Little Secrets(47)
“Drive safe,” Marin says, and they disconnect.
Sal is good to his mother, and she’s lucky to have such a devoted son. Lorna Palermo never remarried after her husband died over twenty years ago, and for the last few years, her health has been in decline. Knee problems, back issues, and a hip replacement surgery, which caused Sal to be away from the bar for nearly a month, about sixteen months ago. She remembers the exact time frame, because Lorna’s surgery took place a couple of weeks before Sebastian went missing, which is the last time she saw Sal’s mother.
When Marin called to check in on Sal after Lorna was released from the hospital, the poor guy sounded so overwhelmed. The surgery had gone well, but Lorna couldn’t do anything by herself, and the house needed repairs. Marin had insisted on driving out to the farmhouse to help out for a couple of days, despite both Sal’s and Lorna’s protests that they could manage.
“But Marin, you’re so busy.” Sal’s mother was delighted and also dismayed when Marin showed up, tired after the three-plus-hour drive. Lorna smiled, the scar on the side of her face crinkling. “Your little boy needs you more than I do.”
“He’s fine with Daddy,” Marin said with a smile. “They’re having their boy time.”
“But so close to Christmas, you probably have much better things to do than be here taking care of an old woman—”
“Lorna, I’m so glad to see you.” Marin bent down to give the woman a kiss on the cheek, feeling the soft pucker of the scar underneath her lips. It was the result of the last beating Lorna’s husband gave her, the one that nearly killed her, the one that finally allowed her to push for the divorce. She never said it was him, and he was never arrested, but Sal knew. Everybody knew. “How long have we known each other now? You know you’re like a mother to me.”
“Bless your heart.” Lorna gazed up at Marin with soft brown eyes that mirrored Sal’s. “I wish my son would hurry up and settle down already. Have children, while I’m still here to enjoy them. I’m not going to be around forever. I hate the thought of him being alone.”
Marin touched her arm. “He’s not alone, don’t you worry. No matter what, he’s got me. Speaking of your son, where is he?”
“Down in the cellar.” Her eyes sparkled. “Choosing a wine for dinner tonight. He was so excited when you said you were coming.”
“I’ll go say hello.” Marin was eager to see her friend, but also glad to escape. Lorna could be a bit cloying.
Sal’s mother is a sweet woman, but she’s scarred, physically, emotionally, and mentally. She’s overly doting on Sal, as if trying to make up for years of not doting on him enough when he was younger. And her mind seems to be deteriorating. Her doctor suspects she has mild traumatic brain injury from the last beating she took, which went undiagnosed at the time, and the symptoms are showing up more now. She has trouble concentrating, is easily frustrated with simple tasks, and Marin can hear her talking to herself sometimes, muttering words and phrases in a mix of Italian and English that Sal says don’t make sense.
Marin can’t imagine what she’s been through, what Sal has been through. Sal Sr. was a tyrant, running the household and his winery with a short temper and an iron fist, his judgment never to be questioned. And god forbid someone ever did. He kept a gun locked in the safe in their bedroom, and had a concealed carry permit. Though he’d never used the weapon, he’d made a point to tell everyone it was there, and sometimes he would walk the grounds with it, “to keep everyone in line.” From what Sal has told Marin, the male workers feared his rage, and it was common knowledge among the female workers to avoid any situation where you might find yourself alone with him.
Growing up, Sal often took the brunt of the beatings, and took them willingly, because it was either him or his mother. Lorna back then was mild-mannered, eager to please, and she both worshipped and feared her husband. She’s still that way today, minus the husband.
“He’s a good boy, isn’t he?” Lorna had said, the last afternoon Marin was there.
They sat in the large kitchen while Marin fixed them a snack, the older woman resting in the La-Z-Boy recliner Sal had dragged in from the living room so his mom would be comfortable. The farmhouse has a large window all along the back that overlooks the expansive property, and Lorna was watching her son clear branches from a tree that was a bit too close to the house.
Most of the Palermo Winery vineyard—over thirty acres total—was sold off to a large corporation ten years before. The new owners had no use for the farmhouse. They only wanted the vineyards, so Lorna got to keep it, along with the old tasting room, the wine cellar beneath it, and three acres of grapevines. The farmhouse was the only home she had; she was determined to both live, and die, in it. Over the last few years, as her health problems worsened, she fell behind on the general upkeep of the house, forcing her son out to Prosser more than he would have liked.
Behind where Sal was working, there was a tree swing, just a slab of wood and a couple of lengths of rope. One of the workers had surprised Sal with it when he was a little boy. Perhaps the worker had built it to curry favor with the boss, or perhaps he did it to distract Sal from the fact that his mother was often covered in bruises. Whatever the reason, Sal had been delighted, and he once told Marin that it was one of his happier childhood memories. There weren’t many.