A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (11 page)

W
hile I was concerned about the Casa Lido’s future, it was still nice to have a couple of days off. I could get back to my book and maybe do some digging into the Barone family. My appointment with Richard was for later in the afternoon, so I had the morning to myself. And I knew just how I wanted to spend it. I woke early, threw on some clothes, and headed out my back door to the beach.

I relished the view of the cloudless blue sky and the sun’s silvery reflection on the water. I kicked off my flip-flops and walked along the water’s edge, savoring the warmth of the August surf. My life back in Manhattan seemed miles away, and I realized with a start that I didn’t miss it. Work at the restaurant was taxing, demanding, often tedious, but I felt productive there. I was learning to work with Tim, and to put our past together into some kind of perspective. I dug my toes into the wet sand as the waves crashed and receded around me. Though I might have a better understanding of my relationship with Tim, Cal remained a bit of a mystery, both the man himself as well as my feelings for him.

What might those feelings be if Tim were not in the picture? If he were not literally at my side nearly every day in the kitchen? It was hard to say. But I simply didn’t know enough about Cal to commit to more than a dating relationship. Maybe I was overly cautious. Or maybe I just didn’t want to be hurt again.

I made my way to the rock jetty, picking my way carefully over the black, slick rocks. I walked out to its edge, remembering a story that Nonna had told me about a desperate person on the edge. That story had come to a sad conclusion a month ago, partly because of my involvement in it. Should I have left it well enough alone then? And what about now? There was still time to cancel my appointment with Barone. The police were unconvinced that Pete was murdered. There was no obvious motive.
He drank too much and drowned, Vic. Leave it at that.
Why? Because he was old and homeless and a drunk? Did his life matter any less? I looked out at the vastness of the ocean and I had my answer.

*   *   *

As I approached my cottage, I saw a lean figure sitting out on my deck, legs stretched out in front of him, his face turned to the sun: none other than Calvin Lockhart, the very subject of some of my recent thoughts.

“Mornin’,
cher
,” he said with a wave. “You interested in some breakfast?”

“I’m always interested in breakfast. Did you bring some?”

He lifted a bag. “Brought the makings.”

“Well, then, you are certainly welcome to come in.” He followed me inside, and looked around with an amused glance. The mismatched furniture, old-school Venetian blinds, and rag rug were a stark contrast to his white walls and minimalist decor. I met his eye. “You act like you haven’t seen the place. Is it that bad?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I didn’t get a real good look at the place the other morning. But it looks like you.”

“Does it smell like me, too? Seashore musty?”

“Nah, you know what I mean. It’s a little old-fashioned, but I think you like that,” he said, setting the grocery bag down on the table. He reached for my hand and dropped a kiss on my knuckles. “After all, you’re kind of an old-fashioned girl.”

“I will try to take that as a compliment.” I peeked into the bag. “Oh my God, is that cinnamon bread?” I sniffed. “And there’s coffee in here, too.” I looked up at him and grinned. “How did you know I needed sugar, white flour, and caffeine?”

“Just a guess,
cher
. You got some plates for us?”

“I’ll get them; you sit down. Just don’t get between me and that coffee.”

We ate and chatted about the power outage, the restaurant being closed, and the possible loss of Labor Day revenue. “What about you?” I asked. “Do you have other work until we open again?”

“I’ve always got some kind of project going on. I keep busy.”

I eyed him over the top of my coffee cup. “Doing what, particularly?”

“You know. This ’n’ that.”

“That’s just it, Cal. I
don’t
know. For example, you disappear for a week at a time, work a few days at the restaurant, and then go away again.”

“Your daddy lets me make my own hours,” he said with a grin.

“Well, I’m not as trusting as my daddy. And sometimes I feel as though I don’t know you at all. For instance, what happened to that fancy black James Bond BMW you took me out in a while ago?”

“That’s easy,” he said, still smiling. “Lease came up and I didn’t renew. Don’t see what’s so strange about it.”

“Because that car didn’t
look
like you. And neither does your apartment. Earlier you said that my house looks like me, but I have to say that your apartment doesn’t in any way reflect the warm, funny person you are. Actually, it doesn’t reflect much of anything.”
Except for that yellow room, of course.
But I wasn’t sure I was ready to ask him about that.

He shrugged. “Place came furnished. That’s easier for me ’cause I move around a lot.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Why is that, Cal?”

“After the storm in ’05, I lost my home base. My foundation, I guess— in every sense of the word. So I packed up what I could save, got in the truck, and just drove.” He looked down at his now-empty coffee cup.

“And you ended up here?”

“Among other places.”

I stood up, pushed in my chair, and brought my plate to the sink. “You know, Cal,” I said over my shoulder, “I feel like with you I’m on a need-to-know basis.” I turned toward him, leaning against the sink. “God knows, I come from a family of oversharers, so maybe my definition of what’s private isn’t the same as yours. But there’s a difference between privacy and secrecy.” I looked straight into his eyes. “And I think you are a man with secrets.”

“Listen to me,
cher
,” he said, getting up from his chair. He took my hands in his. “I’m not dangerous. I haven’t done anything illegal.” One side of his mouth curved in a grin. “I’m not a spy or an escaped criminal. I guess you could say I’m kind of a loner.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. I get that from your apartment.”

“What do you want to know about me, Victoria? Just ask.”

“Okay,” I said, taking a breath. “Tell me about the yellow room.”

He dropped my hands and stepped back. “There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Oh, I think there is,” I said quietly. “It’s the only room in your apartment with any color. It’s got a homey quilt on the bed. And then there’s the Velveteen Rabbit I found under the bed.”

He stood still, his arms at his sides, looking much as he did the night of the storm as he looked up at that tree. The lines around his eyes looked deeper, sadder. His sigh was barely audible. “That is something I just can’t talk about. I’m sorry. Can you accept that?”

“That’s a little difficult for me. Because until—or unless—you can be more honest with me about who you are and about your past, I just don’t see us going anywhere.”

“And I respect that, I really do, but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together.” His voice was husky and warm, and that quickly, he was back to his old self. He slid his arms around me, pulling me against him. He was fresh out of the shower, the ends of his hair still wet, and he smelled more delicious than the cinnamon bread.

I rested my hands on his chest, partly to keep him at bay and partly because it felt nice. “When a grown man and woman spend time together,” I said, “that generally leads to, shall we say, a certain
closeness
. I’m attracted to you, but as you may have noticed, I’m not the hooking-up type.”

“I have noticed, Victoria, but that only adds to your charm.” He kissed my forehead. “Like I said, you’re an old-fashioned girl. And I’ve told you I’m patient.”

“That may be so,” I said, crossing my arms. “But even platonic friends are honest with each other. And while I don’t believe you have out-and-out lied to me, I suspect there’s a whole lot about your life I don’t know.”

He took my hands again and gently uncrossed my arms. “Give me a little time, okay?” he asked. “I need to square a few things away. I’m in a place in my life where . . . where things are kinda uncertain. And I didn’t expect to meet a woman like you.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You’ve thrown me for a loop, girl.”

“That old bayou charm isn’t working on me at the moment, Mr. Lockhart. And I won’t wait forever.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,
cher
,” he said as he turned to go. “But a man can hope, can’t he?”

Cal had just pulled out of my driveway when I heard a knock at my front door. “Geez, it’s like Grand Central here today,” I grumbled, and peeked through my side window. And I was more than a little surprised to see who was behind my door.

“Hi, Lacey,” I said as I opened it. “What brings you here?”

She took off her sunglasses and I could see that she’d been crying.
Trouble in paradise, perhaps?
But I banished the thought as quickly as I could. “Could we talk for a minute, Victoria?” she asked.

“Sure. C’mon in. I do have an appointment in less than an hour, though.”

“This won’t take long. Cute place,” she said, looking around at the tiny living room.

“Thanks,” I said. “But I picked it more for its location than its ambiance.” I moved my bag from the couch. “Sit down, please.”

“First, can I ask you not to tell Tim I was here?”

“Um, okay,” I said, wondering what the heck was coming next.

Lacey twisted her hands in her lap, apparently having trouble looking me in the eye. “This is a little awkward,” she began.

God,
I thought,
maybe they’re engaged and those are tears of joy.
I strained to smile at her. “It wouldn’t be the first awkward conversation we’ve had, though.”

“No, it wouldn’t. So I think I should just say it.” She took a shuddery breath and finally looked me in the eye. “I’m not sure where things are going with Tim, and I’m very conflicted about my feelings right now.”

I wanted to yell at my heart, to tell it to stop leaping around joyfully in my chest. “Okay,” I said, wondering if she could hear its thumping across the room. “Why come and tell me about it? It’s your business, yours and Tim’s.”

She smiled slightly and a knowing look crossed her face. “That’s not completely true, is it? I mean, there’s still a pretty strong bond between the two of you.”

This wasn’t the first time that Lacey had made this observation. Was the trouble with Tim because she sensed he still had feelings for me? “Of course there’s a bond between us,” I said. “We’ve known each other for half our lives. But we were over a long time ago; I’ve already told you that.”

“Victoria, I know you
think
you believe that. And maybe you do.” She tilted her head, studying my expression. “But I know something about having a past, too. Do you remember when I told you that I’d had a broken engagement?”

“Yes. And I felt for you, having had my own heart broken.”

“Ah,” she said. “You assumed that
he
was the one who hurt me. I can’t blame you, I guess. I’ve got
Good Girl
written all over me.”

“Takes one to know one,” I said, and we both laughed. “Let me get this straight, then—your former fiancé is not a scoundrel or a cad?”

“Far from it.” She shook her head slowly, her eyes filling with tears. “He’s a great guy. One of the best.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead and sighed. “I was the one who messed up. He was pushing to get married and I wasn’t really ready. Instead of being a woman about it, and being honest with him, I got involved with someone else.”

“Oh.” I had a little trouble meeting her eye.

“
Oh
is right.” She dabbed at her eye with a crumpled tissue. “Once he found out, it was all over. That was a year ago. Tim is the first guy I dated in all that time, and I like him, I really do. I thought we might have a real chance.”

“But not now?”

“I’m not sure. Mark—he was my fiancé—called me last night. He wants to meet and talk. The minute I heard his voice, I knew what I wanted.”

“You mean
who
you wanted. And it’s not Tim.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that cut-and-dried. Even if Mark is willing to forgive me, that doesn’t mean he’ll take me back. But it’s not fair to keep Tim in the background like some kind of romantic insurance policy. Things aren’t easy between us anyway right now, partly because of my work hours and partly because . . . well, let’s face it, he never stopped loving you.”

My cheeks burned, and I let out a small breath. “Even if that’s true, I still don’t understand why you’re telling me all this.”

She smiled slightly, her eyes dry now. “Because you care about Tim, and if things go south with us, he’ll need a friend. I also thought it was important that you heard my story.”

“Why?”

She reached over and closed her hand around my arm. “Because people make mistakes, Victoria. And if they’re lucky, they learn from them. And if they’re
really
lucky, they find forgiveness.” She stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m not sure what Tim did to hurt you, but I’m sure of this: He’s sorry for it. And I think he deserves another chance.”

After she left, I stood holding on to the sides of the doorframe, just the way you do in an earthquake—so when things come crashing down around you, you’ll still be on your feet.

*   *   *

The Barone Foundation’s offices were located right outside Oceanside Park, and I got there quickly, giving me time to compose myself after those two disconcerting conversations. Determined to put them from my mind, I mentally rehearsed the ostensible reason for my presence: In doing research for my book, I’d stumbled across a connection between his family and my own, and was hoping he could answer some questions for me. All in the service of my novel, of course. I’d even brought the Atlantic City book with me, partly to make my excuse legit, but mostly to see his reaction to that photo.

Barone’s plush offices had plenty of power; the air-conditioning blew hard and cold across my bare legs. In the waiting room, I spent my time studying a brochure that detailed the various Barone charities. He’d established scholarships for needy high school and college students; founded an organization dedicated to helping the widows and children of police and firefighters; headed up a clean water initiative for the bay shore; created an Italian-American heritage association of which he was president (“Dedicated to fighting stereotypes and spreading awareness of Italian contributions to American life”) and built a newly dedicated pediatric wing at Shore Regional Hospital. Was there no good deed this guy left undone?