day, it’d been enough to get Lara’s attention. For a while.
Father Leo cleared his throat, and I hurriedly sipped my coffee. “Sorry, didn’t sleep well last night,” I muttered.
He gave me a look that said he gathered far too much from my appearance. I often wondered if he didn’t have a little psychic mojo that he kept on the down-low. Might not fly well with the Vatican boys, but I imagine that a little enhanced intuition could be a help in his line of work. Right now, it made me squirm. “Bad dreams?” he asked quietly.
I blew out a long breath. “Yeah. Same old, same old.” When I looked up, I pasted on a smile neither of us believed. “You have a case?”
Father Leo took the shift for what it was and nodded. “You know Sam Roundtree?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Worked on his sports car a while back. Owns some kind of plastic molding company out near Conneautville, right?” If it was the same guy I was thinking of, he had made a fortune with a couple of lucky government contracts and became a hometown hero by keeping the factory here, where good manufacturing jobs were scarce.
“He’s involved in a lot of local philanthropy projects, including some where I’m on the board,” Father Leo went on. “Like the Tracks to Backpacks initiative.”
I’d heard of that. Back in the day, when this area had more tool and die shops than anywhere else in the country, a lot of railroads came through to take those machine parts to Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago, and elsewhere. Then the big factories closed or moved overseas, and most of the trains stopped coming here. Now, Tracks to Backpacks raised money to buy up those old abandoned railway easements and turn them into hiking and biking trails. I’d tried out a few and loved the way they wound through countryside that usually went unseen. “I don’t understand—”
“They’ve been getting a new trail ready, and there’ve been problems,” Father Leo said. “Your kind of trouble.”
Oh. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. The railroad was a dangerous place to work, and back in the day, safety standards were often non-existent or poorly enforced. I’d heard tell of men who got burned in boiler accidents, who fell beneath the cars, or were crushed between them. Of hobos who got hit on the tracks, tumbled out of freight cars, or motorists broadsided by engines at lonely crossroads. “Restless spirit?”
Father Leo nodded. “There’ve been delays throughout the construction, and while the official paperwork says otherwise, the workers claimed to see strange things, hear weird noises. The phenomena got stronger as the work went on and started to knock over tools, spill materials, and hide things. Then the workers said the manifestation got hostile, shoving people, tripping them, and throwing objects. They reported cold spots, a shadow that didn’t have a source, or a gray man walking along the tracks who suddenly disappeared. They began to feel unwelcome, like something was trying to make them leave. It got serious when a flying hammer hit a man in the head and everyone swears there was no one around to throw it.”
I frowned. “You sure it isn’t just pranks gone awry, or maybe the work crew has been drinking?”
Father Leo sighed. “Believe me, the organization tried every other explanation before they took any of the stories seriously. But the workers have walked off the job, and the organization is supposed to do a big ribbon-cutting in a few weeks, where they expect to take in enough donations to fund the second half of the project. But if the first portion isn’t finished—”
I got the picture. Bad press, donors might bail, and a worthy project would founder—and with it, jobs that the trails would bring to the area. “And I guess they can’t do a big fancy event with a renegade ghost on the loose.”
Father Leo leaned forward. “There are men who would, regardless, just to avoid embarrassment. Even if people got hurt. Sam isn’t like that. He’s done a lot for this area, and he’s got his own money donated to this. He wants it to succeed, but he doesn’t want anyone harmed.” He tugged at his collar. “I said I knew someone who could look into it, discreetly.”
“Do you know where on the trail the ghost shows up the most?” I was already guessing at probable causes, and narrowing down the location would help a lot.
Father Leo slid a paper with coordinates over to me. “From what the witnesses say, that’s the epicenter. Sightings and phenomena occur within a couple hundred feet of that spot, but it’s apparently Ground Zero.”
I sighed and slipped the paper into my pocket. Father Leo was a good guy, and a friend. “I’ve got a couple of appointments this morning at the garage, but I’ll go out this afternoon and see what I can see,” I said.
“Thank you,” Father Leo replied. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt—and the trails project is important.”
We finished our meals talking about the Steelers’ defensive line, the Pirates’ batting averages, and whether the Penguins would be in the running for the Stanley Cup again. Everybody around here pretty much bleeds black and gold for the Pittsburgh teams, or blue and white for Penn State if we’re talking about college ball. People might pretend they don’t care, but when the playoffs come, fans get rabid. Someone told me once “there are no atheists in football” meaning everyone really has a team they believe in. I’m pretty sure the phrase is “no atheists in foxholes,” but it seemed accurate either way.
The morning passed quickly, and for a while, I quit thinking of railroad ghosts and wendigos as I got my hands dirty working on engine blocks and carburetors. Some people knit; others do yoga. For me, the best therapy in the world happens with a wrench and some motor oil. My garage works on all kinds of cars, but I love working on old classics and helping out when one of our local car nuts is rebuilding one from the frame up. Before hunting took up so much of my time, I used to help out at the local rallies and race tracks. Spending a nice summer night with a cold beer and the smell of gasoline and burning rubber at the track is my kind of heaven.
I worked through lunch, stopping just long enough to wolf down sandwiches Pete fetched from the place up the street. The afternoon got slow, and by three, I left Pete to close down, since I wanted to go check out the trail well before dark.
Both ends of the new trail were completed, but the ghostly disturbances had shut down finishing the middle. I had checked out the project’s website. It would be a wonderful local destination when it was finished, with a smooth asphalt trail perfect for walkers, joggers, cyclists, even wheelchairs and strollers. Local bird watchers, garden groups, and the botany department from the college had all signed on to tag plant specimens, erect informational signs, and create guide books. Groups from the Rotary to the Daughters of the American Revolution pledged money for benches along the route. Schools were already planning nature hikes.
And one grumpy ghost threatened to shut it down.
I parked at the midpoint construction entrance and pulled my gear bag out of the back. It was full of all the stuff I usually needed for a job like this: salt, holy water, lighter fluid, iron, and wooden stakes, a crow bar, an EMF scanner, a shotgun with a choice of shells filled with iron pellets or rock salt, and a shovel, just in case.
No one Father Leo had talked to seemed to know who the ghost was, which made it tough. Some of the witnesses thought they saw a man wearing a Fedora, which only narrowed it down to the first half of the twentieth century. My internet search turned up bupkis on railroad fatalities linked to this stretch of rail. I was going in blind, and I hated it. That kind of thing gets hunters killed.
The middle stretch of trail had a gravel base, but no asphalt yet, and one end was just scraped dirt. The long, straight vista made it easy to envision tracks, with freight trains rumbling down the rails at full speed, blowing their whistles when they passed neighboring farms. Trees and marshland stretched on both sides, with nary a farm in sight, making this spot either peaceful or lonely, depending on your perspective. Tools and machinery looked like they had been abandoned by a crew that went to lunch and never came back, which wasn’t far from the truth.
Wind rustled the treetops, but otherwise, the woods were eerily quiet. I should have heard birds chirping and seen squirrels and chipmunks scurrying, maybe even spotted a rabbit or a deer. Other than the leaves rustling in the wind, nothing moved. I felt the hair prickle at the back of my neck.
The EMF reader stayed quiet, its needle still in the green range. I poured a salt circle and set down my gear bag inside, although I doubted any ghost could get past the sigils and protective runes painted and stitched on the bag itself. I had my Glock tucked in my belt at my back like always, but I grabbed a crowbar, a flask of holy water, and some salt. Then I went for a stroll.
The longer I stayed, the more I could feel someone watching me, though there was no one in sight. The EMF reader gave a few hiccups, but no piercing squeals. I walked along the dirt portion, but saw no sign of recently dug up bones. Still, the unnatural silence gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I had the feeling something was biding its time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement, but when I turned, nothing stirred. If this son of a bitch ghost felt like playing games, I refused to play nice. I made another slow pass, and this time, the EMF reader twitched more, jumping up from yellow to red and swinging back and forth wildly.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I murmured, holding an iron crowbar in one hand and the EMF reader in the other. A loud squawk from the meter froze me mid-step, and I turned in a slow circle, on guard. Nothing stirred, but the meter definitely made more noise when I pointed it off to the right, so I stepped down from the rough asphalt and walked straight toward the edge of the woods.
The trees had surely been kept farther back from the rails when trains were running, so I figured that the old tree line was probably at least two or three feet in from the current edge of the woods. My foot hit something solid, and I kicked at the covering of leaves, unearthing a steel spike sunk into the ground and rising out of the dirt by a few inches once the debris was cleared.
The meter went wild. I could see something etched in the domed head of the spike, and bent for a closer look. Someone had carved a symbol in the steel, but I didn’t recognize it, so I dropped the meter in my pocket and took a picture with my phone. I lost my balance as I got to my feet, and when I put out a hand to steady myself, my palm brushed the spike.
An unseen force picked me up and threw me beyond the trees on the grass at the side of the trail. I landed hard on my back, knocking the breath out of me and knocking the crowbar out of my hand. Before I could get up, a man loomed over me. He wore a long top coat, a scarf, and a Fedora. The style of his coat and the suit jacket lapels I could see under it made me think Swing era. With a beak of a nose, dark, accusing eyes, and thin, tightly pressed lips, he clearly didn’t look happy to see me.
And, oh yeah, he was gray and translucent.
Fedora Man reached for me, and I rolled to one side, scrabbling for the crowbar. I came up swinging, and one pass of cold iron sent the ghost packing, but I knew he wouldn’t be gone for long. I grabbed my gear bag and ran. Behind me, a man’s laughter filled the air, cold and mocking.
When I reached Elvira, I threw one arm over the side of the bed and heaved for breath, never taking my eyes off the spot where I came out of the woods. Nothing followed me, and I wondered if I had imagined the laughter.
No, I didn’t. But what the fuck? What was a guy dressed like he was going out for dinner, back in the Glenn Miller era, doing next to railroad tracks that at the time they were in use would have been in the middle of woods and cornfields? Who the hell put that funky stake in the ground, and what was that symbol? Did Fedora Man throw me on my ass, or was it bad juju from that stake?
Too many questions and not enough answers. I stowed my bag and got in, happy to peel out of the gravel access road and get away. One thing I did know: whatever haunted the rail line had serious mojo. Someone was going to have to put it down, and I knew in my bones that “someone” would be me.
Friday evening at Crystal Dreams was Cards Against Humanity (CAH) night for the eighteen to twenty-one crowd. Everyone was welcome, but those in the know knew the group was also a safe space for the LGBT teens in the area—a popular haven. Chiara put out cookies and punch, and then hung out in the main section of the store until game night ended at nine.
I strolled in just as the game must have gotten underway because I could hear loud laughter and picked out some definitely NSFW phrases.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here on a Friday night,” Chiara said, moving out from behind the counter. A few latecomers browsed the bookshelves, but Conneaut Lake’s nightlife tends more toward the local watering holes like my favorite, The Drunk Monk. “Thought you’d be holed up with a six-pack of IC and that Ice Road Truckers marathon on the History Channel.”
“Bite me.”
“So not appropriate.” She rolled her eyes and grinned. We had a long history of inappropriate humor, and the games of CAH she and Blair and I played were spectacularly politically incorrect.
I pulled out my phone. “Got a picture to show you.”
She grinned. “Please tell me you aren’t going to show dick pics to a lesbian.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “I don’t show dick pics to anyone,” I replied, looking heavenward for patience. “Although the ghost who threw me across the tracks acted like a dick and may, in fact, have been named Dick. I didn’t know.”
That got her attention. “Really? What’ve you got?”
I showed her the symbol carved on the stake, expecting a wisecrack. Instead, she paled and her eyes went wide. “Sweet Mother of God,” she murmured. “That the mark of a stregone.”
It took a lot to get a reaction like that out of Chiara. “That sounds like a type of pasta. Enlighten me.”
Chiara blinked and regained her composure. “Not pasta, not pastry. It’s a male witch from Italy. And in these parts, likely to be more Mob than Mephistopheles.”
“No shit. The Mob has warlocks?”
Chiara cringed. “Normally, I’d school you that ‘warlock’ is a pejorative, outdated term, and ‘witch’ is preferred regardless of gender, but in this case, you’re dead on. Stregone are bad news, especially the Sicilian ones.” She shook her head. “When you step in it, Mark, you go hip-deep, don’t you?”
“It’s a talent,” I replied.
Chiara looked up as her last two customers left without buying anything. She flipped the sign on the door to “closed,” and then went behind the counter, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and grabbed two Styrofoam coffee cups before leading me over to a couple of arm chairs out of sight of the front windows. Once she had poured us both a couple of fingers-worth of booze, she took a slug and sat back.
“From the stories Nonna Lucia tells, I thought the last real stregone vamoosed from around here after the Yablonski murders down in Clarksville back in the late sixties made national news.”
I wasn’t born then, but like everyone in these parts, I knew the stories. Nearby Meadville was conveniently located between Youngstown, Ohio; Buffalo, New York; and Pittsburgh, all allegedly hotbeds of Mob activity back in the day. People whispered that capos and lieutenants came out here to “cool off” when things got too hot to handle, either from law enforcement or rival Mafiosi families. That Sopranos shit doesn’t just happen in Chicago and New York; my dad had stories to tell about dirty deeds done dirt cheap in these parts that could curl your hair.
Mob connections around here were something everybody “knew,” but no one could or would prove. Most of the time, the local Don kept his boys on a tight leash. Civilians didn’t get hurt, paybacks happened in private, and everyone was happy to look the other way.
“So, of course, this is all just hearsay,” Chiara prefaced her tale, as everyone did around here. Just so I wouldn’t ever think she might have heard it from a member of her extended family who might have been in the “family business.”
“Of course.”
She gave me a death stare, and I stuck out my tongue at her. The evening was just getting started.
“So the Families around here did well for themselves during Prohibition and ‘reinvested’ in a lot of legitimate businesses.”
In other words, laundered the cash. But whatever.
“The forties, fifties, and early sixties were the heyday,” Chiara continued, sounding almost nostalgic. “The steel mills and factories in Pittsburgh, Youngstown, and Buffalo were booming, Union dues were big money, and the cops were the best money could buy. Life was good. But now and then, someone got out of line—”
“And needed whacked.”
“Yeah.”
“So, these stregone, why use a witch when you could just call in a hit man?”
Chiara took another swig of whiskey. “No one would, unless the hit man didn’t come back.”
I stared at her. “Damn.”
She quirked her head to one side. “Hey, the Family plays rough. Hit men and witches don’t come cheap, so whoever needed to be taken care of had to be a big fuckin’ deal. A made man, probably high up, maybe with connections to the big-city Families.”
“So who do you think Fedora Man was? The witch or the target?”
Chiara grimaced. “No idea. But…why don’t you come to dinner with Blair and me tomorrow night? I’ll sit next to Nonno Carlo and make sure his wine glass never goes empty. By dessert, he’ll be telling you all the ‘good old days’ stories you can handle, and I might be able to nudge him in the right direction.”
I weighed my options. Dinner with Chiara’s big, rowdy Italian family—some of whom were still willfully in denial about her “good friend” Blair—was sure to be full of loud family drama. On the other hand, the Morettis owned not only a bakery but the best damn Italian restaurant in the tri-state, and I knew from the leftovers Chiara brought back that the food at home was even better.
“All right, you made me an offer—”
“Oh, don’t even go there.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”
She snorted. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Do I get a cheat sheet ahead of time to know which ones believe you’re actually married, and which ones might be trying to foist you off on me?” Chiara’s very conservative Italian Roman Catholic family had not completely accepted her relationship with Blair. On the other hand, Father Leo not only sent a wedding present, he included a bottle of bubbly. Go figure.
Chiara let out a string of curses in Italian, and while I’m not fluent, what I could pick up made my eyebrows rise. “Listen up. Nonna and Nonno figure if they don’t see it, it’s not real. Mama says novenas for me every day. Daddy’s surprisingly cool with everything, says he doesn’t care as long as we’re happy. Ditto for Tony, Eddie, Carmen, and Frank,” she added, naming off her brothers, all except one. “Michael—he’s the family hard-ass. Missed his calling with the Inquisition.” She wrinkled her nose. “God, I love him, but he’s such a prick. I told him that he was probably gay himself since he was so hung up on it.” She chuckled. “Thought he was gonna pop an aneurysm.”
Chiara knocked back her drink. “But at the end of the day, he loves me as much as the rest of the family.”
I got the feeling that was a loaded statement, and I wasn’t touching it with a ten-foot pole.
“What time?” I asked.
“Dinner’s always at six,” she replied.
“No, I meant, what time should I start drinking before I get there.”
She punched me in the shoulder. “That depends. Do you intend to drive home? Cuz calling a cab in Conneaut Lake is gonna be a long wait.”