Echoes (18 page)

Sofie hadn't said Eric had abused her, only that the relationship had been destructive. She could have been referring to the breakup. He could only guess what the relationship had looked liked before that; had in fact spent most of the day guessing.

As they entered, she said, "This looks nice."

" 'Country food with a French passion.' "

They started with cheeses, fruit, and homemade fig cake that she ate with appreciation while she told him how exacting Nonna Antonia had been about her cheeses, how she'd inspected every wheel that came into the restaurant. Next she had the herb-roasted eggplant salad with fresh mozzarella and roasted red peppers, while he had a salad with arugula, pecans, goat cheese, pancetta, and figs.

"Like Momma, my sister Monica has no skill with food. They drive a truck through whatever they prepare. Lance keeps thinking they're trainable. He doesn't realize what an advantage he had, learning from the time he was small at Nonna's elbow in the restaurant kitchen." She took a bite. "Momma takes each suggestion he makes as an insult. But it really hurts him to see the food massacred."

"So he's a perfectionist." Why were they back on the subject of Lance?

"Not in the retentive sense. He's free in his approach, very creative, very talented."

"And that's what he does? Cook?"

"He does a lot of things. It would be hard to find something he hasn't done. But his passions are food and music."

Her pan-seared halibut with crawfish and saffron aioli arrived. She breathed its aroma and lifted her fork. "He and his friend Rico sang together since they were in grade school. They played professionally in some hot spots and landed a top-notch agent who had big plans before Lance quit the band."

"Why'd he quit?"

She looked down. "Lots of things, but mostly Tony's death."

"Tony . . ."

"Our older brother. He was a cop. He died at Ground Zero."

Matt stared at her. "You lost a brother?" He rested both hands on the table, taking that in. "You didn't say anything. When I told you about Jacky."

"I didn't want to dilute your grief."

But she'd been through it, the senseless loss. And said nothing. Compassionate restraint, or that same deflection he'd noticed in Lance? The capacity to diminish, to utterly focus on someone else. "You want to talk about it?"

She sighed. "He died in the line of duty. He was honored, is still honored for that. I miss him." She looked up. "But . . . we're here, having dinner."

So keep it light. She would choose when and what she wanted to tell, as she had in the hospital, but he realized now, she would reveal very little of the woundedness.

He tore off a piece of bread. "What was your favorite subject in school?"

She laughed softly. "Yearbook."

He raised his brows.

"I liked capturing the moments, chronicling the experience."

"Were you the photographer?"

"No, that was Bernie Stein. I did layout. What was yours?"

"P.E. No surprise, huh?"

"Actually, I'd have thought something more brainy, like history, since you went into law."

"Yeah, well, just because I got the grades didn't mean I enjoyed it. What I liked was getting out on the wrestling mat, taking charge on the football field, and dodge ball? Watch out."

"What is it about men and dodge ball?"

"An evolutionary instinct to wipe out the weak." He looked down at his plate. "Actually I usually teamed up with some girl or scrawny kid." He hadn't meant to sound like some adolescent altruist, even though it was true. He'd learned how fragile the weak were.

"Wish you'd been on my team."

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. "Me too."

"This fish is wonderful. How's your duck?"

He'd ordered the duck confit with roasted potatoes, olives, wilted greens, and capers. "It's great. Want a bite?"

She surprised him by accepting. He held the forkful out as she leaned forward. His whole body warmed as she tasted it. This was a woman with whom he could share lazy mornings and rainy afternoons.

"Delicious. Would you like to try my fish?"

"I've had it. Actually it's one of my favorite things on the menu."

"Then have some." She cut off a soft flaky chunk and held it up.

He cupped her hand and took the bite. "Mmm. As good as always." The contact with her skin an enhancement. "You could write your dissertation on the euphoric benefits of quality cuisine."

"Hmm."

"Have you decided to proceed?"

She shrugged. "I had a crazy thought this afternoon of turning the cellar into a studio. Think anyone here wants to learn how to dance?"

"In the bat cave? Who wouldn't?"

She rolled her eyes. "What is it with you and holes in the ground?"

"A predisposition toward any adventure that gets me muddy."

"Well, it wouldn't look like a bat cave when I was through with it."

"No skeletons?"

She shook her head. "Lance gave him a proper burial."

Someone came up behind him, and he looked up.

Sybil gave him her sexy smirk. "Hi there, softy."

He hated that sobriquet, but she used it with impunity.

She ran a hand across his shoulders, then turned to Sofie. "I couldn't help hearing you mention Lance. Would that be Lance Michelli?"

"That's right."

"Sybil Jackson." She held out her hand, and Matt could have sworn Sofie stiffened.

"Oh."

"He's mentioned me?"

"Mainly your great-grandfather."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Unfortunate, but I can hardly be blamed. And I did make it right."

Sofie nodded, but not convincingly.

Sybil looked at Matt. "You haven't introduced your date."

He started to rise, but Sofie said, "I'm Lance's sister. Sofie."

"Oh." She turned back to him. "Some of us are slumming over to Boyes tomorrow. Feel like a hot-spring spa?"

"I'll think about it." But not too long. If Sybil got any steamier, she'd accelerate global warming. When she walked away, he said, "What happened with her great-grandfather?"

"He ordered the murder of mine."

"No way."

Sofie nodded. "Nonna's father and grandfather died as a result of his actions. I told you Antonia was forced to flee."

He moistened his lips. "I didn't know Sybil, of all people, was somehow involved."

"She wasn't. As she said, it's all in the past. And she did provide Lance some answers."

"You don't seem too crazy about her."

Sofie toyed with a flat bean. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

She raised her eyes. "She's your friend."

"In a broad sense of the word. I've known her a long time. She's most interested when I'm with someone else."

Sofie skewered the bean and ate it bite by bite, then dabbed her mouth. "I guess I'm leery of predatory people."

"What makes you think she's predatory?"

Sofie raised a single brow succinctly.

"Well, yes. She does present that way, but"—he spread his hands—"her dad's had something like seven wives, each younger than the last, none of whom have tolerated her very well. She's trying to find affirmation where she can."

"Have you dated her?"

He shook his head. "I haven't pursued any relationship since coming back to Sonoma. It's been a few years of reshaping my life, figuring out what's important."

"So what is important?"

He thought for a moment. "Not money. I was on the fast track for that with my Boston firm, billing hours at a fiendish rate. Now I make enough to get by. Of course, I had little opportunity to spend what I earned before, so most of it is out there earning more."

"So time means more than money."

"Depending on how it's spent. I could hardly think before of doing anything outside of work. Dates were plotted on my calendar for Saturday nights, and I was lucky to remember who and where."

Sofie's brow puzzled. "That doesn't seem . . ."

"Like me?"

She nodded.

"It isn't. I was caught in someone else's expectations."

"Oh." By her expression she knew exactly how that was.

He reached across the table for her hand. "What's important to you?"

"Family. Faith. Joy."

"And you have all that?"

"A measure of each."

His thumb traced the topography of her knuckles. "Is there room for more?"

"There's always room for more."

The waitress came over with the dessert tray. Sofie demurred, but he convinced her to split a chocolate ganache cake with brandied cherry sauce and crème fraiche gelato. "If you hate it, I'll make the supreme sacrifice and eat it all."

She laughed. "And if I love it?"

"We'll arm wrestle for the bigger half."

"You might be surprised," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure you're strong for a girl, being a dancer and all. But I'm afraid it wouldn't be a fair contest."

She raised her chin. "I'm from the Bronx."

"Meaning . . ."

"There are means of prevailing that don't require superior strength."

"Such as?"

"Pressure points."

He sat back and looked her up and down. There were emotional pressure points, too, so incapacitating they could take you down. She had almost capitulated, but she was recovering. He had to believe that. "Thanks for the warning." He smiled, certain that if it came to it he'd put her arm down with no difficulty.

The waitress set the decadent cake between them with two forks. He handed one to Sofie and took up the other. "Ready, set, go." But he let her have the first bite.

She closed her eyes. "Now that's worth fighting for."

He smiled. "I can order another."

"No." She sucked the fork clean. "Sometimes less is more."

"That's one of those phrases created to make you feel stupid. How can less be more? It can be better, smarter, even more efficient. But it has to be more something, not just more."

She smiled. "Would you like some more?"

"Can't exactly have less."

"That depends on less what. Less than me, or less than you've had?"

"And that"—he pointed his fork—"depends on what you meant by more."

She delectably slid the bite from her fork, licking the chocolate from the point of her lip. He felt like a rocket blasting off, all afterburners go. Not good. He could get carried away, and Sofie needed careful handling. With everything in him, he stabilized and took another bite, though frankly he'd rather watch her enjoy every morsel.

————

Carly's hands sweated.
So lame!
She swiped them down her jeans, then picked up the phone again. Just do it. She touched in the number. It connected. It rang. Her heart was racing. This was it. This time she would do it. Because she was tired of being alone, tired of being lonely.

"Hello?"

Carly swallowed hard. "Hi."

"Who's this?"

Sofie sounded a little cautious, like maybe she expected another disconnect. Before she lost her nerve, she said, "Carly." She heard a sharp breath and hoped Sofie wouldn't hang up on her.

"Carly?" It was almost a whisper. Shaky too.

"Do you remember me, 'cuz it's okay if you don't, and I didn't mean to bother you, but . . ."

"Of course I remember you." Now her voice was thick like she might cry. "Carly, is that really you? How did you get my number?"

"From my dad's phone." She didn't mention the times she'd called from his because Sofie might be mad that she hadn't said anything.

"Honey, how are you? It's
so
nice to hear your voice."

Not anything like how nice it was to hear hers. She got warm in her chest and stomach and everywhere. "I um, just wanted to . . . say hi."
I miss you; I love you; I want you to come home
.

"I can't tell you how much that means to me." She sounded calmer now, but in a way it was even deeper somehow.

"So, like, I talked to some guy when I called you before? Was that, is he . . ."

"I think it was Lance. You were probably too little to remember my brother."

Brother. O . . . kay
. "Yeah. I guess so. But I remember you, and I just, like, wanted to talk."

"Where are you?"

"In my room."

"No, I mean, where do you live?"

"Carly?" The door opened. Dad came right in. "Who is that? Who are you talking to?"

"Nobody."
Oh yeah, good one—like I'm talking to myself on the phone
. "I mean no one important. Just a friend."

"What friend?"

"Just . . . Sofie."

His face darkened. "Sofie who?"

She swallowed hard. He grabbed the phone. "Hello?" His voice cracked. "Sofie, is that you?"

Scowling, he took the phone from his ear, then closed it. Carly shook from the top of her scalp to the ends of her toes. She stood up from the bed, ran into the bathroom, and threw up. When the heaving stopped, she pushed up from her knees and washed her hands and face in cold water, shivering clear through.

————

If a meteor had crashed through the roof and smashed her, Sofie could not have felt more destroyed. Matt had hold of both her hands, but she felt nothing. Her hands were numb, her body, everything except the core deep inside that burned, icy hot.

"Sofie." Matt chafed her hands. "Stay with me."

Where did he think she would go? But the moment she moved her head, she realized how she must look. The blood had drained from her brain. A rushing like water filled her ears; her vision blackened. She heard a chair scrape. Matt had his arm around her shoulders.

Things came back into focus. The waitress hovered off to Matt's left. People at other tables stared. Matt crouched down beside her. "You okay?"

Eyes closed, she pressed her fingers to her temples. "It was Carly."

"I heard."

"And . . . Eric."

He clenched her hand as though he could stave off the memories if he just held tightly enough. With his other hand, he motioned the waitress away. "Do you want to leave?"

She nodded. Her head had cleared, and she wanted to get away from the stares, discreet though they now appeared. She stood up. "I'll duck into the bathroom."

He directed her and raised a finger for the check as she walked away. Her heart pounded.
Carly
. The ache was almost physical. She pushed through the bathroom door and leaned on the counter. A shudder passed over her.
Eric . . .
She gulped back tears, then stared hard into the mirror.
Get ahold of yourself
. But she couldn't find herself, couldn't—