say, and with a parting smile, I took Rossi’s arm and together we walked along the brick path.
“Don’t be sad,” he said. “Not when you look so beautiful tonight.”
With his words ringing in my ears, I strolled onto the terrace where a table draped with a white cloth was set for a party. Francesco dropped a basting brush next to the barbeque grill and rushed over to us. “Right on time. I like that.” He eyeballed my halter dress, careening to a stop at the neckline. “Looking sharp, Deva. Green’s your color.”
“Yours too, Francesco.”
He laughed and looked down at his green polo shirt. “Yeah, we’re in father and daughter outfits tonight.” This was the first time I’d seen him wear anything but a dark suit, white shirt and silk tie. At his ease with black chest hair sprouting out of the neck of the shirt and a pair of white shorts revealing his tree-trunk legs, he was obviously enjoying the role of family man. “Hey, Jewels,” he yelled. “Come say hello. I gotta get back to the grill.”
Jewels walked across the lawn with little Frannie on her hip. In her loose white shift and thong sandals, she looked like a model for a teen magazine. As she came near, she smiled at Rossi and examined my face. “You look good. The bruises are all gone. I like your dress too.”
“And I like yours.”
“It’s a maternity. I’ve been dying to wear one. Frannie thinks I don’t need it yet, but...” She shrugged and kissed the top of the baby’s head. He drooled and cooed, and she cooed “Nice boy” back at him.
I glanced over at Rossi. He was grinning at little Frannie, which I interpreted to mean, “Babies are great.” Well they are , I told myself, so don’t read into it .
“I’m not drinking these days,” Jewels said. “But why don’t you have something?”
A portable bar had been set up by the pool with Donny presiding. We strolled over to him. “White wine for the lady,” Rossi said.
Poker faced, Donny nodded. “Chardonnay? Pinot grigio?”
“The pinot,” I replied.
“For you, sir?”
“The same.”
So far, that was the most I’d ever heard Donny say. The phrase “a man of few words” must have been invented with him in mind.
As we sipped and admired the garden with its lush tropical plantings, Bonita came outside and took little Frannie from Jewels.
I inhaled deeply. The perfume of night-blooming jasmine and barbeque sauce floated on the breeze along with a booming aria from La Bohème .
“A half hour, tops, and Grandese can expect a cruiser in his driveway,” Rossi said in my ear.
“I’ve never been to a party where cops showed up.”
“Tonight’s the night,” he said with a laugh.
“Hey, you two,” Francesco shouted from across the lawn. “Why don’t you pay your friend a visit? He’s slaving away in the kitchen. We’re having his home-made lobster ravioli tonight and my special ribs. Antipasto, iced shrimp, tiramisu. How’s that grab you?”
Rossi gave him a thumb’s up. With wineglasses in hand, we headed for the kitchen, nearly colliding en route with Cookie Harkness.
“Miss Dunne! What a surprise.” Clad in bright pink cotton tonight, she seemed stunned to see me.
Accompanying her was a deeply tanned man decked out in an ascot tie, linen shirt and rust-colored slacks embroidered with tiny green palm trees.
Cookie waved a languid hand in his vicinity. “My husband, Norman Chandler Harkness.” She turned to Rossi. “And you are?”
“Victor Giuseppe Rossi.” A three name response to a three name introduction. Good for Rossi, but Giuseppe ? Had he been named for Uncle Beppe of the mysterious demise? Hmm, interesting.
Norm gave me a flabby handshake and pointed a finger at my glass. “You beat us to it. We were just chatting with the chef about the menu. Now we’re off to get a libation.”
“By all means,” Rossi said. “We’ll trade places with you.”
The kitchen buzzed with activity. By the stove, Bonita held little
“Don’t be sad,” he said. “Not when you look so beautiful tonight.”
With his words ringing in my ears, I strolled onto the terrace where a table draped with a white cloth was set for a party. Francesco dropped a basting brush next to the barbeque grill and rushed over to us. “Right on time. I like that.” He eyeballed my halter dress, careening to a stop at the neckline. “Looking sharp, Deva. Green’s your color.”
“Yours too, Francesco.”
He laughed and looked down at his green polo shirt. “Yeah, we’re in father and daughter outfits tonight.” This was the first time I’d seen him wear anything but a dark suit, white shirt and silk tie. At his ease with black chest hair sprouting out of the neck of the shirt and a pair of white shorts revealing his tree-trunk legs, he was obviously enjoying the role of family man. “Hey, Jewels,” he yelled. “Come say hello. I gotta get back to the grill.”
Jewels walked across the lawn with little Frannie on her hip. In her loose white shift and thong sandals, she looked like a model for a teen magazine. As she came near, she smiled at Rossi and examined my face. “You look good. The bruises are all gone. I like your dress too.”
“And I like yours.”
“It’s a maternity. I’ve been dying to wear one. Frannie thinks I don’t need it yet, but...” She shrugged and kissed the top of the baby’s head. He drooled and cooed, and she cooed “Nice boy” back at him.
I glanced over at Rossi. He was grinning at little Frannie, which I interpreted to mean, “Babies are great.” Well they are , I told myself, so don’t read into it .
“I’m not drinking these days,” Jewels said. “But why don’t you have something?”
A portable bar had been set up by the pool with Donny presiding. We strolled over to him. “White wine for the lady,” Rossi said.
Poker faced, Donny nodded. “Chardonnay? Pinot grigio?”
“The pinot,” I replied.
“For you, sir?”
“The same.”
So far, that was the most I’d ever heard Donny say. The phrase “a man of few words” must have been invented with him in mind.
As we sipped and admired the garden with its lush tropical plantings, Bonita came outside and took little Frannie from Jewels.
I inhaled deeply. The perfume of night-blooming jasmine and barbeque sauce floated on the breeze along with a booming aria from La Bohème .
“A half hour, tops, and Grandese can expect a cruiser in his driveway,” Rossi said in my ear.
“I’ve never been to a party where cops showed up.”
“Tonight’s the night,” he said with a laugh.
“Hey, you two,” Francesco shouted from across the lawn. “Why don’t you pay your friend a visit? He’s slaving away in the kitchen. We’re having his home-made lobster ravioli tonight and my special ribs. Antipasto, iced shrimp, tiramisu. How’s that grab you?”
Rossi gave him a thumb’s up. With wineglasses in hand, we headed for the kitchen, nearly colliding en route with Cookie Harkness.
“Miss Dunne! What a surprise.” Clad in bright pink cotton tonight, she seemed stunned to see me.
Accompanying her was a deeply tanned man decked out in an ascot tie, linen shirt and rust-colored slacks embroidered with tiny green palm trees.
Cookie waved a languid hand in his vicinity. “My husband, Norman Chandler Harkness.” She turned to Rossi. “And you are?”
“Victor Giuseppe Rossi.” A three name response to a three name introduction. Good for Rossi, but Giuseppe ? Had he been named for Uncle Beppe of the mysterious demise? Hmm, interesting.
Norm gave me a flabby handshake and pointed a finger at my glass. “You beat us to it. We were just chatting with the chef about the menu. Now we’re off to get a libation.”
“By all means,” Rossi said. “We’ll trade places with you.”
The kitchen buzzed with activity. By the stove, Bonita held little
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