shrugged. “Sure.”
“Suppose just for the sake of argument that you hook up with a woman who can’t have children. What then?”
“There are all kinds of families, Deva. Family means a group of people who love each other.”
“Oh, please. That kind of family wouldn’t be enough.”
“For whom?”
“A guy like you.”
He lowered his head, shading his face so I couldn’t see his expression. “I don’t have a choice,” he said softly.
“Of course you do.”
He raised his head. His eyes bore into mine. “No, I don’t. I haven’t wanted to bring up the subject...it’s too humiliating. Easier to pretend the problem doesn’t exist.”
“What are you getting at? What problem?”
“Maybe you should sit down.”
He had me scared suddenly. He’d been concealing something from me. Something serious.
“All right. The living room?”
We sat side by side on his couch, and he half turned to face me. The sadness in his expression tugged at my heart. Whatever he had to say, I needed to know fast and clean. No softening the blow. No easing the pain.
“What’s the matter? Just tell me. I can’t stand seeing you so sad.”
He picked up my hand and, holding it tight, said, “I’ve been seeing a doctor. A proctologist.”
“A what ?”
“No point in keeping quiet about this.”
“You can tell me anything. You know that.”
His eyes avoiding mine, he said, “The doc found something.”
My heart stopped. He was sick. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
He hesitated then blurted out the words as though if he didn’t do so quickly, he wouldn’t be able to. “I can’t have children.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before adding, “I’m sterile.”
“No way! I don’t believe that.”
He hung his head. “Believe.”
I squeezed the hand holding mine. “That doesn’t matter. And I never meant anything more in my life.”
He flung his left leg over his right knee and raised one of those singed eyebrows. “Gotcha!”
I dropped his hand as if it were a hunk of lava and reared back on the cushions. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” I wasn’t asking a question.
The eyebrow rose higher.
“Not fair, Rossi. Not fair.”
“But effective. Now...” His voice was positively chummy. I could have kicked him in the groin. Should have. “Is there anything else you wish to add to this conversation?”
“Yes. You’re diabolical.”
“Of course I am. I’m a detective. So to end the subject once and for all, find out the truth if you must. Go to your doctor. Ease your mind, but understand this—I’m crazy about you, and always will be, no matter what he says.”
“She.” All the fight had gone out of me. I wanted to make love not war.
Rossi must have felt the same way. “You know what,” he said, reaching out and pulling me against the plumerias. “The Chinese can wait.”
Chapter Thirteen
Friday evening we were a block away from the Grandese house when a booming Italian love song exploded in the air.
“ O sole ... o sole mio ... sta ’nfronte a te ! O sole ...”
Rossi and I looked at each other and grinned. Rum Row would never be the same.
We rang the bell and waited at the front door. For the occasion, Rossi had donned his most lurid Hawaiian shirt, lavender orchids on a vivid purple background.
“You’d better stay out of the kitchen,” I warned. “I’ll never find you in there.”
Before he could ask why not, a sad-eyed, dark-haired woman met us at the door. “Everyone is out by the pool,” she said, gesturing to the brick path stretching along the side lawn.
“Your name is?” I asked.
“Bonita,” she said softly. “I was the wife of Tomas.” Ah. The woman Chip had mentioned.
I took her hand. “I am so sorry for your loss, Bonita.”
An expression I couldn’t fathom crossed her face. “No one is sadder than I, señora . Inside me is all the sorrow in the world.”
“I know,” I said. And I did, but there was little more to
“Suppose just for the sake of argument that you hook up with a woman who can’t have children. What then?”
“There are all kinds of families, Deva. Family means a group of people who love each other.”
“Oh, please. That kind of family wouldn’t be enough.”
“For whom?”
“A guy like you.”
He lowered his head, shading his face so I couldn’t see his expression. “I don’t have a choice,” he said softly.
“Of course you do.”
He raised his head. His eyes bore into mine. “No, I don’t. I haven’t wanted to bring up the subject...it’s too humiliating. Easier to pretend the problem doesn’t exist.”
“What are you getting at? What problem?”
“Maybe you should sit down.”
He had me scared suddenly. He’d been concealing something from me. Something serious.
“All right. The living room?”
We sat side by side on his couch, and he half turned to face me. The sadness in his expression tugged at my heart. Whatever he had to say, I needed to know fast and clean. No softening the blow. No easing the pain.
“What’s the matter? Just tell me. I can’t stand seeing you so sad.”
He picked up my hand and, holding it tight, said, “I’ve been seeing a doctor. A proctologist.”
“A what ?”
“No point in keeping quiet about this.”
“You can tell me anything. You know that.”
His eyes avoiding mine, he said, “The doc found something.”
My heart stopped. He was sick. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
He hesitated then blurted out the words as though if he didn’t do so quickly, he wouldn’t be able to. “I can’t have children.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before adding, “I’m sterile.”
“No way! I don’t believe that.”
He hung his head. “Believe.”
I squeezed the hand holding mine. “That doesn’t matter. And I never meant anything more in my life.”
He flung his left leg over his right knee and raised one of those singed eyebrows. “Gotcha!”
I dropped his hand as if it were a hunk of lava and reared back on the cushions. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” I wasn’t asking a question.
The eyebrow rose higher.
“Not fair, Rossi. Not fair.”
“But effective. Now...” His voice was positively chummy. I could have kicked him in the groin. Should have. “Is there anything else you wish to add to this conversation?”
“Yes. You’re diabolical.”
“Of course I am. I’m a detective. So to end the subject once and for all, find out the truth if you must. Go to your doctor. Ease your mind, but understand this—I’m crazy about you, and always will be, no matter what he says.”
“She.” All the fight had gone out of me. I wanted to make love not war.
Rossi must have felt the same way. “You know what,” he said, reaching out and pulling me against the plumerias. “The Chinese can wait.”
Chapter Thirteen
Friday evening we were a block away from the Grandese house when a booming Italian love song exploded in the air.
“ O sole ... o sole mio ... sta ’nfronte a te ! O sole ...”
Rossi and I looked at each other and grinned. Rum Row would never be the same.
We rang the bell and waited at the front door. For the occasion, Rossi had donned his most lurid Hawaiian shirt, lavender orchids on a vivid purple background.
“You’d better stay out of the kitchen,” I warned. “I’ll never find you in there.”
Before he could ask why not, a sad-eyed, dark-haired woman met us at the door. “Everyone is out by the pool,” she said, gesturing to the brick path stretching along the side lawn.
“Your name is?” I asked.
“Bonita,” she said softly. “I was the wife of Tomas.” Ah. The woman Chip had mentioned.
I took her hand. “I am so sorry for your loss, Bonita.”
An expression I couldn’t fathom crossed her face. “No one is sadder than I, señora . Inside me is all the sorrow in the world.”
“I know,” I said. And I did, but there was little more to
Similar Books
