the case, but not off the curiosity.
“She certainly does. It’s nice to be able to claim a business expense when you’re visiting parents, right? Not that the IRS should worry,” Rose said, giving me a poke in the arm.
“She lived here in New York through college, didn’t she?”
“Yes, all her life until she graduated. She was on vacation in Boston one spring and drove out to Revere to see her cousin Edwina. You’ve met Edwina. She’s the one with the charming pixie haircut. Nice young woman. Well, Edwina’s brother was a friend of my Robert’s, so they were introduced, and the rest is history.”
The history was that Karla Sasso relocated to Revere, went to Northeastern Law School in Boston, and married Robert, who was now in partnership with his father, running the Galigani Mortuary. Their teenaged son, William, was Rose’s only grandchild. Rose always gave her children equal time, so I was surprised she didn’t launch into the history of her other two children: John, a journalist for the Revere newspaper, and Mary Catherine, MC, my godchild, an ex–research chemist and now a high school teacher.
“I hope we’ll be able to see Karla this week. Unless you think she’ll have too much business?” I said.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I talked to Karla this morning. I wanted her to know we’d still be here, so we can all hook up at her parents’ for dinner some night. You and Matt are invited, too, of course. She mentioned having to follow up on some work with a private investigator.”
I gulped. “A private investigator here in Manhattan?”
“Yes, and I wish she’d forget work for a while and relax. She’s seemed so stressed lately.”
I mulled this over, but before I could pry further, Rose turned her back to me. “Let’s not miss that view, Gloria. Isn’t that the perfect skyline?”
Looking over Rose’s shoulder, I had to agree. The beauty and the density of the buildings were overwhelming. Rose snapped a few photos, but I couldn’t bear to limit the view to a tiny four-inch-square screen, and my camera stayed in my purse.
I wondered in which building
Fielding
lived, and why Karla was stressed.
It’s nothing,
I told myself.
What lawyer isn’t stressed?
After nearly a half hour of stepping on and off the curb at Battery Park, taking turns sticking our arms out, bouncing up and down to keep warm, Rose and I garnered a cab to our hotel. We settled in for a tinny-sounding “Let It Snow” blaring from the back-door speakers. Once we were warm, Rose made another pitch for a wedding reception for Matt and me, just a simple party at her home, to celebrate our marriage.
“A party for the new Mr. and Mrs. . . . Oops,” she said. “I mean, the Lamerino-Gennaro union. Really, Gloria, I don’t see why you didn’t change your name. Aren’t you happy to be married to Matt?”
A straw-man fallacy if I ever heard one.
Then, as if to make up for her biography of Karla and Robert on the ferry, Rose related anecdotes about John (he took his girlfriend, Suzanne, to a wedding last weekend, and that could be a sign he’s thinking of getting married himself ) and Mary Catherine (she finally got rid of the couch I left in the apartment above the mortuary and bought her own).
I took in enough of the stories to pass a quiz, but in the back of my mind was Amber Keenan and her short life. I knew Matt was out there bailing me out with the NYPD, and I’d promised not to meddle again, but how was I supposed to pretend Amber’s terrible death hadn’t happened, right in front of me?
In the hotel elevator, Rose pushed the button for the sixth floor.
“ ’Bye until dinner, Gloria. Thanks for a wonderful, wonderful afternoon.”
All I’d done was show up. Rose had suggested the trip to Ellis Island, bought the tickets, and narrated the tour. If she weren’t so easy to please, we wouldn’t have been friends this long.
I wondered if Rose noticed that I hadn’t pushed the button for my
“She certainly does. It’s nice to be able to claim a business expense when you’re visiting parents, right? Not that the IRS should worry,” Rose said, giving me a poke in the arm.
“She lived here in New York through college, didn’t she?”
“Yes, all her life until she graduated. She was on vacation in Boston one spring and drove out to Revere to see her cousin Edwina. You’ve met Edwina. She’s the one with the charming pixie haircut. Nice young woman. Well, Edwina’s brother was a friend of my Robert’s, so they were introduced, and the rest is history.”
The history was that Karla Sasso relocated to Revere, went to Northeastern Law School in Boston, and married Robert, who was now in partnership with his father, running the Galigani Mortuary. Their teenaged son, William, was Rose’s only grandchild. Rose always gave her children equal time, so I was surprised she didn’t launch into the history of her other two children: John, a journalist for the Revere newspaper, and Mary Catherine, MC, my godchild, an ex–research chemist and now a high school teacher.
“I hope we’ll be able to see Karla this week. Unless you think she’ll have too much business?” I said.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I talked to Karla this morning. I wanted her to know we’d still be here, so we can all hook up at her parents’ for dinner some night. You and Matt are invited, too, of course. She mentioned having to follow up on some work with a private investigator.”
I gulped. “A private investigator here in Manhattan?”
“Yes, and I wish she’d forget work for a while and relax. She’s seemed so stressed lately.”
I mulled this over, but before I could pry further, Rose turned her back to me. “Let’s not miss that view, Gloria. Isn’t that the perfect skyline?”
Looking over Rose’s shoulder, I had to agree. The beauty and the density of the buildings were overwhelming. Rose snapped a few photos, but I couldn’t bear to limit the view to a tiny four-inch-square screen, and my camera stayed in my purse.
I wondered in which building
Fielding
lived, and why Karla was stressed.
It’s nothing,
I told myself.
What lawyer isn’t stressed?
After nearly a half hour of stepping on and off the curb at Battery Park, taking turns sticking our arms out, bouncing up and down to keep warm, Rose and I garnered a cab to our hotel. We settled in for a tinny-sounding “Let It Snow” blaring from the back-door speakers. Once we were warm, Rose made another pitch for a wedding reception for Matt and me, just a simple party at her home, to celebrate our marriage.
“A party for the new Mr. and Mrs. . . . Oops,” she said. “I mean, the Lamerino-Gennaro union. Really, Gloria, I don’t see why you didn’t change your name. Aren’t you happy to be married to Matt?”
A straw-man fallacy if I ever heard one.
Then, as if to make up for her biography of Karla and Robert on the ferry, Rose related anecdotes about John (he took his girlfriend, Suzanne, to a wedding last weekend, and that could be a sign he’s thinking of getting married himself ) and Mary Catherine (she finally got rid of the couch I left in the apartment above the mortuary and bought her own).
I took in enough of the stories to pass a quiz, but in the back of my mind was Amber Keenan and her short life. I knew Matt was out there bailing me out with the NYPD, and I’d promised not to meddle again, but how was I supposed to pretend Amber’s terrible death hadn’t happened, right in front of me?
In the hotel elevator, Rose pushed the button for the sixth floor.
“ ’Bye until dinner, Gloria. Thanks for a wonderful, wonderful afternoon.”
All I’d done was show up. Rose had suggested the trip to Ellis Island, bought the tickets, and narrated the tour. If she weren’t so easy to please, we wouldn’t have been friends this long.
I wondered if Rose noticed that I hadn’t pushed the button for my
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