Photo Finished

Popping open a ceramic cookie jar, Shamus dug his fist in and helped himself to a dark brown cracker. He munched thoughtfully, then reached in to grab a few more. “Say, these are pretty good,” he mumbled. “Got any cheese to put on ’em?” Shamus whipped open the refrigerator door and insinuated his entire head in the refrigerator’s cool interior.

“You probably don’t want to eat those,” Carmela called to him from where she was flaked out, watching TV. “Those are mackerel morsels.”

Still surveying the interior of Carmela’s refrigerator, Shamus found a half-eaten wedge of cheddar cheese. Greedily, he grabbed a knife and sliced at the cheese, piling it on top of the crackers. Popping them into his mouth, he chewed appreciatively. “Mm-hm, they sure are mackerel flavored. And they’re good. Especially with cheese.”

“Shamus, listen to me,” said Carmela, starting to laugh. “You’re slathering cheese on dog treats.”

“What?” came Shamus’s strangled cry. He stopped chewing, then suddenly leaned over the sink and turned on both faucets full force. For the next couple minutes, a cacophony of sputtering, splashing, and gargling ensued.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me those were dog cookies?” he asked, emerging from the kitchen red-faced and angry. His normally wavy hair stuck up in unruly tufts as Shamus stared accusingly from Carmela to Boo. Boo, as usual, feigned complete innocence. “Who keeps dog cookies in a cookie jar?” he groused.

“You know darn well that ceramic doggie is Boo’s treat jar,” said Carmela. Boo’s curlicue tail gave a quick wave as she looked on in mute support.

“Besides,” said Carmela, “I had no idea you were going to ransack my kitchen and start chowing down on dog cookies. I’m not exactly psychic.”

“No, you’re a sadistic prankster,” accused Shamus.

“Holy mackerel, Shamus,” said Carmela, starting to giggle again. Since the cookies were homemade and wholesome, she knew they were perfectly fine to eat.

Shamus held up a finger. “That’s not funny. And damn it, I’m still hungry. You surely can’t expect a man to go to bed on an empty stomach. He gazed at her meaningfully.

Carmela fixed him with a level gaze. “There’s chowder in the freezer, Shamus. Pop a carton in the microwave and it’ll be defrosted in six, maybe seven minutes.”

The chowder sounded appealing, but Shamus still wasn’t convinced.

“What about biscuits?” he asked. “You got any biscuits? Or how about a loaf of nice chewy bread?”

“Nope.” Shamus was a carbo freak of the first magnitude. Carmela was, too, but she tried to do without.

“Then I’ll bake some bread,” said Shamus. “Chowder’s no good if you don’t have something to dunk in it.”

Shamus proceeded to busy himself in the kitchen, pulling out a mixing bowl and then dumping in flour, sugar, and… a bottle of beer?

“What are you doing?” asked Carmela, deciding this had to be the weirdest recipe ever concocted. Unless Shamus was just making it up as he went along. To jerk her chain.

“I’m making my famous game day beer bread,” he replied.

“You’re not serious,” said Carmela. “You never made anything before. And I have certainly never heard you utter a single word about game day beer bread. Please tell me this is some sort of fantasy you read about in a men’s magazine. Soldier of Fortune or Penthouse.”

“They don’t put recipes in those magazines,” Shamus snorted. “Besides, your nose is just out of joint because you think I can’t cook.” Shamus’s voice was heavy with reproach. “And you are so wrong.”

“I know I’m not an ardent Julia Child disciple,” said Carmela, “or even a Martha fan. But popping open a bottle of beer? Please. That does not constitute cooking.”

Yet, a little while later, when Shamus’s bread came out of the oven, all hot and steamy and yeasty smelling, Carmela got the surprise of her life.

“This is good,” she said, slathering on butter and munching a piece. Yeah, I guess I’m a bit of a carbo freak, too. Hard to keep a lid on it.

“You sound surprised.” Shamus sounded hurt.

“Actually, I’m astonished,” said Carmela. “I had no idea you could cook, let alone bake.”

“Well, I did reside in a frat house for three years.”

“Sure, but you had a housemother. Mrs… what was her name… Warlock.”

“Murdock,” amended Shamus. “Mother Murdock.”

“Right,” said Carmela, deciding that poor Mother Murdock probably should have been canonized for putting up with all those stinky socks and stinky jocks.

“Honey, I’ll have you know that at Tri Delt we had a housemother, two maids, and a handyman.”

Carmela shook her head, thinking back to her own college days. It had been your basic four girls crammed into a one-bedroom apartment experience. Endlessly jockeying for the phone and the bathroom, someone always using the last tampon or bit of toilet paper but never owning up to it.

***

CARMELA’S GOOD HUMOR WAS ONCE AGAIN PUT to the test when it was time to turn in.

“Jammies?” asked Carmela, eyeing Shamus’s hastily packed overnight bag.

“Pardon?” said Shamus, not understanding. Or pretending not to.

“Pajamas,” said Carmela. “Did you bring them?”

“Well… yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” said Carmela, ducking into the bathroom. “You change while I take off my makeup and brush my teeth.”

Somewhere between the toning and the cleansing routine Carmela heard the phone ring. She tossed her tissue into the trash can and listened, heard Shamus talking in low tones. Had he given out her number? she wondered. She straightened up and stared at her bare face in the harsh fluorescent light, thinking, If this doesn’t scare him off, nothing will. And knowing in her heart that installers of bathroom lighting surely must harbor intense feelings of hostility toward women.

“Some guy named Quigg called,” Shamus snorted when she emerged from the bathroom clad in a modest floor-length nightie. “Said you could call him back tomorrow. Quigg.” He gave a second disdainful snort. “Sounds like somebody’s coonhound. Hey there, Quigg, old buddy, sniff around by that cypress tree and see what you come up with.”

Carmela climbed into bed, knowing this conversation wasn’t going to be productive.

“Say, do you have a date or something with that guy Quigg?” asked Shamus. “Is that why you don’t want to, or can’t, sit at our table?”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela.

“Not exactly,” repeated Shamus, suddenly looking very wounded.

Carmela stared at Shamus in wide-eyed amazement, wondering about the green-eyed monster that was suddenly crouched on Shamus’s back. She surely hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from him. Maybe curiosity, maybe amusement. But certainly not out-and-out jealousy. Hmm.

“Where are your pajamas?” Carmela asked him, but Shamus was still reveling in his full-fledged snit. He peeled down to his T-shirt and jockey briefs, then clambered into bed next to Carmela.

Was this, Carmela wondered, what was meant by the phrase brief encounter?

She patted the bed and Boo immediately jumped up and snuggled in between them, a modern-day Shar-Pei bundling board.

Shamus frowned, lifted himself up on one elbow, and peered across Boo’s furry form. “You really owe me for this, you know.”

Carmela gazed back at Shamus and shifted about uncomfortably, amazed that a forty-five-pound dog could occupy such a sizable amount of real estate. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Don’t play cute with me,” said Shamus. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Saturday night. Glory’s table. Quid pro quo, baby.”

Carmela considered this. Shamus had come to her rescue tonight, so it was probably only right that she return the favor. On the other hand, didn’t Dr. Phil continually lecture on the danger of married people “keeping score”? You did this, so I get to do that. Except she and Shamus weren’t exactly your typical married couple. They were your typical on-the-verge-of-divorce couple.

“Okay, Shamus. You got it,” said Carmela, trying to stifle a yawn.

Shamus thumped his pillow, flopped over, and let loose a long sigh. “Thank goodness that’s settled,” he mumbled. As Carmela began to drift off to sleep, the last thing she was aware of were Boo’s wet snorts mingled with Shamus’s mumbled snores.

Is this the real meaning of family? she wondered. Maybe. Hard to tell.

Chapter 18

THE interior of Spa Diva looked like it might have taken some of its divine inspiration from the gentlemen’s clubs of yesteryear. A leopard print love seat and chairs were clustered around a black ebony cocktail table. Chinese lamps with silk shades of saffron yellow and mandarin red cast a glow against gold leaf wallpaper. A white flokati rug seemed to undulate on the floor and two life-sized ceramic Chinese warriors from an indeterminate dynasty stood guard on either side of the reception desk. “Obviously not a glitter-free zone,” remarked Carmela as they strolled up to the front desk.

But Ava was never adverse to a little glitz. “I like this,” she said. “Very glam-o-rama.”

“Very Jade Ella,” whispered Carmela.

The receptionist, a skinny, leather-clad blond, accepted their gift certificates and led them each to a treatment room.

Ava had finally decided upon the Banana Frango facial, while Carmela had opted for the full-body mud mask. The brochure, the one with her photo adorning the cover, touted the full-body mud mask as a “hedonistic indulgence guaranteed to sleek and slough the skin.” She didn’t know how much sleekness one could attain in forty-five minutes, but she figured her body could probably do with a little sloughing.