but from the pain in her eyes I could tell she didn’t mean it.
“Be careful at night walking home from work.”
She nodded. “When Paulo can’t meet me, I’ll get a ride home with Brad, the pub manager.”
“Good.” I doubted Merle would try messing with Brad again.
I lifted the meat off the platter and put it back into the roaster. No question, it would be overdone, but overdone would be better than room temperature. Though not by much. When the Idahos were nuked, I tucked them in the oven along with the meat and a foil-wrapped loaf of garlic bread. The tomatoes and asparagus would have to take their turn in the micro. Plan B had its flaws.
Simon sauntered into the kitchen. “I’m going upstairs for another bottle of the Pinot. Won’t be a minute.” He glanced from Lee to me then back again. “Girl talk?”
I nodded.
“Rossi wants another beer. I’ll get it for him,” Simon opened my fridge like he owned it, removed a can of Bud and disappeared from the kitchen.
“The food’s under control for now. Let’s join the men,” I said.
“Gracious, I’m forgetting all the manners Momma taught me,” Lee said, jumping up and following me into the living room.
I was eager to get back to Rossi. To see if he’d discuss the case. At least I told myself that was the reason. When we entered the living room, Paulo leaped to his feet, his eyes shining on Lee. Rossi? He remained sprawled at his ease in a club chair, looking perfectly at home. He raised his beer can in a silent salute but didn’t say a word about the case. Or anything else, for that matter. Which, to tell the truth, was about what I expected.
Anyway, Simon returned with more wine and shortly thereafter, Lee helped me serve dinner. The meat had the texture of Goodyear rubber, but Simon and Rossi both had seconds of everything. Paulo ate very little, throughout dinner hardly tearing his gaze from Lee sitting across from him.
As we lingered over dessert, she said, “I want to thank y’all for what you did today, coming for me and everything. And for this beautiful dinner, Deva, that almost got ruint. But I have to tell you something y’all don’t know.” She drew in a deep breath as if talking about the “something” wouldn’t be easy. “My daddy’s a good man. My momma, she was sick for years, and he took mighty fine care of her. It cost him near every penny he had, but he didn’t complain. Not once. So I owe him for that. For other things, too.” She upped her chin, as if defying herself to go on. “I’m all he has left, but he really doesn’t have me anymore. So I worry about him.” Her voice faltering, she looked down at her lap. “There’s more to Daddy than what he showed today.”
Unbidden, a thought popped into my head. If Merle Skimp had spent everything he’d worked for on medical bills, would he-out of desperation-have dared steal the Monet? Watching Lee make a case for her daddy’s goodness, I found it hard to continue the thought, yet it refused to go away.
When I glanced across at Rossi to try to guess what he might be thinking, he winked and picked up his fork. He had another piece of pumpkin pie to deal with. I should know by now that Rossi never gave anything away.
One by one, the candles guttered in the angel holders and died. I was about to light some lamps when Paulo rose from the table and came over to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks, Deva. That was delicious.”
Lee looked up at him, all limpid, inquiring eyes. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.” Avoiding the plea in her voice, Paulo turned to Rossi. “Lieutenant, will you take Lee home?”
“My pleasure,” Rossi said, smooth as silk.
“But Paulo…” Lee whispered his name like a prayer.
“I have to get back,” he said, and with a little bow to all of us, he left, taking Christmas with him.
“He’s ashamed of me.” Lee sank against her chair back. “I’m white trash, and he knows it.”
“Not so, Lee,” Simon said. “You need to look deeper.”
“You can’t go any deeper than your family,” she said, shaking her head. “You sprang from them. They made you what you are. Who you are.”
Simon swallowed a forkful of brandied whipped cream. “Exactly. Think about it. Paulo may feel the same way about his own folks.”
Lee stared at him, thoughtful and wide eyed. “You think that’s what’s troubling him?”
“Could be. He might be seeing himself through your father’s eyes.”
“Daddy’s still fighting that war, isn’t he?”
“Most likely,” Simon said quietly. “Problem is, the battle’s just beginning for Paulo.”
“For me, too,” Lee said, picking up her fork and polishing off her pie.
Rossi pushed his empty dessert plate back from the edge of the table. “Mrs. D, that was the best meal I’ve had in weeks. No, make that months. I owe you one. And now, I think I’d better check my calls and get this young lady home. So-” he stood, “-if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
He offered his hand to Simon, who grasped it. They didn’t exactly Indian wrestle, just hand clasped,
Despite her distress, Lee looked over at me and grinned.
I shook my head, and her grin got wider. What was she signaling? The two men were vying for me? No way. I couldn’t believe it, but I admit I enjoyed considering the possibility.
The macho handshake over, Rossi walked around the table to say goodbye to me. Did I have a kiss coming? Maybe a peck on the cheek? No. Just a quick smile-and a single finger secretly stroking my palm. “You made my Christmas, Mrs. D,” he said in his best crime-busting voice.
Did he know his surreptitious signal had just sent my blood pressure soaring? No doubt. Nothing escaped Rossi.
Lee scooped up her backpack, hugged me tight, then with a “See y’all Sunday at the shop, Deva,” she left with Rossi.
“Alone at last.” Simon wore his biggest smile of the day. Definitely the biggest one since I’d invited Rossi for dinner. “How about a nightcap?”
“Sounds good, but first the dishes, okay?”
“Let me help.”
Together we cleared the dining room table and loaded the dishwasher. After setting the roasting pan in the sink to soak clean, I found a bottle of Grand Marnier lurking behind a box of cornflakes. Simon poured us each a double thimbleful, and we carried our glasses into the living room. With a grateful sigh, I collapsed into a club chair’s down cushions. It had been a long day.
Simon put his Grand Marnier on the coffee table. “Be right back. There’s something for you in the bottom of that wine bag.”
He returned a moment later. “For you,” he said.
I looked up. Nestled in the palm of Simon’s outstretched hand was a box in that unmistakable shade of Tiffany blue.
A tiny blue Tiffany box.
My mouth fell open.
My heart began a rumba, pounding away as if I had a mariachi band in my chest.
I didn’t want a ring. I didn’t want a commitment. I didn’t want a new love.
I didn’t?
Did I want to go through life alone? A widow forever? Sleeping alone? Eating alone? No one caring if I lived or died? All potent reasons to marry again, but…
Fingers trembling, I undid the white bow. The ribbon rippled to my lap. I glanced over at Simon perched on the edge of Nana’s couch, an expectant gleam in his eyes. What about the most important reason to say ‘yes’? What about love?
“Go on, open it,” he urged with a smile.
I heaved a sigh.
Removing the blue lid with care as if a joke box snake might leap out and bite me, I said, “Tiffany boxes are so exciting. Every woman loves them.”
“You’re not every woman, Deva. Far from it.”
The rumba revved up a notch. Once I opened his gift, our relationship would change forever. We’d go from
