“What do you love about old movies?”
“Where do I start? I wish I could have lived in the 50s. The manners, the simplicity, the clothes….” I look down at myself and my bloodstained tee. I sure don’t dress like them, but it’d be fun to have one of those dresses from the 1950s. “I love that there aren’t any cell phones and computers. They had landlines, and when they called someone, they had to use letters and numbers.” I turn my body a little. “And the best part, they wrote actual letters back then.”
“Actual letters?”
“Yeah, on paper. Written by hand. No computers. No emails. Like they sat down at a writing desk and wrote.”
“You don’t like emails?”
“They’re fine, but you asked what I like about old movies. It was how they took time on things like letters, composing what they wanted to say.”
Alec’s face looks soft thanks to the dome light in his car as he says, “Not everything about the 50s was great.”
“No.” I nod. “But the movies show an idealized life, and that’s what I enjoy. I like to get taken back in time for an hour or two.” I push the door open and place my good foot on the ground.
“Be sure to tend to that scratch.”
“I will.” I step out of the car and nearly fall. My ankle has stiffened up on the ride, and now it really hurts.
“What the hell?” Alec is out of the car in no time and kneeling in front of me. “Is it your ankle? You were limping a little bit walking out to the car.”
“It’s fine. Just got stiff on the ride from the club. Walking on it again will help.”
He reaches down and lifts the hem of my jeans. “It’s swollen.”
“I’ll ice it. It’ll be good as new tomorrow.” I push away from the car door and do a poor job demonstrating that it doesn’t hurt.
“Let me help you up to the house.” Alec wraps his arm around my waist. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”
I do as he suggests and reach up, placing my hand on his shoulder. My goodness, he’s got a hard shoulder, but I knew that from our dance practices. The man is made up of mostly muscle. Up the front steps, I reach into my pocket for my key just as the front door opens.
“Oh, hey, Dad.”
“What’s the meaning of this?”
If you knew my father, you’d know he was just kidding around, but Alec doesn’t know a thing about the silly man.
“Sir. I’m Alec Marchesani, Anthony’s older brother. I was helping your daughter to the door. She was hurt in a bar brawl earlier this evening.”
I sputter—no, choke is more like it. “A bar brawl?”
Alec looks me dead in the eye. “What else would you call it?”
I look at my father who, for once, looks like he was just outdone. “You?” My father points at me. “Were in afight? A physical altercation?”
Alec chuckles. “She tried to get between an angry bride and her maid of honor—literally.”
“Vicky and Cathy?”
My dad doesn’t like Carla, erm, I mean Chrissie, one bit. He doesn’t like anyone who “hurt his daughter’s feelings.” And Chrissie did plenty of that growing up. In retaliation, he pretends not to know her name. “It’s Chrissie, Dad. Not Cathy.”
“Whatever.” He leans in to get a better look at the scratch on my face. “You were hurt?”
“No,” I say.
Just as Alec spouts, “Yes.”
“I’m fine.” I begin to hop on one foot toward the door as Dad moves aside.
