get a response, she looked back and saw him nodding.
She put the pot on, then placed the rose in the vase, alongside the others. She saw him looking at the baby in the crib.
“Thank you. For…”
Paul nodded.
She brought the pot to the table and poured two cups.
“Please, sit down.”
Paul did.
She sat across from him. He kept his eyes on her very steadily. She couldn’t read what was behind his eyes, but she made herself meet them.
“How do you know me?” Michelle sipped her coffee.
“The park.”
“You saw me in the park? You mean the other day?”
“Two months ago.”
“And just decided to, what…follow me home?”
“Didn’t want to never see you again.”
“Why didn’t you just say something? In the park?”
Paul looked down, shrugged. His expression never changed, but something in his eyes looked embarrassed, even ashamed.
“You can’t talk well? There’s something wrong with your voice?”
Another shrug, a small nod.
“It’s okay—it’s okay,” Michelle said. “You didn’t do anything bad, it’s just…the whole thing’s a little strange.”
Sandpaper on stone: “Sorry.”
“No, no, it’s…it’s okay.”
She pushed the other coffee cup toward him. Eventually he picked it up, took a tiny sip, set it down.
He looked like a brute, the worst sort of man, and with that expressionless face he could easily be one. But—
If he’d meant to hurt her, he could have. Instead, he’d saved her son’s life. Given her half a flower shop’s worth of roses. Written a book’s worth of poems. Clearly his intentions were something closer to the opposite.
Which in her prior life would’ve meant exactly nothing to her. But that was another life. Before Frankie got killed and her baby almost blown up, before she found herself alone, with the eyes of the police on her. Beggars can’t be choosers, and the attentions even of a man like this, if he wanted to help, were nothing to take lightly. There was so much she needed. And he seemed to want to provide.
And he was capable. When near-tragedy struck, it was incredible the way he knew what to do, and how fast he did it, to save her baby from choking to death. How very fast.
“You want to know me even though they call me a gun widow?”
Paul nodded.
“A gun widow means a gangster’s widow. That doesn’t bother you?”
Paul shook his head.
He was not bad-looking, she thought, if in a totally forgettable way. There was no other way she could describe him. Except for his eyes. There was something in his eyes that was sadly beautiful. She wondered if it was always there, or only now, while he was here with her.
And that thing in his eyes—it wasn’t lust. Attraction certainly; she knew she was beautiful, was used to the looks men got around her, could distinguish among them. Most men gave her a defensive feeling. She sensed with animal instinct when a man looked at her and wanted to lay her. This man’s look said he wanted something different. It was like he wanted to protect her.
“Were you there when the bomb went off? Is that where you got those bruises?”
He nodded, then shot to his feet when a knock came at the door.
So fast.
He raised one finger, dropped his other hand into the deep pocket of his coat.
Then a voice, a woman’s, said, “NYPD. You there, Mrs. Troy?”
She walked to the door and opened it.
Lieutenant Zara was standing there.
18
“We left your carriage under the stairway, Mrs. Troy.” Zara’s eyes swept to Paul, then back to Michelle. “Forensics decided to hang onto the monkey and the music box.”
“Burn them.”
“I don’t blame you. Still don’t want our protection?”
“If that psycho sees cops around me, he’ll think I
do
have the money.”
“He’ll phone again. What’ll you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“He won’t buy it.”
“Then I’ll tell him in person.”
“You’re not serious.”
“You know I am.”
“Aren’t you afraid to face
She put the pot on, then placed the rose in the vase, alongside the others. She saw him looking at the baby in the crib.
“Thank you. For…”
Paul nodded.
She brought the pot to the table and poured two cups.
“Please, sit down.”
Paul did.
She sat across from him. He kept his eyes on her very steadily. She couldn’t read what was behind his eyes, but she made herself meet them.
“How do you know me?” Michelle sipped her coffee.
“The park.”
“You saw me in the park? You mean the other day?”
“Two months ago.”
“And just decided to, what…follow me home?”
“Didn’t want to never see you again.”
“Why didn’t you just say something? In the park?”
Paul looked down, shrugged. His expression never changed, but something in his eyes looked embarrassed, even ashamed.
“You can’t talk well? There’s something wrong with your voice?”
Another shrug, a small nod.
“It’s okay—it’s okay,” Michelle said. “You didn’t do anything bad, it’s just…the whole thing’s a little strange.”
Sandpaper on stone: “Sorry.”
“No, no, it’s…it’s okay.”
She pushed the other coffee cup toward him. Eventually he picked it up, took a tiny sip, set it down.
He looked like a brute, the worst sort of man, and with that expressionless face he could easily be one. But—
If he’d meant to hurt her, he could have. Instead, he’d saved her son’s life. Given her half a flower shop’s worth of roses. Written a book’s worth of poems. Clearly his intentions were something closer to the opposite.
Which in her prior life would’ve meant exactly nothing to her. But that was another life. Before Frankie got killed and her baby almost blown up, before she found herself alone, with the eyes of the police on her. Beggars can’t be choosers, and the attentions even of a man like this, if he wanted to help, were nothing to take lightly. There was so much she needed. And he seemed to want to provide.
And he was capable. When near-tragedy struck, it was incredible the way he knew what to do, and how fast he did it, to save her baby from choking to death. How very fast.
“You want to know me even though they call me a gun widow?”
Paul nodded.
“A gun widow means a gangster’s widow. That doesn’t bother you?”
Paul shook his head.
He was not bad-looking, she thought, if in a totally forgettable way. There was no other way she could describe him. Except for his eyes. There was something in his eyes that was sadly beautiful. She wondered if it was always there, or only now, while he was here with her.
And that thing in his eyes—it wasn’t lust. Attraction certainly; she knew she was beautiful, was used to the looks men got around her, could distinguish among them. Most men gave her a defensive feeling. She sensed with animal instinct when a man looked at her and wanted to lay her. This man’s look said he wanted something different. It was like he wanted to protect her.
“Were you there when the bomb went off? Is that where you got those bruises?”
He nodded, then shot to his feet when a knock came at the door.
So fast.
He raised one finger, dropped his other hand into the deep pocket of his coat.
Then a voice, a woman’s, said, “NYPD. You there, Mrs. Troy?”
She walked to the door and opened it.
Lieutenant Zara was standing there.
18
“We left your carriage under the stairway, Mrs. Troy.” Zara’s eyes swept to Paul, then back to Michelle. “Forensics decided to hang onto the monkey and the music box.”
“Burn them.”
“I don’t blame you. Still don’t want our protection?”
“If that psycho sees cops around me, he’ll think I
do
have the money.”
“He’ll phone again. What’ll you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“He won’t buy it.”
“Then I’ll tell him in person.”
“You’re not serious.”
“You know I am.”
“Aren’t you afraid to face
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