In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [73]
“Go on, try it,” she urged, holding out the fork dripping with sauce, “you’ll never have another one as good as this.”
He took the fork, tasted. The faint tang of her lipstick overlaid the shrimp and he held on to the memory of it.
“More,” she urged. “Tell me more. About your father.”
He shrugged. “Not much to tell. He was a studious kid, finished high school, but, like a lot of others, there was no chance of college, he had to get out there and earn some money. He held down a dozen jobs over the years. Then he became a cop. He married a beautiful Italian girl, Carmela.” He grinned. “Who then had to live with the unfortunate name of Carmela Camelia for the rest of her days. They had three kids, myself and two daughters. Bought a little house in the Bronx, managed to raise us, put us through school, pay for a couple of fancy Italian weddings.” He shrugged again. “I joined the force.”
“Like father like son,” she added, eyes shining with interest.
He nodded. “Then I met Claudia. . . .”
“A Puerto Rican beauty.”
He nodded again, smiling. “I agree with that description. And you know the rest.”
“No I don’t.” He looked at her, surprised. “I still don’t know what your dreams are,” she added softly.
He took the bottle from the ice bucket, refilled their glasses. “I’m not sure what my dreams are. But I suspect that, like most folks, somewhere along the way they got buried in the reality of life.”
“Like mine.” He looked questioningly at her.
“I always wanted to be a ballerina,” she explained. “I was the clumsy little kid at the ballet-class concert, the lanky fairy in the pink net tutu and droopy tights and a wand with a star on top. Always pointing the wrong toe and towering over the other kids.” She sighed. “I felt like the giant at the top of the beanstalk. And I just kept on growing until there wasn’t a male ballet dancer who could lift me.” She gave him that wide smile and took a sip. “Love this champagne,” she said dreamily. “You think we should get a bottle for Mamzelle Dorothea, as a treat?”
“Think she’d prefer it to Southern Comfort?”
“Maybe not, but it would be a sort of thank you. Perhaps we could take her some little French pastries, have a tea party.”
“Without the tea.”
She laughed. “Somehow, I don’t see Mamzelle Dorothea as a tea drinker.” She polished off the final bit of pear chutney on his plate and added with a satisfied sigh, “Is this heaven, or what?”
He was just about to agree with her, when his cell phone rang.
She made a little face. “Reality calls,” she complained, watching, apprehensive, as he answered. He said yes and no, and see you at eleven-thirty. Then he disconnected. She gazed expectantly at him.
“The sheriff. The autopsy is tonight. He asked if I wanted to be there.”
She took a large swallow of champagne, trying not to think about the contents of the blue cooler dredged from the ocean. “I’m not sure I can manage dessert.” Her voice sounded suddenly small.
“I’m sorry. It’s not good dinner-table talk. And hardly the way to end a perfect evening.”
“Was it perfect, Marco?” She reached for his hand again and this time he gripped hers tightly.
Was it the champagne talking, he wondered, as he said, “For me, it was. The most perfect evening I can remember.”
Mel took a deep breath. She knew she was on dangerous ground. “Then your memory must be extremely short, Detective,” she said, summoning up a smile. “Perhaps you should take Claudia out more often, buy her champagne.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. Regretfully, Mel thought. “Except Claudia prefers a good red wine to champagne. A hearty Chianti Riserva from Antinori is what I always get her for birthdays and such.”
“I’m glad.” She squeezed his hand and slid hers away. “I needed to know you appreciate her.”
Their gazes locked.