the help, let alone
sleeping with them. She was rumored, in certain circles, to have other, more
intense, obsessions.
Dornal flicked his
half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and turned to go. In the end, it didn’t
really matter why John Monroe and Veronica Rossmore were shacking up. Before
this was all over, Monroe would be dead and Veronica…
Well, he’d just have
to think about what he could do with the lovely Veronica Rossmore.
****
John had picked out a
cozy Italian place with dark red walls covered in grainy black-and-white
photographs of the old country. Big mirrors reflected the glow of softly lit
lamps, which were set out on tables draped in checkered cloths. Wine bottles
hung from the ceiling and the tender voice of Corelli crooning a Puccini aria
played in the background.
Veronica smiled as
the short, stout maitre d’ escorted them to a black leather booth and
dramatically fluffed a napkin in the air to lie on her lap. Their waiter
recited every dish on the menu with the passion of an ardent young lover
pontificating on the curve of his lady’s derrière. Veronica ordered the
eggplant parmesan and a glass of merlot. John got the lasagna and a soda.
She looked around the
room. “I was right. You’re a complete cornball.”
“Why? Because I’m not
too cynical and jaded to enjoy a blatantly romantic atmosphere?”
“Are you calling me
cynical and jaded?” she asked.
“I don’t know, you
tell me.”
“I can respond to a
romantic atmosphere as well as the next girl—if I’m with the right man,” she
said, her eyes sparkling wickedly.
The waiter set their
drinks down on the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Don’t drink?” she
observed, looking him up and down like she was trying to figure him out.
He held her stare.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?” she asked,
running a finger around the rim of her wine glass.
“The Irish really
shouldn’t,” John replied with a smile.
She smiled, too. “I
hope you don’t have any objections to my…” She pointed to her glass.
“On the contrary, I
think you should get good and soused. It’ll give me an advantage over you.”
“You’ll need it,” she
replied, with a self-satisfied smile.
“Don’t be too sure.”
“You know, it’s
probably not right for me to have asked you out,” she said. “It probably would
make my father angry.”
“Is that why you did
it?”
“No.” She took a sip
of wine.
“Then why did you?”
he asked seriously.
She gave him her Mona
Lisa smile. “Maybe I wanted to get to know you a little better.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I
might like you,” she admitted. “I think you’re a nice, honest guy. There aren’t
many of those around.”
“You don’t really
know me,” he said, dropping his eyes. All the terrible, low, cowardly things
he’d done in the past flashed before him; the lies he’d told, the money he’d
borrowed, the people he’d let down before he got sober.
“Why don’t you
drink?” she asked him for the second time.
He looked up and saw
sincere interest in her eyes. She wasn’t playing games. She really wanted to
know.
“Because I’m an
alcoholic.”
“Why?” she asked, and
now there was intense interest written all over her face.
“Why?” he asked
confused.
She leaned in closer
to him. “Yes, why?”
“I don’t know,” he
said, fiddling with the breadbasket. “It’s just one of those things. You either
are or you aren’t.”
“So nothing happened
to you? Nothing made you like that?” She seemed cagey and desperately curious
all at the same time.
He looked at her more
closely, but he still didn’t get why she was asking. “My father was an alcoholic
and they say it runs in families. He died when I was seven.”
She sat back and
nodded her head slightly, like she had found what she’d been looking for. Then
she said quietly, “My mother died when I was twelve. I don’t like to talk about
it.”
“I don’t like to talk
about my
sleeping with them. She was rumored, in certain circles, to have other, more
intense, obsessions.
Dornal flicked his
half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and turned to go. In the end, it didn’t
really matter why John Monroe and Veronica Rossmore were shacking up. Before
this was all over, Monroe would be dead and Veronica…
Well, he’d just have
to think about what he could do with the lovely Veronica Rossmore.
****
John had picked out a
cozy Italian place with dark red walls covered in grainy black-and-white
photographs of the old country. Big mirrors reflected the glow of softly lit
lamps, which were set out on tables draped in checkered cloths. Wine bottles
hung from the ceiling and the tender voice of Corelli crooning a Puccini aria
played in the background.
Veronica smiled as
the short, stout maitre d’ escorted them to a black leather booth and
dramatically fluffed a napkin in the air to lie on her lap. Their waiter
recited every dish on the menu with the passion of an ardent young lover
pontificating on the curve of his lady’s derrière. Veronica ordered the
eggplant parmesan and a glass of merlot. John got the lasagna and a soda.
She looked around the
room. “I was right. You’re a complete cornball.”
“Why? Because I’m not
too cynical and jaded to enjoy a blatantly romantic atmosphere?”
“Are you calling me
cynical and jaded?” she asked.
“I don’t know, you
tell me.”
“I can respond to a
romantic atmosphere as well as the next girl—if I’m with the right man,” she
said, her eyes sparkling wickedly.
The waiter set their
drinks down on the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Don’t drink?” she
observed, looking him up and down like she was trying to figure him out.
He held her stare.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?” she asked,
running a finger around the rim of her wine glass.
“The Irish really
shouldn’t,” John replied with a smile.
She smiled, too. “I
hope you don’t have any objections to my…” She pointed to her glass.
“On the contrary, I
think you should get good and soused. It’ll give me an advantage over you.”
“You’ll need it,” she
replied, with a self-satisfied smile.
“Don’t be too sure.”
“You know, it’s
probably not right for me to have asked you out,” she said. “It probably would
make my father angry.”
“Is that why you did
it?”
“No.” She took a sip
of wine.
“Then why did you?”
he asked seriously.
She gave him her Mona
Lisa smile. “Maybe I wanted to get to know you a little better.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I
might like you,” she admitted. “I think you’re a nice, honest guy. There aren’t
many of those around.”
“You don’t really
know me,” he said, dropping his eyes. All the terrible, low, cowardly things
he’d done in the past flashed before him; the lies he’d told, the money he’d
borrowed, the people he’d let down before he got sober.
“Why don’t you
drink?” she asked him for the second time.
He looked up and saw
sincere interest in her eyes. She wasn’t playing games. She really wanted to
know.
“Because I’m an
alcoholic.”
“Why?” she asked, and
now there was intense interest written all over her face.
“Why?” he asked
confused.
She leaned in closer
to him. “Yes, why?”
“I don’t know,” he
said, fiddling with the breadbasket. “It’s just one of those things. You either
are or you aren’t.”
“So nothing happened
to you? Nothing made you like that?” She seemed cagey and desperately curious
all at the same time.
He looked at her more
closely, but he still didn’t get why she was asking. “My father was an alcoholic
and they say it runs in families. He died when I was seven.”
She sat back and
nodded her head slightly, like she had found what she’d been looking for. Then
she said quietly, “My mother died when I was twelve. I don’t like to talk about
it.”
“I don’t like to talk
about my
Similar Books
