A Mom for Matthew

“I know you wouldn’t think it from looking at me, but I fall in love with almost any food I set eyes on. My grandmother used to complain that when I was growing up, I threatened to eat her out of house and home. An active metabolism accounts for my staying thin. I’m warning you, Zeke Rossetti, your employer won’t get off easy when it comes to feeding me. Sure you wouldn’t rather reconsider?”

Now it was Zeke’s turn to laugh. “Nope. So, if that was a challenge of some sort, I accept. I have just the place, then. Guaranteed to fill a hungry stomach. An Italian restaurant on the Strand. I swear, if you leave Luigi’s hungry, it’s your own fault.” He took her elbow. “Let’s cross the street here. It’s a few blocks. That’ll give us a chance to walk off their huge servings of spaghetti or lasagna on the way back.” Zeke rubbed a hand over his flat belly, drawing Grace’s eyes to his rangy physique.

Up close, Zeke Rossetti was even more dangerously disarming and formidable than she’d guessed as she watched him motor away from Jorge’s boat. “I should’ve known,” she threw out quickly to cover her staring, “with the name Rossetti, of course you’d know where all the best Italian restaurants are. I read that Galveston was settled by families from the New York banking industry. Can you trace your roots back to the birth of the city?”

“No.” Zeke immediately pulled back from her eager personal inquiry. He also dropped his hand from her elbow as they were well across the street, down the block from where they’d cut over. Zeke never understood why women always wanted to delve into a man’s history five minutes after they’d met. “Turn here,” he said, feeling a need to slide some inconsequential remark into the uncomfortable silence swirling around them. “It’s not far.” He started walking faster.

Grace lengthened her stride to keep abreast. Before long, she found herself puffing up the steady sidewalk incline. She had no breath to ask further questions. And although she considered herself to be fairly good at reading people, they’d reached his proposed destination before it struck her that a desire to silence her questions was precisely what had led to Zeke Rossetti’s hundred-yard uphill sprint. It served to make Grace even more curious. But she’d get her answers eventually.

At the coffeehouse where she stopped for breakfast each day, everyone was local and they seemed willing to chat. Someone would give her the lowdown on Kemper Oil’s operating chief.

Holding the door, Zeke stepped aside to let Grace pass into the restaurant where music, muted laughter and mouthwatering odors enveloped all hungry arrivals. The hostess greeted Zeke by name and subsequently whisked them to a corner table. Even as Zeke accepted menus, he pulled out Grace’s chair, and waited patiently for her to be seated before handing her one.

Feeling awkward, she turned her attention to the many choices listed under entrées. “Goodness, how will I ever choose one thing? It all sounds fabulous, and everything looks and smells delicious.”

“If you want to sample more than one dish, I can always take the leftovers home. Anything they make here is great reheated,” he said enthusiastically.

Glancing up, Grace couldn’t help noticing that Zeke Rossetti wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Did that mean he lived alone and cooked for himself? Although she’d learned the hard way that married men didn’t necessarily advertise the fact with a ring. One in particular had gone to great lengths to conceal his marital status, she recalled with sudden distaste. Sure, she’d been gullible. Once. A mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

“Tell you what…” Rossetti’s voice rumbled from his dim corner. “Just order what you think you’d like to try.”

“Oh, but I’d hate to leave you with anything your family might not eat.”

Zeke sent her a veiled frown. He was sure he’d never mentioned having a family. So, Grace Stafford wasn’t above fishing for other things besides that old war plane, he decided uncomfortably. Zeke considered it lucky that a waiter came to take their drink order, and saved him from answering.

He ordered a bottle of the house Chianti, assuming she’d drink red wine with Italian food. Since Grace didn’t object when he held up two fingers as the waiter asked, “How many glasses?” Zeke continued, emboldened to order a sampler of four popular dishes. “I know it’s a lot for two people,” he added. “Tell the chef I’m showcasing house specialties to a visitor tonight. I’ll have you box what’s left.”

“Excellent choices,” the no-nonsense waiter said, turning to smile at Grace. “And welcome to our humble island. I know you’ll love every bite of the ravioli. It’s seafood tonight. Magnifico,” he said, kissing his fingertips.

Once the waiter had hurried off, Zeke didn’t know how to progress through the awkward initial phase of being out with a woman—the time after the food order had been taken and the drinks or salad hadn’t yet arrived as an icebreaker.

Grace opened her purse. She extracted a packet of folded papers—and filled the emptiness for Zeke. “Here are my permits. You said you wanted to see them. Now’s probably the best time. Then I can stow them away again without the risk of getting marinara sauce all over them.” Her mouth tilted up prettily on one side.

Zeke reached out blindly, thoroughly captivated by a deep dimple winking at him from her soft-looking cheek. He fumbled and dropped the papers atop a candle flickering in a red glass holder. “Jeez,” he yelped, snatching them away, and slapping them on the table to douse the flame.

“Ah, so that’s your plan,” Grace teased. “You think if you set them on fire and turn them into cinders, I’ll have to give up my quest. Sorry to disappoint you, Zeke, but I had copies made at the hotel before I went up to shower. The originals now reside in the hotel safe.”

“I didn’t drop them on purpose,” he muttered gruffly, feeling his cheeks heat. “I didn’t actually access them, but I’m aware they’re on file at our courthouse. I went there after we talked. I needed to check out Kemper’s options before phoning my boss at his office in Dallas.”

“Oh. So then you know I have salvage rights for as long as it takes to explore the floor of the bay.”

Zeke adjusted the pages so the low candlepower highlighted the intent and the signatures. He studied the permits, folding them closed as their waiter returned with a wine bottle and crisp house salads. Pulling the cork, the waiter offered him a taste. Zeke nodded in approval and the man poured their glasses. After a sip, Zeke set her papers aside. “These are mine, you say?”

Grace shrugged. “If you want. I assure you they’re valid.” She dug into her greens.

“I’m sure they are. However, I’d like to fax copies to Pace Kemper. He’s not going to be happy,” Zeke muttered right before he speared a cherry tomato. “Any delay costs Kemper Oil money. But I think you know that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, in the offhand way people did when they didn’t really care. While Zeke shifted salad aimlessly on his plate, Grace steadily ate hers.

Zeke put down his fork and twirled his glass. “You aren’t sorry. If you were, Grace, you’d pack in your search and let us go on about the business of drilling for oil that U.S. consumers depend on. It’s a necessity. I’d hoped you’d see that we’re involved in a serious debate here.”

Grace pushed away her empty bowl. “Well, you’re blunt. Is that what your employer believes? That I’d let a little wine and a meal convince me to quit? Just like that?” She set down her fork and snapped her fingers. “I don’t happen to consider my mission frivolous.”

Zeke’s irritation showed for a moment in his tightly pressed lips. He blotted away the bad taste with his napkin; as he crumpled it in his right hand, he muttered, “Frivolous is your term. You’re jumping to conclusions, Ms. Stafford.”

“Grace. And no, I don’t think I am. What’s this about if not to buy me off?”

“Grace, my boss asked me to try and negotiate an amicable agreement for us both. Pace Kemper is a reasonable man who happens to believe it’s more conducive to talk business over a nice meal.”

As if on cue, the waiter appeared and began to slide a variety of steaming, aromatic dishes between Zeke and Grace. Zeke grabbed up the permits moments before a plate of ravioli would have landed on top of them.

“May I bring you anything else?” the waiter asked, efficiently removing their salad plates as he topped up their barely touched wineglasses. “Is the wine to your liking, sir?”

“What?” Zeke tore his eyes from Grace. “Oh, it’s great.” He took a healthy swig.

Grace could only gape at the amount of food. Zeke was the one to ask belatedly for grated Parmesan on the spaghetti and the lasagna. “This all looks so fantastic. I hope you have a big family, Zeke. I doubt we’ll make much of a dent. I foresee most of this going home with you.” She dished up generous servings to her plate from each platter. Yes, she acknowledged, she was fishing as to who this handsome man had waiting for him at home. Grace told herself it was mere curiosity and a way to steer him off business talk for a while. She so rarely went out to dinner with someone else picking up the tab, and Grace wanted to relax and enjoy tonight’s experience.

She was a teacher in an elementary school where most of her co-workers were also female, so eating out was always Dutch treat. At one time she’d begun dating a science teacher she’d met on a district project; later she’d discovered that he had lied and was married. Deception hurt. She hadn’t recovered from it yet.

Zeke avoided her bait. He didn’t respond and made no apology for it. But it pleased him immensely to see her tuck into her food. Eating kept them both occupied for a while. Until Zeke glanced across the table and said, “Based on your setup, I take it salvage isn’t what you do for a living.”

Grace shook her head. “I’m a first-grade teacher. In San Antonio. That’s how I could take on this project. It’s summer break. I don’t need to be back in school until the day after Labor Day.”

“A teacher?” That jolted Zeke. He took another swig of wine. “So, what’s your experience with undersea salvage? It can be dangerous, you know.”

“This bay isn’t all that deep. And I happen to believe a person can learn any skill through reading up on it. Libraries are a great source for how-to books, Zeke. I bought used but serviceable equipment. I know what I’m doing.”

“That damned boat is a piece of junk.”

“Well…” Grace turned her eyes away. “I didn’t get realistic figures on boat rentals in this area. It seems the costs I was given pertain to out of season boats—when the shrimp aren’t running. But Jorge is confident his boat will suffice for my needs.”

Zeke rolled his eyes.

“Worried about my welfare?” she asked with a hint of challenge.

“Nope. I’m calculating the added cost to Kemper if Jorge’s damned boat sinks over where we have to dig our well. I didn’t factor in clearing the bay of debris.”

“You’re all heart, Rossetti.” Grace reached for the tortellini plate to take a second helping, but Zeke shot out a hand. They both pulled back fast, as though shocked by the brush of callused palm against soft flesh.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, her hand hovering above the table. “Am I being piggish? I told you I had a big appetite.”

“Nothing close to that. Eat all you want. I just wanted to mention that they serve homemade spumoni ice cream for dessert here. I always save room for a dishful with my coffee.”

Grace gazed longingly at the tortellini, but she sat back. “In case you can’t tell, I’m torn. I’ve never tasted homemade spumoni ice cream. I can’t pass up trying something new.”

“Are you a runner?”

“Me?” Grace laughed. “I’m the least athletic person I know. I swim and scuba dive because I grew up outside Corpus and there wasn’t much else to do for entertainment when I was a kid. What made you think I run?”