Invitation to Italian

By which Sebastiano took it to mean that Iris thought she was indeed an expert.

“But,” Iris continued, “I would think that in her line of work that kind of passion—or should I say compassion—often goes missing after the first year or so on the job.”

Sebastiano picked up his pen. “There’s merit in what you say. But I would also argue that sometimes one’s strength is also one’s weakness.”

Iris touched her chin and laughed softly. “You put a lot of stock in logic and order, don’t you?” she asked.

“For someone in my position, they are traits to be expected, I suppose.”

Iris studied him closely. Then she picked up the leather-bound folder resting on the corner of the desk and flipped it open. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “You have the agenda that I sent over?”

Sebastiano slid his copy out from under the blotter. Whatever he might think about Iris Phox—and unfortunately, there seemed to be way too much spare time in his evenings to ponder such questions—she was impeccably organized.

“Now,” she said, “as you will note, there are several items for discussion.” She paused, lifted her head and blinked in his direction. “However, I’d like to deviate from the usual protocol, take a moment to digress. That won’t prove inconvenient for you, I trust?”

Only several other pressing appointments and meetings, not to mention the rest of my life, Sebastiano thought.

But since he really had no choice in the matter, he smiled graciously. “For you, Iris, I have all the time in the world.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Monday, noon

“I DON’T KNOW WHO was the bigger ass—him or me,” Julie confessed. She rested her head in her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. It was lunchtime, and even though she’d showered and changed, and downed several cups of black coffee, she still felt like crap. Whatever. She would just have to deal with it. Besides, it was her day off, and here she was with her best friend, Katarina. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table at Katarina’s grandmother’s house. She should count her blessings.

Which was hard when she’d just been relating what a fool she’d been.

Katarina settled in against the pillows in the window seat. “Hey, watch your language. Babi

ka may be upstairs checking on the baby, but, trust me, she has ears more sensitive than the latest CIA listening device.” Babi

ka was Slovak for “Grandmother” and harked back to Lena Zemanova’s Eastern European origins.

“Sorry,” Julie said, nodding. “Anyway, what can I say? As usual I flew off the handle—not that it wasn’t a matter of urgency. But he got all officious, with that ‘I’m in charge’ attitude.” She gingerly felt her bruised cheek. She’d applied massive amounts of concealer, hoping to cover the worst.

“Just please tell me that bruise isn’t his fault. I can put up with temper in a man—God knows I’m living with a teenage son. But violence is completely unacceptable.”

Julie waved off her concerns. “Not to worry. Il Dottore had nothing to do with my shiner. I have my own klutziness to thank for that. Then, there was the glass vase I also chipped today.” She left out the part about it belonging to Sebastiano Fonterra in her own defense.

“I don’t understand how you can be so coordinated at sports, and the next minute trip over your own feet. My God, I remember during the summers as kids how you were the star of the swimming and softball teams. Didn’t they even recruit you to play in the men’s basketball summer league when you were in high school and college?”

“No, by college I’d called it quits. Anyway, I might be coordinated when it comes to sports, but in real life—forget it.”

Katarina studied her childhood friend.

Did she know? The reason I’d quit? Julie wondered. She had never talked about it with Katarina, and she still couldn’t now. Only her family knew why she’d given up a full basketball scholarship to the University of Connecticut, and even they’d never discussed it with her. Ever.

Not that Katarina was the type of person to dwell on the past. After all, she had her own issues growing up with a single mother, who was always moving. From what Julie had gleaned, the only source of stability in Katarina’s life had been her grandmother Lena.

Maybe that’s what drew them together: a refusal to dwell on the past. Or maybe it was because they both loved red wine and sappy movies, and that despite the unspoken vagaries of childhood and young adulthood, they were still there for each other.

From upstairs in the small clapboard house, a fierce cry could be heard. Katarina immediately tuned in. “Ah, it sounds like my son and heir is awake. I knew it was too good to last. Thank goodness Babi

ka was able to watch him while I met with Rufus.” She slanted her head to listen to her grandmother’s sturdy footsteps descending the stairs. Then she leaned toward Julie. “I was there to help him evaluate his financial situation if he decides to sell the bar—”

“He’s going to sell the Nighttime Bar? It’s a Grantham institution. He can’t just sell it!” Julie protested. The Nighttime Bar might have been a hole in the wall off Route 206, but it was a hole in the wall that had attracted some of the top names in jazz over the years, musicians who sought an intimate, knowledgeable crowd and Rufus’s easy bonhomie.

“We’ll see. But let me finish, would you!”

Julie sat back against the cushions and crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay. While Rufus and I were talking, somehow the conversation got sidetracked onto the hospital expansion.”

Katarina looked up when her grandmother came into the kitchen holding her son. “Ah, my favorite little boy,” she cooed and clapped her hands. “Hello, Rad. Did you miss your mommy?”

The three-month-old baby boy was named for Lena’s late husband, Radko, who had died before Katarina was born. His still sleepy eyes were red from crying, but they lit up as soon as he saw Katarina. She held out her arms, and he immediately cuddled close, his mouth rooting around her breasts.

“Men, they’re all alike,” Katarina complained as she unbuttoned the front of her loose blouse and undid the snaps on her nursing bra.

Lena looked on, smiling. “He slept the whole time you were gone, I’ll have you know, so he deserves a reward. And it’s a gift to nurse your child.”

The baby latched on and started to suck with a steady determination.

“Oh, my goodness, your cheek, Julie!” Lena exclaimed. “What happened? Do you need something? Calamine lotion? I have a bag of frozen peas in the freezer.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Julie assured her. “Just a little bump.” She needed more concealer, clearly.

Rad’s voracious eating produced a smacking noise.

Julie laughed and leaned across the table to stroke his tiny fingers. Julie’s touch made him quiver, and he shifted to grip the skin above Katarina’s nipple and feather it with his tiny fingers.

“What little starfish hands,” she marveled. “I’m always amazed the way they come out with all the little wrinkles at the knuckles and tiny little nails.”

Katarina glanced her way. “All the better to scratch me with.”

“And you wouldn’t give it up for a moment,” Julie replied. She heard Lena clattering pots and pans behind her and swiveled around. “Can I help you with anything there, Mrs. Zemanova?”

“How sweet of you to offer.” Lena turned on a stove burner and placed a frying pan on it. She cut a generous hunk of butter and dropped it into the pan to melt. “I’m just frying up some onions to go with the pirohy,” she said, referring to the Slovakian stuffed dumplings. “Just a little something light, you know.”

A little something light? Julie mouthed to Katarina behind Lena’s back.

“But if you really want to do something, you can get the container of sour cream out of the fridge and put it in a bowl.” Lena nodded toward an overhead cabinet to indicate where the bowls were kept.

Julie slid across the window seat, got up and headed for the refrigerator.

“If you think we need more to eat, there’s mushroom soup that I made in a Rubbermaid container on the left,” Lena said in a raised voice as she fried the chopped onion.

Julie chewed her lower lip. “It’s tempting. What do you think, Katarina?” She turned to her friend.