Authors: Rosina Lippi

Tied to the Tracks (22 page)

BOOK: Tied to the Tracks

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Thomasina Chance was catering the luncheon, and so John found himself at the back of the restaurant at a table crowded with covered plates while Thomasina, her chef, and Caroline debated mahimahi with citrus vinaigrette versus roast pork tenderloin with a port wine demi-glace and St. Agur cheese. For an hour John tasted what was put in front of him: persimmon and pomegranate salad, apple wood-smoked duck breast, fennel and Stilton soup. Thomasina was a transplant from New Orleans, about fifty, well padded, with a big smile and large laugh, but she was dead serious about food. When somebody thought to ask John his opinion he gave it, but mostly he was happy to leave the decisions to Caroline. He would have felt guilty about this, if she didn’t seem to enjoy the whole process so much.

After they left Thomasina’s, the heat and long afternoon caught up with Caroline in short order. She had said next to nothing to John in the car, and now she was hardly even looking at him, though she had insisted on dancing.

He said, “You know, you could just tell me what you’re mad about. We could just talk about that, get it out of the way.”

She tensed in his arms, but didn’t lift her chin from his shoulder. “Look,” she said. “Will Sloan is here. I wonder why he’s not at the game.”

It took a minute for John to remember the weekly baseball game at the park, which explained why none of the other Rose girls were anywhere to be seen.

“We can go over there,” John said. “It’s not five minutes from here.”

Caroline said, “I think I’m entitled to skip a game once in a while. It’s not like my brothers-in-law will miss me.” And before John could think what to say to this unusual bit of rebellion, she said, “Look, Father Bruce is here too, he’s not at the game, either.”

Father Bruce was in the middle of the dance floor, with Rivera Rosenblum. Both of them were looking this way. The tip of his nose was cherry red, and as he danced, the Dixie cup in his hand sloshed.

“You two!” called Father Bruce. “Ask not for whom the wedding bell tolls!” With that, he put back his head and laughed uproariously.

John gave him a halfhearted salute and danced Caroline in the opposite direction. When they were in a less crowded corner of the room, he pulled back and made her look at him.

“Is it about me not coming over last night? Because—”

“No,” Caroline said, shaking her head. “No, it’s not that. Really it’s not. It’s nothing you did—”

“I was over at Angie’s yesterday, just for a little while. I thought maybe Tab said something.”

“—I’ve just got wedding jitters.”

She was meeting his eye, but also trembling a little, and color flooded her throat. It made her look very young and innocent, and John felt himself flushing, too, with regret and guilt and weariness.

He didn’t want to be here, half watching the door for Angie, who must surely be around if Rivera was here. He wanted to be someplace quiet, someplace safe. He thought of Old Roses, deserted just now with Miss Junie away. He thought of a puddle of light by an armchair surrounded by books, the kitchen table as big as a bed. He thought of being there with Caroline, away from the noise and the curious expressions, away from Rivera Rosenblum and the idea of Angie Mangiamele, away from the questions that were piling up into a tower that threatened to collapse around his ears.

He could sit in the kitchen at Old Roses with Caroline and they would talk, about the work he had done this week, about the article she was writing on the diaries of a medieval French nun, her mother’s health, whether or not his mother would actually show up at the wedding, and if she would bring her newest husband, and how that might play out. Eventually they would end up in Caroline’s room, on the pristine white bed. She would welcome him home in her quiet way, appreciative, amenable, softly murmuring.

He said, “Let’s get out of here, why don’t we. We haven’t had any time alone together since before I went to New York. We could pick up some dinner on the way and spend a quiet evening at Old Roses. What do you say?”

Caroline’s gaze flitted away, across the room, and then back to him. “Right now?”

“Why not?” John said, pulling her closer. “It would do us both some good.” He put his mouth closer to the pink shell of her ear. “I’ve missed you.” And it was true: he had missed her, this cool, intelligent, quiet woman who had been his friend first, before it had occurred to him that she was lonely, and he was lonely, and that there was no reason for them to be apart. That they would make a good couple, people of like minds and interests.

“But Kai and Rob,” she said, a catch in her voice. “They’d be hurt.”

“Kai and Rob have snuck off often enough to understand,” John said. But the impulse to get away, to be alone with Caroline, was fading quickly, and irritation was taking its place.

She said, “We should stay for at least an hour, John. Let’s go see the kitchen and get something to drink, why don’t we.”

He stopped Caroline with a hand on her wrist and the question that came out of his mouth surprised him. “Wait. Caroline, are you having second thoughts?”

Her expression was utterly calm. “Second thoughts?”

“Second thoughts about getting married.”

The corner of Caroline’s mouth quirked. She said, “Of course I am. Everybody has second thoughts at this point. I’m sure you do, too.”

And she pulled away and started toward the kitchen.

The garden at the back of Kai and Rob’s new house was fenced, and beyond the fence was a park. Angie was drawn to the sound of a ball game in progress, the crisp crack of bat on ball and the shouts that followed. Win Walker opened the gate with a flourish, and they started to walk in that direction.

“Are you one of those New Yorkers who live and die by the fate of the Yankees?” His tone was easy in the way of someone who was versed in making conversation with just about anyone. It was something Angie was good at, too, but in Win Walker she found it irritating for too many reasons to think about.

“I’m from New Jersey,” Angie said.

“New Jersey, New York,” said Win Walker.

Angie stopped and gave him a severe look. “Georgia, Alabama.”

He held up his palms. “Point taken. So you don’t like the Yankees?”

“I’m not much interested in the major league teams.” She stopped short. “Is this just small talk, or are you interested in baseball?”

To that he had nothing to say, which was okay; Angie wasn’t in the mood for the kind of conversation that went along with getting to know a new person. In fact, she admitted to herself, she wasn’t in the mood for any conversation at all, and she wished Win Walker would take his flawless self and go back to the party. Then she could sit in peace and watch what looked to be a real game played by guys in their thirties and forties, men who had never quite given up on the idea that one day a Braves scout might show up to give them a chance at glory. When it was over she would walk home, by herself, in the twilight. If she was really lucky, she would cross paths with an ice cream truck. A sudden rush of homesickness made her draw in a breath.

They were halfway across the park when Win Walker asked her if she was mad.

“Listen, just because a woman isn’t talking doesn’t mean she’s mad.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Was it John Grant showing up that made you want to take a walk, so sudden?”

She stiffened, but kept her voice light. “And would that be any of your business, if it were true?”

He shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“Absolutely not,” Angie said, and climbed up into the bleachers with Win following her. A man jogged by with a six-pack under each arm and called out. “Win! We’ve got ’em by the short hairs, boy.”

The rest of the crowd was clustered on the far side of the bleachers. Angie saw that most of the Rose clan was here, probably because all the brothers-in-law were out on the field. Harriet was fussing with a picnic basket, batting her youngest son’s hands away and laughing. Angie hoped none of them would look in this direction. All she wanted just now was to watch the game, which was fast moving and well played.

She was just starting to feel better when Win leaned close so that their upper arms touched and said, “Why don’t you tell me about what’s bothering you?”

She snorted out a laugh. “I thought confession was a Catholic thing.”

“I’m a cop, remember?”

She looked pointedly at his uniform. “When I break a law, I’ll be sure to look you up. Pay attention to the game, Tab Darling is about to steal second.”

Win was studying her instead. He said, “Have you met Tab?”

Angie spared him a glance. His expression was interested but not judgmental, though she had an idea the question wasn’t an idle one. She said, “He’s been over to Ivy House. I know most of these guys.” She shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand. “All except ZZ Top there playing shortstop.”

“That’s Wyeth Horton,” said Win. “He teaches English at the public high school. Rumor has it he has never shaved in his life. So what do you think of Tab?”

Angie turned to face him. “I think Tab drinks too much when he’s unhappy, and I think he’s unhappy most of the time. Is the exam almost over now?”

Win leaned back to prop his elbows on the bleacher behind them. “You might actually want to talk to Tab sometime. He played Triple-A ball for a year, but his father wanted him to take over his practice, and that’s all she wrote. Off he went to college and dental school.”

That was a surprise, though Angie tried not to show it. “Good to know, for the next time I need bridgework.”

Win shot her a sidelong glance. “Admit it, you had Tab down as a car salesman or an insurance agent or somebody who runs a still. Maybe,” he said softly, “you don’t know us as well as you think you do.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Angie said. “But I’m starting to. Tell me, was it Patty-Cake who sent you on yet another mission to save Harriet from the invading Italian barbarians, or is there a Save Tab Darling Club you’re president of? And wait, answer this one first. What makes you think I have any influence at all over Tony Russo, or that if I did, I would use it to interfere in his private life?”

There was a small silence. “Tab’s a good guy at heart.”

Angie threw up her hands. “Tab Darling is a good guy at heart. I wish him well, but there’s nothing I can do—and I’d guess there’s nothing you can do either—about whatever problems he’s got with his wife. Why are you talking to me about this? Why not go down there and talk to Harriet?”

“Harriet talks to her priest,” said Win Walker.

And everybody else,
Angie might have added, but she held her tongue. For a while they were distracted by a shouting match on the field, umpire and pitcher nose to nose. Angie almost wished one of them would snap and throw a punch; it would have made her feel better.

“Is this general small-town nosiness, or family feeling, or you in your professional capacity?” Angie flared up, though she meant not to.

He shrugged. “A little bit of all three. I apologize.” But he didn’t look happy, or even very apologetic.

“And since we’re on the subject,” Angie said in a rush, “let me say this once and for all. Whatever is going on with Harriet, she’s got a right to be happy, too, and if that means she has to leave Tab and find her own way, then that’s what she should do. In my opinion. Which I will keep to myself, unless she asks me directly. And I’ll say this, too. It’s none of your business, either, not even if you were Tab’s brother—”

She broke off. Win Walker was looking at her with an expression that was part grudging admiration and part embarrassment. Angie drew in an unsteady breath.

“Tab is your brother?”

“My half brother.”

“Okay,” Angie said, calmly. She counted to five and then, for good measure, to ten. “Tell me this. Is everybody in this town related to everybody else?”

“Pretty much.”

Angie nodded. “Yes, okay. So Tab’s your half brother. But I still stand by everything I said.”

“Good,” said Win Walker. “Because you’re right, and I was wrong. I should never have brought up the subject.”

BOOK: Tied to the Tracks

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