Seventy-Nine

The door clicked closed behind the women, virtually unnoticed by either Jon or Richie. 

“I thought you had people taking care of this guy!”  Richie accused, stabbing his finger through the air at his friend, who looked every bit as agitated. 

“I do!  This weaselly little shit is hiding himself, but good.  I don’t see you doing anything to find him!”

“My job is to take care of HER while you take care of HIM, remember?”  The acid churned in his stomach.

Richie had naively believed that, even though horrific, this was only a one-time concern.  Meaning all they had to do was get through the physical and emotional healing before trying to move on with their lives.  To have this guy calling Allegra’s personal line, essentially threatening to do it all over again, distressed him and pissed him off royally.  Now instead of focusing on her healing, he had to be more concerned about her immediate safety.  Fuck, he thought.  Jon’s connections better take care of this guy, and soon.

“Like I’m supposed to know this guy can disappear like a spook?”  Jon threw his arms into the air in a show of exasperation.  “He’s a fuckin’ video geek!  I figured he’d be holed up playing World of Warcraft someplace.”  He went back to the desk and opened the lap drawer.  From its depths, he withdrew an old, tattered address book and flipped directly to a specific dog-eared page.  “I guess it’s time to pull out the big guns.  His ass is GOING to be found, and justice will be served.  If it’s the last thing I do before drawing my dying breath, this fucker will NOT mess with my family again.”

“Make sure he doesn’t, because I can’t take this shit much longer.”

Jon looked at Richie, quirking his eyebrow with a hint of irritation.  “Too much stress for you old man?”  He dropped back into the chair with a thud, grabbing the pen and making notes from the address book.  “It’s not so much fun when you can’t just fuck and frolic, huh?  You never had to deal with life, just your bullshit romantic love and Hollywood drama.  Welcome to the real world, Sambora.   THIS is love.   Sticking around when everything ain’t a fuckin’ bowl of cherries – just the pits.”

Chips of blue ice met chocolate heat as the old friends’ determination went head to head in a rare show of opposition.  They were both experiencing the same intense need to protect. 

“Don’t make assumptions about what I think and feel, Jon.  We’ve been through that once, and I don’t have the time or inclination to repeat it.”

“Quit being a pompous ass and tell me if you’re gonna see this through or leave her high and dry.”

“If anyone should recognize a pompous ass, it’s you,” he said with a sneer.  “I’m not fuckin’ going anywhere.”  He pivoted, reaching for the doorknob and giving it a sharp twist.  “Except to find my girlfriend and make sure she’s okay.”  

♫♥♫

“I thought we were having tea?” 

Dorothea was leading her into a part of the house where she’d never been before.  It was on the lowest level of the house, and they were approaching the furthest closed door.

“This will make you feel better than tea,”  Dot assured, her expression still stone cold sober as she pushed into the room.

It wasn’t an unusually large area, but appeared more spacious  due to the mirrors on all four walls.  Cushioned pads covered a good half of the oak hardwood floor, and there was a heavy bag hanging from the ceiling in the far corner.

Allegra gradually absorbed the full effect of her surroundings and understood that this was Dot’s workout room.  She’d been heavily involved in karate and martial arts for many years, but Allegra had never seen any evidence of the fact.  Most often, the knowledge didn’t register in her memory banks.  Jon’s wise cracks about Dorothea ‘karate chopping someone’s ass’  were often the only thing that ever brought it to mind.

“Your gym?”

“My dojo,” Dot corrected, patting the heavy bag affectionately as shoe toed off her sneakers.  “A technicality, I know, but it’s my technicality.”  She pulled one arm across her body as far as it would go, and then the other, in some type of stretching routine.  “Jeans aren’t ideal for this,” she observed, nodding at Allegra’s attire of form fitting denim pants and shirt, “but it should be okay this time.”

“This time for what?”

Dot slowly and deliberately drew her knee up into her chest, wrapping both arms around it as she allowed the muscles to release their pent-up tension.

“I was patiently waiting until you healed, but patience is no longer an option.”  Her foot dropped back to the floor and the other knee was brought up in its place to repeat the motion.  Returning it to the floor next to its mate, Dorothea tugged her knit pant legs back down to their original position and regarded her with an unyielding gaze.

“Allegra, I respect that you’re going to counseling.  Hell, it may even be a good idea.  But talking is not going to make you stop jumping like a scared rabbit every time somebody walks by.  The only way that is going to happen is if you feel safe.  If you can defend yourself, you’ll feel safe.  I’d like to teach you some simple moves that will take a man down before he can blink.”

“You want to teach me to fight?” 

Dot shook her head vehemently.  “Self-defense,” she emphasized.  “Fighting has nothing to do with it.  A woman needs to be able to protect herself, since we’re perceived as the weaker sex.  In most cases we are physically weaker, so we have to be smarter about what we CAN do.”

Allegra simply stared at her cousin-in-law.  She’d done everything in her power to stop the attack as it was happening.  What could Dot possibly teach her that may have made a difference?

“I see you’re not convinced, so I’m going to appeal to the Bongiovi in you.  The idea of a bodyguard has to be grating against every fiber of independence you possess.”  Allegra’s spine stiffened, as she hit a nerve.   “Self-defense puts YOU in control, Allegra.  You aren’t going to have to rely on some nameless mountain of a man who’s paid to babysit.”

A bodyguard meant she was obligated to another person every time she stepped foot out the door, and never having a true moment to herself.   Dorothea knew exactly how to manipulate her, and it was probably another indication of the similarities between herself and Jon.   In this case, Allegra didn’t necessarily care.  She kicked off her shoes, and pushed up the sleeves of her top. 

“Ready when you are.”

♫♥♫

She pressed her back into the leather seat of the Town Car, trying to stretch her muscles enough to alleviate the soreness harboring itself there. 

Her body ached from the intense activity of the past couple of days.  Dorothea had been working her hard from the moment she’d given her assent, and gently healing muscles were stretched to the extent of their ability, then were pushed a little further.  The maneuvers weren’t instinctively ingrained as of yet, but she could execute them if she concentrated.  Time would bring that instinct, Dot assured her. 

Yes, her body was screaming in protest, but never again would someone grab her from behind against her will.  The sacrifice was well worth the accompanying peace of mind. 

It was Saturday evening, and the band was in Connecticut preparing for that night’s show.  Before he’d left Richie had convinced her to accompany him to Los Angeles for the break next week.  Of course, she’d been leaning in that direction anyway, so it hadn’t taken much convincing.  The only concern had been her counseling appointment, but Rachel had agreed to do the session by phone. 

In making travel arrangements for Tuesday, the day after the Washington, DC show, Richie casually asked if she had a valid passport. 

“No, I’ve never had a need for one.”

“You do now.”

 “Oh?  Is that an invitation?” she asked with a pointed look.

Allegra was treated to a full-on dimple assault when he grinned widely.  She really should’ve never let him know how much she loved that particular look on him, because he now used it when trying to be excessively charming.  

“The band IS going to Europe soon,” he said, tugging lightly on her ponytail.  “And I thought maybe you’d like to see London since we’re spending almost a month there.  Are you interested?”

As usual, she had waffled on the answer, citing work responsibilities as a deciding factor.  Richie had sighed theatrically, bemoaning the fact that work always came first.  Giggles built up inside her, and she wrapped her arms around him with a promise to get the passport – just in case.

In her mind she was laughing.  Of course she was interested.  London?  Richie?  Why wouldn’t she be?  The details of intermingling that little fantasy with reality would need to be ironed out, but she would be able to go at the drop of a hat when and if they were.

This is why she was ensconced in the back of a Lincoln Town Car, en route to her parents’ house, despite the fact that they were in Florida.  The passport process required her original birth certificate, which was stored with the files in her father’s office. 

Not that she could do anything with it on a Saturday evening, but she’d rather  spend the time digging through the file cabinet while Richie was out of town.  Then she could go to the Post Office and apply for  the passport on Monday morning.  The wheels would all be in motion before they disembarked for Los Angeles.

Thomas pulled into the driveway at the Castanelli home, stating quietly, “We’re here Ms. Castanelli.”

She smiled at the man whom she’d first met at Jon’s house the day they’d flown out for Honolulu.  If she was under house arrest, at least he was pleasant and somewhat familiar.

“Thank you Thomas.”  She left her purse on the back seat, choosing only to extract the house key before stepping out of the vehicle.  “I’ll be right back.  This shouldn’t take long.”

“Please take whatever time you need.”

She mounted the front steps with as much agility as her tired body would permit, slipping the key effortlessly in the lock and pushing her way into the house.  In the living room, she ascended the carpeted stairs without hesitation, not even allowing  the door to fully close before commencing the climb to the residence’s upper level.

Michael’s office was on the second floor, and had actually been her play room when she was a little girl.  Her footsteps went quickly and unerringly to the open office doorway.  Gone was the lavender paint,  violet printed wallpaper  and white eyelet curtains of her youth.  Instead, it resembled any of a thousand home offices with its dark furnishings and light colored walls. 

Allegra made a beeline for the old, beaten up file cabinet that had always housed her family’s most important documents.  Her hand hesitated over the top drawer handle. 

Now which drawer did Mama always go to for my birth certificate?  I can’t remember if it was the first or second…

Mentally shrugging her shoulders, she chose the top drawer to begin her search, methodically thumbing through the dozens of file folders stored there.   

“Income taxes, property taxes, utility bills.  This isn’t it,” she mumbled to herself, giving the heavy drawer a shove.  The cabinet vibrated with the weight of the documents returning to their protected environment, and she immediately pulled on the second handle. 

With a frown, she pulled again.  It wasn’t budging. 

Upon closer inspection, she could see that the front of the drawer housed a lock mechanism that was holding its contents firmly sealed. 

How very strange.

She gave one more tug, in the event that the old drawer was just stuck, when a  memory flashed briefly across her mind’s eye.  Her mother had tried to be inconspicuous about it, but Allegra could recall her producing a small silver key from the middle desk drawer before getting into these files.  It hadn’t really registered at the time, but in retrospect, she thought the key was in the right hand corner of the drawer.

Relief chased away the momentary irritation, and in seconds she had procured the familiar looking key from its spot.  It had been right where she remembered.

Pushing the tiny bit of metal into the lock, it scraped slightly as it pushed the tumblers, releasing the mechanism with an audible, metallic pop.  The drawer slid easily open this time, and she immediately recognized the yellowed folder plainly marked ‘Frannie - Birth Certificate’.  

“Thank God Dad is an organizational freak,” she announced to the empty room.  “I’d hate to have to pilfer through this whole cabinet.  Ow!”

In her effort to liberate the file from the overcrowded drawer, she had torn back the cuticle on her middle finger.  Immediately popping it in her mouth, she sucked on it and willed the pain to subside, her eyes blindly staring at the multitude of documents displayed before her. 

The pain dulled to a minimal sting, and she inspected the injured area.  The ragged skin was slowly oozing blood, and she brushed it away with her thumb.  “Nothing hurts worse than a paper cut.”

She reached forward with her other hand, withdrawing the file.   The tight confines of the folders had something fluttering to the floor, when it came out along with her birth certificate.  Stooping down to retrieve it, she saw her mother’s handwriting on the back of what appeared to be a photograph.  Wrinkling her forehead in concentration, she made out the inscription, ‘Frannie, 1970’.

“How can that be?” she mumbled.  “I wasn’t born until 1971.”

Had her mother had a family friend or acquaintance named Frannie, too?  That was the only explanation she could imagine.

Scooping it up, she flipped it over to satisfy her curiosity, immediately drawing in an astonished breath. 

It was her own face staring back at her.