With an Extreme Burning

“Not today. And I'm tied up on university business in the morning. … How about three tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine. I'll swing by and pick you up.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, and paused and then said, “Have you ever had the Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast?”

“The … what?”

“Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast. Otherwise known as the Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach.”

“Elliot, I don't know what you—”

“There used to be a restaurant in San Francisco, in the gaslight era, called Brenti's La Gianduja. End of Stockton Street at Washington Square in North Beach. One of the city's best turn-of-the-century eateries. Their customers' favorite entree was the Peasant Pot Roast.”

Uh-huh, she thought, now I get it. “And you happen to have the recipe.”

“I not only have it, I make it splendidly, if I do say so myself. I also have some homemade grappa to go with it. Brenti's always served their pot roast with grappa, you see.”

Cecca was silent.

“Francesca? What do you say? The Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach, tomorrow night after we look at the Hamlin Valley farm?”

“I'm busy tomorrow night,” she lied.

“I have an open calendar ahead.”

“I don't think so, Elliot. I appreciate the offer, but … I'm just not in the market right now. For pot roast or anything else. Can you accept that?”

“Oh, sure,” he said cheerfully. “But you really don't know what you're missing.”

Meaning him as well as the pot roast, of course. “Well,” she said. “Tomorrow at three, then.”

“Tomorrow at three. And don't blame me for trying, okay? Consider it a compliment.”

There was a sigh in her as she put the receiver down. And a groan, and a shriek. Why did every other man she knew or met, unmarried and married, keep trying to hit on her? She was available, yes, and reasonably attractive, but good Lord! Owen, Jerry, Leo Franklin at the bank, Harvey Samuels at the tennis club, Fred Alt at Garstein Electric, now Elliot Messner … none of them interesting to her, particularly, and all of them sniffing after her like dogs in heat.

She thought cynically: Maybe it's because I'm a bitch. Look who does interest me, the only one. Look who I'm sniffing after.

Jerry said, “I'm worried about Dix.”

“Why? What makes you say that?”

“Well, I went to see him yesterday. Figured enough time had passed. I tried to get him down to the club for a round of golf. He wouldn't budge.”

“He's probably not ready for recreational activities.”

“I suppose that's it. But he didn't look good; he's lost a lot of weight. On purpose, he says, but I don't know. He didn't act like himself either. It's been nearly a month since the accident. He shouldn't still be hiding from the world.”

“I don't think he's hiding,” she said. “I saw him, too, the other day. He didn't seem sickly to me. Or deeply depressed.”

“Well, you've known him a lot longer than I have.” Jerry tasted his Cutty Sark on the rocks. “I invited him to the cookout next Saturday.”

“Is he coming?”

“Said he would if he felt up to it. I'll nudge him again; you might do the same. He needs to spend time with people who care about him, don't you think? Normal social activity in different surroundings?”

“Only if it's what he wants. It won't do him any good if he's pushed into it.”

“I guess you're right.”

Cecca stole a glance at her watch. Ten minutes to six. Still plenty of time; she wasn't due to meet Dix until seven. She sipped some of her own Scotch. Jerry had come by Better Lands just as she was about to leave, to invite her for an after-work drink. She'd tried putting him off, but he'd been insistent in his upbeat way; she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings or to make an issue of it in front of Tom, and she had wanted a drink. So here they were at Romeo's upstairs bar-lounge, at a table by one of the windows overlooking the boat basin.

Jerry toyed with his glass, his head turned toward the window. The mellow-gold light slanting through the window sharpened and highlighted his features, his classic profile. Golden boy, she thought. He really was a handsome man, the more so because of the character lines in his face, the emotional depth in his blue eyes. But there just wasn't any chemistry between them, at least not on her part. He worked too hard at being charming and charismatic, was too superficially jolly. There was something in his makeup that wouldn't let you burrow underneath the surface to where the serious parts of him lay. A defense mechanism, maybe. He'd been badly hurt once; she sensed that in him. He wouldn't talk about his divorce, or much about his life before he moved to Los Alegres. “The past is dead,” he would say, “it's the present that matters.” Besides, it was the dark, quiet, brooding type that attracted her—Chet, Dix. In spite of herself, she glanced at her watch again.

Jerry's gaze returned to her. “Do you think he blames himself?” he asked.

“Who? Dix?”

“For the accident, Katy's death.”

“Why on earth would he blame himself?”

“He might if they had an argument that night. If that was why she went out driving by herself.”

“Dix never said anything about an argument.”

“I know, but …”

“But what?”

“You were Katy's best friend, Cecca. Were they getting along?”

“Of course they were. What makes you think they weren't?”

“Well …” He looked uncomfortable now, and to mask it he gave her a quick bright smile and said, “Let's just forget it. How about another round?”

“No, one's my limit tonight. Jerry, what were you getting at?”

“Nothing. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.”

“Do you know something about Dix and Katy?”

“No, no …”

“Something about Katy?”

She watched him fidget, his eyes not quite meeting hers. Then he said, “I don't like telling tales. Especially not unsubstantiated ones about friends.”

“If you do know something—”

“But I don't. I don't know anything. Like I said, I shouldn't have opened my big mouth.”

“You can't just leave me hanging like this.”

“Cecca, Katy's gone. And Dix is still alive. I know how he'd feel if—I just know how he'd feel. I've been there.”

Been there. The phrase made her wonder if Jerry's wife had been having an affair, too, if that was what had broken up his marriage. She asked, “How Dix would feel about what?”

“He's been through enough,” Jerry said. “He doesn't need harassed friends like me making things worse.” Abruptly he signaled to the waitress. “Look, I know you want to get home, and I'd better do the same. Forget we had this conversation, okay? Please. I don't know anything you should know, believe me.”

But he did. Or at least he suspected something. Heard rumors … from Eileen's big mouth? Or was it more personal and direct—words spoken to him, a first-hand observation?

Eileen, Louise Kanvitz, Jerry—and how many others in Los Alegres? Well, the more there were, the better the chances that somebody besides Louise knew or suspected the identity of Katy's lover. It wouldn't, couldn't, remain a secret much longer.