When Machiavelli woke up the next morning, the house was quiet and he experienced a momentary spasm of fear. Did Scatty leave? Why can't I hear her? He ran his hands over his face, feeling bleary eyed in the early morning light. Outside the sky was the light slate blue shade of October. He got up to get dressed.
By the time he had knotted his tie in place and turning, picked up his suit jacket, he felt more at ease. Don't be crazy, why would Scatty leave without saying goodbye? Entering the tiny bathroom on his floor to finish putting himself together, he happened to glance out of the window and found his red headed friend. The remaining panic instantly dissipated. She's in the backyard, you big baby, he chided himself, feeling a little foolish for his unease.
He made his way downstairs. The only way to the backyard from the house was to go down to the basement, where the kitchen was, and back up the backstairs. This seemed like a design flaw to the Italian immortal, but he reasoned that he had grown accustomed to more wide open spaces. "Buongiorno," he called to her, careful not to scuff his shoes in the dirt as he made his way over to where she was sitting.
She looked up from her book. "Good morning, sleepy head," she called back, stretching and arching her back like a cat.
He glanced at his watch. "It's only nine," he pointed out.
She crooked a finger at him, motioning him closer to her. He was completely unprepared for her to grab his tie and pull him down to her level. "Pretend to be kissing me."
"What?" he mumbled, but he tilted his head and moved a little closer to her. If everyone had their conversations this close, nobody would ever be able to lie about anything, he thought wildly, counting the freckles on her left cheek.
"Your friendly neighbor has been pretending to read a book in the window for the past twenty minutes," she informed him, caressing the side of his face.
"And so have you, haven't you?" he asked, indicating the upside down book in her hand.
She lifted her eyebrows. "I enjoy mapping out my surroundings. I've been getting to know the lay of the land."
He surprised her by actually kissing her; just a peck on the lips really, but her green eyes flickered with confusion. He straightened up and laughed. "Here, I'll sit next to you, just let me get the broom to knock off the dirt from the chair."
"I can do that for you," she volunteered, setting her book aside.
"Would you?" he asked gratefully. "I just don't want to get my suit dirty." Walking back into the house, she grabbed the broom and turned to go, but he called her back. "Have you eaten yet today?" he asked. She shook her head. "Scatty, you've got to eat. I'm going to make you something." He poked around in the fridge.
She glided over to his side. "An omelet?" she asked hopefully.
"I could make you an omelet," he agreed. "What do you want on it?"
She frowned, thinking about it. "Spinach, onions, peppers… oh, could you put feta cheese on it after?"
"Do we have feta cheese?"
"Of course. I put it on my salads," she explained promptly. Reaching up, she tucked a stray hair back into place on his forehead. "The suit makes you look more like you did when we first met all those years ago."
"I remember when we first met," he commented, sautéing the vegetables before breaking eggs into a bowl. She pulled herself up on the island to listen to him. "You shoved me through a door. Why'd you do that anyways? You never told me."
"Sorry," she apologized cheerfully. "If I'm remembering correctly, you struck a nerve… something about my using only brute force…it reminded me of my father. He used to compare Aiofe and me. He always was fonder of her because of her cunning."
He looked back at her. "I'm sorry too," he said sincerely.
She waved a hand. "I thought we'd moved past that." She waggled her eyebrows at him.
He snorted a little. "I was picking splinters out of my shoulders and back for weeks after," he mumbled. He gave her a half grin. "I guess I deserved it. Your father should have never compared you and your sister, you know."
She stopped swinging her feet. "Think so?" she asked lightly.
He tipped her omelet onto a plate. "I do. It's been my experience that daughters are always wildly different from each other- take my girls."
"They were very different?"
He smiled. "Very." He plated his own breakfast, thinking about it. "They were several years apart- I think that added to some of the differences. Primerana was very studious, very obedient. Baccina was a wild child."
"Which one did you like best?" Scatty asked, leading him towards the door. She snatched up the broom on her way out and hastily knocked as much of the dust off the chair as she could before letting him sit down. They both sat down together. He handed her a fork.
"My children were all so different, it's hard to say that I loved any of them more than any of the others." He tilted his head. "Primerana caused less trouble, but Baccina was very sweet too, you know, which made up for it. She'd raise hell all day, but at night she'd sit in my lap and listen to me read to her- all kinds of books, she didn't care- and she'd beg me to let her stay up a little bit later, just read one more chapter Papà…"
Scatty was listening with rapt attention. Machiavelli couldn't make out what was going on behind her expression so he kept telling her stories. "I remember attending my own funeral in disguise," he told her baldly. "Baccina made this noise- I'd never heard her make it before- it was like a rattle inside of her. I wanted so much to run to her and tell her it had all been a mistake…" He looked up at the blue sky above them. Speaking to the clouds, he finished his story. "I didn't though. I told myself lies to make me feel better and I left her thinking her father was dead because I thought to myself, how could she ever trust you again after all of this?"
"I don't think my father ever loved me," Scatty admitted, scooting closer to him. "I was too wild for him."
"If your father didn't love you then he didn't deserve you, Scatty," Machiavelli assured her. "I know it seem a little strange for me to say because I look so much younger right now, but I would have been proud to have been your father. Anyone would."
She seemed embarrassed by the attention. "Tell me about more of your happier memories."
"Hmm… When Baccina was really young," he told her, "she used to throw these terrible fits to get what she wanted where she'd just," he laughed, "take off all of her clothes, piece by piece. I think she did it to see how far she could go. Marietta used to get so upset by it all, which I think only fed Bice's power." He rubbed the side of his face. "On one of the rare occasions that it was just me and the children, she went into one of her tantrums and I just… let her." He set his plate aside. "Piero was trying to reason with her and I told him to just ignore it, so we led this naked, screaming four year old through Florence. As I understand it, for all the rest of her life she remained infamous for that one incident…"
"Your wife must have been furious when she heard about it."
"She was," he confirmed. He crossed one leg over the other. "She got hell from our neighbors about it. Definitely heard about it for a while. They all found it funny, you see."
"Baccina calmed down a lot when Guido was born… I think she felt that he was her responsibility…" He continued, the stories sparking a flood of memories. It had been so long since he'd talked, really talked, about his children, and he found that it was a lot less painful than he had thought it might be. There were so many memories he'd forced himself to forget, to not think about, that he felt he could sit for a week in their backyard telling the Shadow stories and he wouldn't have tapped even a fraction of them.
~MB~
A few hours later, Machiavelli was surprised to find his phone buzzing. Glancing at it, he was even more surprised to find that it was Billie Holiday calling. She must have liked me more than I thought she did. "Hello?"
"Hello, sugar lips."
He mouthed for words. "Hi, Billie. How are you?" he finally managed to ask.
"I'm jonesing for company," she said languidly, almost disinterestedly, like it had been the Italian who'd called her instead of the other way around. "Whatcha doing tonight?"
"I didn't have any plans, actually. Would you like to come over?" he asked, glancing out the window at Scatty and remembering too late the Kid's warning about them not getting along. "I have some company, but it would be fine."
There was silence on the other end and he waited, jangling his leg nervously. Just when he was about to ask if she'd gone away, she spoke up. "I don't want to come if you've got company."
"It would be fine," he pleaded, not sure why he was trying so hard to get her to come, but knowing that he'd really like to see the jazz singer. "Listen, I know you're last meeting didn't go so well, but I think that-"
"I know your company?"
"Well," he paused, "yeah. I mean there's not too many American immortals. I'm sure you've met all of them at some point."
"Who is it?"
"I don't want to tell you," Niccolò stalled.
"Why?"
"I can't tell you that one. I actually really can't tell you because I'm not completely sure of the reason myself," he pointed out. The jazz singer began to protest and he quickly talked over her. "I promise you'll have a good time. I'm going to text you the details of where to meet. Please come?"
"Fine…" He could tell that she deeply resented his caginess, but he was glad to have nailed her down to an appearance. She hung up on him.
Machiavelli tapped his lips, thinking about his options. If he told Scatty that they were having dinner with Billie, she wouldn't go. If Billie knew Scatty was here, it was unlikely from what Billy had told him, that she would agree to go out. So… if I tell neither of them about the other they will both come and I will find out exactly what's going on… but I will have to deal with both of them potentially angry with me… Is it worth it? He decided it was, his curious nature getting the better of him.
Booting up Billy's laptop- and sincerely wishing for the millionth time that his own laptop had survived their treacherous trip to Alkatraz- he searched for locations that were near Billie Holiday's apartment. He finally decided on a place called the Cook and Shaker and texted Billie the details about where to meet them, failing to mention his red-haired companion. Finally he grabbed up the book Scatty had asked him to get her, and he made his way downstairs. "Want to go out to dinner?" he asked Scatty.
"Sure," she agreed readily. "Are we going now? What do you feel like?"
"I want to try a new place- it's in Kensington. I checked and they have vegetarian options."
"Sure, I'll go anywhere with you boo."
That made him feel a little guilty. "I'm sorry we don't do more exciting things," he apologized. "Billy plans the fun things. I'm more…"
Scatty got in the car. "I'm enjoying our time together, Niccolo. Really I am. I never thought we'd be friends."
"Well that's true," he agreed, seizing on the opportunity. "Funny how you think you might hate someone and then you spend a little time with them and you find out they're fine." Scatty gave him a little look and he decided he was putting it on too thick.
It wasn't until they were already seated at the restaurant, and he'd informed their waiter of a third party, that he let Scathach know they were going to be joined by company. This way, she can't run away from me. At least not easily. Well, she could do it easily, but hopefully she won't, he argued with himself, sitting on the outer part of the booth with her.
"Who else is coming?" Scatty asked, piercing him with her green eyes.
He shifted a little under her scrutiny. "Another immortal that Billy introduced me to. Apparently you've met her before…"
"Someone I know, that Billy also knows…" Scatty looked down at her hands, silently running through the names of people that both the Kid and she knew. "Wait a minute…"
He tried to head her off. "Just remember that you and I didn't get along very well until this summer and now we're very good friends, aren't we, Scatty?" he asked desperately, catching the frown on her face.
"I know one immortal in Philadelphia that Billy also knows," she said in a low voice. "And if it's who I'm thinking of…" Her threat trailed off dangerously at the end, waiting for his confirmation of what she'd already deduced for herself.
"It's Billie Holiday," he admitted in a quiet voice, trying to calm her through sheer force of his own will.
She tried to get up but he was blocking her in to the booth. "Why on Earth are we eating dinner with her?" she said louder than he had hoped she would. Several patrons looked around nervously, then ducked their heads hastily. Machiavelli caught the tail end of a sympathetic glance thrown to him by one older man sitting in the corner with what the Italian presumed was his wife.
"Now Scatty, stay with us for one meal and I promise I will never force you to see her again," he beseeched, kissing her cheek. "I'll owe you a big favor, okay? You can call it in at any time, years from now if you want," he added, not sure why he was exposing himself in such a way for one meal.
She quieted, perhaps following his train of thought, perhaps lulling him into false sense of security in order to better decapitate him later. "One meal," she told him firmly, holding up a finger, "just one and you promise never to trick me again. Agreed?"
"Absolutely," he said fervently.
Their waiter came around again, almost approaching their booth timidly. "Still waiting on the third person?" he asked, sounding incredibly reluctant.
Machiavelli straightened his tie, taking Scatty's hand with his other. "Yes. She should be here shortly. Thank you."
Looking relieved, the tall thin man scurried away, taking an order from another patron in their section.
The two immortals sat quietly, Scatty not talking to him necessarily and Machiavelli allowing the silence to play out. Glancing at his watch, the Italian mentally calculated how long he had before he could expect the jazz singer to show up on the property. And how long before WW3 begins… "If I may, why do you hate Billie so much?" he asked quietly, reflecting that he should have broached this subject before agreeing to eat in a very small, very public restaurant.
"I don't hate her," Scatty said frostily, scanning the menu again.
"Scatty…"
"Well you've met her, do you find her easy to deal with?"
"She certainly has an abrasive personality," he agreed and she relaxed marginally in his peripheral vision. He stroked her thumb with his own. "If you really don't want to have a meal with her, I could call and say something came up, reschedule for a time with just me and her."
Scatty softened. "I can't do that to you. Besides, I really don't hate her." Machiavelli considered this a touch unreasonable given her earlier reaction but let it go. She clarified. "I just don't want to spend any time with her."
Machiavelli tilted his head, wondering how this worked exactly.
"You're third person is here," a voice chirped on his side and he realized that he hadn't been paying enough attention to his surroundings and now, here was Billie. A look of disapproval was etched on her face, and Machiavelli thought he was going to have to argue with her too, but she sat on the other side of the booth with good grace.
At least until the waiter left. "You didn't say that we'd be eating with her," she said, indicating Scatty with a jaunty nod of the head, but otherwise ignoring her.
"To be fair, he didn't tell me I'd have to eat with you either," Scatty tossed back at her.
"Well, at least I know you don't play favorites, flapjack."
"Flapjack? Ladies, please…" It occurred to him at that moment that neither of his companions really fit the lady category well, both being imposing in their own special way; this thought he pushed away impatiently. "I do apologize; I shouldn't have tricked either of you, but I care about both of you and wanted to see both of you. We can't at least be civil to each other? Or at the very least, put in our order?" he added, catching his waiter pass their table for a third time.
For a few minutes there was silence as they picked their way through their options.
