Justin, despite his hat, didn’t gawk like some hick. Of course, this was just Brooklyn. Most of the buildings were only three or four stories, all tucked together side by side and leaving no gaps between them.
“I have been to the city before,” he told her when she asked, then he’d shuddered. “To think I could be out on the ranch right about now is a sad, sad thought.” But it was his teasing voice, so she didn’t feel too bad about that. Besides, a ranch, no matter what size his might be, would be just as foreign to her.
She knew the first place she had to go and led Justin the roundabout way home to reach the family pasta shop.
“Kara!” Mama’s shout was ecstatic as she hustled out from behind the counter.
“Mama!” Kara fell into her embrace. There. Now she was home.
* * *
To give them a moment of privacy, Justin inspected the shop. The two embracing woman completely blocked the single long aisle. Along one wall were packages of biscotti, olive oil, dried pastas, and dozens of other dried ingredients. It was a tiny grocery store dedicated to making pasta dinners.
Down the other side of the shop ran a long glass-fronted cabinet. Trays and trays of fresh pasta were lined up: spaghetti; lasagna; little dumpling things; the big, round tube ones; and a dozen others he couldn’t begin to name.
At his end, close by a cash register that might have been built during the war—perhaps the American Civil War—were great tureens of sauces: green pesto, bubbling red sauce with and without sausage, a whole container of meatballs each nearly as big as his own fist, and a half-dozen other sauces, some red, some yellow with butter. They filled the air until the shop was thick with flavor. He did notice that there was no Texas-style, but what did they really know here in New York? He pitied the poor people their uneducated ways. And wouldn’t Kara beat the crap outta you if she heard that sentiment.
The heavy plank flooring, plaster walls, and beaten copper ceiling might well date back to the Civil War.
It was like a barbecue shop for New Yorkers—the perfect Italian comfort food.
Though the Rolling Stones playing on the oldies station was a misfit.
A man who shared Kara’s skin coloring and age was eyeing Justin carefully as he dished up a to-go container of the marinara for one of the half-dozen customers being jostled by Kara and her mother, not that they seemed to mind.
But the cousin—no, he had the same eyes—the brother definitely minded. Not the jostling or the people, but the tall, blond Texan who stood a hand taller than any of them—even not counting his hat.
In the midst of a happy embrace, Kara’s mother was inspecting him over her daughter’s shoulder.
“And who is this?” She turned them both until they faced Justin, but she kept a hand around her daughter’s waist.
“Mama, this is Justin. Justin, this is Angela.”
“Mrs. Moretti.” Justin put on his best manners, belatedly tipping, then removing his hat. “It is easy to see that you’re kin, but it’s not so easy to tell you aren’t sisters.”
And he wasn’t totally whistling in the wind. Angela Moretti was a few inches shorter than her daughter and her curves were softened with age, but she was still a stunning woman. Though the dark eyes didn’t quite match Kara’s; he suspected Kara had her father’s eyes.
“He is a sweet talker, Kara. And it’s Angela to you. And you—” She turned on her daughter, then cuffed her an affectionate blow to the side of her head, then pulled her taller daughter over so that she could kiss the spot.
“Ow! Hey! What did I do?”
“Why did you not tell me you were bringing home a beautiful man when you call from Italy? Huh? You pick him up on the plane, the airport, or the subway?” She sent Justin a broad and friendly wink to show she meant no offense.
“When I called, I, uh, didn’t know he’d be able to—”
Mrs. Moretti turned back to face Justin and cut off her daughter mid-explanation.
“You watch this one close, Justin-who-she-doesn’t-even-know-your-last-name.” Another saucy wink. “She’s slippery. You fall in love with her, and then she breaks your heart like a boiled cream sauce.”
“Mama!” Kara cringed.
Which Justin found rather cute. Apparently nothing impacted Kara’s innate confidence except her mother.
“I would be Justin Roberts, Mrs. Moretti.”
“Polite and pretty. Too good for my Kara. You think I don’t know the truth about your heart.” Now she was back to her daughter. “Carlo’s always asking about you.”
“Sure, me. And Nadya. And Katarine. And anything else that has two legs with nothing betwee—”
“Yes. Yes. But he asks special about you. See, you broke his heart and he isn’t ever again the same.”
Kara attempted to silence her mother with another hug and offered Justin an eye roll in apology.
Actually he found himself quite enjoying this view of Kara and her mother.
However, the brother’s scowl had darkened even further. Him Justin was less sure about.
* * *
“We’ll see you at home.” Kara made good their escape. The shop was always busiest right before dinnertime, and between them and their duffel bags, they had quite jammed the flow of business.
They stepped out onto the bustling street as a light May rain spattered down, leaving little dots on the dry sidewalk. A glance upward said they would have to hurry or they’d be caught in a downpour.
“You might have introduced me to your brother. I think he already hates me.”
“Didn’t I? Shit! He’s Joe—middle brother. Al Junior’s my big brother. He’s a cop like Papa, and Rudi, just a year ahead of me, he’s the black sheep—left the force to go back to law school. Don’t worry about Joe. He hates everybody I bring home, so don’t take it personally.”
“Like your mama loves every one of them.”
“You have no idea.” Kara shook her head. “There were times I’d come home from a class or ROTC and find three old boyfriends sitting around the kitchen table eating Mama’s cookies and drinking a soda.”
“Sounds like you had quite a following,” Justin continued right over her as she spluttered over that. “So, did you always break their hearts?”
Kara pointed. “Best pizza in the neighborhood. I’ll take you tomorrow. Best pizza in Brooklyn makes it best on earth. When they start selling pizza on the moon, it will be the best in the solar system.”
“Evasion, Moretti.”
She stopped and looked up at him, shading her eyes against the increasing spatter of raindrops. “Always, Cowboy. So don’t be giving me yours. I’m hell on hearts.”
He laughed and leaned down to kiss her just as a flash and a hard thump of thunder rattled the windows. The heavens opened in a proper East Coast–style downpour and she didn’t care. The sizzle and thump wasn’t only in the sky. She actually moaned beneath his kiss. She never moaned, but there was no question it had been her. Kara clung to him as the raindrops grew from orzo to gnocchi sized.
Around them, New Yorkers scattered under a ragtag collection of umbrellas, raised collars, and newspapers refolded over their hair.
Her face remained dry in the tiny zone of safety beneath the brim of Justin’s hat. She let his kiss sweep through her until her knees were as weak as her hair was wet.
Chapter 16
“Kara!”
She wished people would stop shouting her name when she was busy swooning.
Then the voice registered through her Justin-induced haze.
“Papa!”
She moved to hug him but he kept her at arm’s length.
“You’re soaked through, girl.” He wore his J.C. Penney’s suit from his work as a detective at the 78th Precinct. His umbrella had kept him dry on the walk home from his shift.
She pushed his arm aside a
nd splatted herself against him. “Oh, you’re all warm too.” The May rain certainly wasn’t. She snuggled in and rested her head on his shoulder as he patted her back. He smelled like home. His cheap suits and stale coffee. The lingering hint of the inevitable salami sub that Nonna made for him every morning, heavy on the mustard.
“You’re kissing cowboys in the rain, mia piccola?”
Kara stepped back and grinned at the outline of her damp self on his dark suit. He wore his silver tie that she’d bought him for Christmas years ago. “You were in court today?” She reached out to loosen the tie.
He batted her hands away and gave her one of those stern looks that still made her feel like she was twelve.
She loved coming home so much. “Yes, I am kissing a cowboy. And, trust me, Papa, ain’t nobody more surprised by that than me. But can we get out of the rain before I introduce y’all?” It slipped out before she could stop it. “I’m gonna be drowning here any second.”
She glanced back at Justin who was either on the verge of running in panic or about to laugh in her face; she couldn’t quite tell which. Maybe both. To forestall his escape, she hooked an arm through each man’s elbow, as Justin had already shouldered her duffel on top of his, and she turned them for home.
“‘Y’all’ is a surprisingly useful word.” She addressed her father. “English has no voi.” Which sounded like a lame excuse even to her.
“’Course English does, little lady.” Justin squeezed her hand tighter in the crook of his elbow. “It has a perfectly fine one, and you used it just right. Even if your accent is still all Yankeefied.”
Papa gave a snort that was about as close as he ever got to a laugh.
Kara hoped that was a good sign. Unlike with other men she’d brought home, she discovered that she cared whether or not Papa liked this one.
* * *
Justin stood on the polished wood of the front entryway and did his best not to drip on the floor. A tropical monsoon’s worth of water was running off his and Kara’s clothes, forming a widening puddle.
Alfonso Moretti Senior had a grip like a cop…or a farrier who could bend horseshoes without needing his anvil. It was a crushing handclasp even by Justin’s standards. The look in Mr. Moretti’s eye said that he had rid Kara of more than few of her male suitors with that grip and a dose of that evil glance.
He smiled and offered a sharp nod when Justin returned as good as he was given.
While he was standing there trying not to drip, the front door slammed into his back.
“Shit! It’s wetter than a baptism out there.” A younger version of Alfonso Senior shoved in the doorway. He was still in uniform right down to his sidearm, billed hat, and jacket with the NYPD emblem on the breast and sleeve. “Hey, Kara. Didn’t know you had leave.”
He gave her an absent peck on the forehead. “Hey, Papa.” He shoved by his father.
Justin wondered if he was somehow invisible.
Then, just as the man stepped through the inner entry, he glanced back at Justin with a look that said, “Oh brother, another one? What this time?” The last of the look rested above Justin’s head then he was gone. His father followed him into the house.
Justin had to admit that Kara’s assessment about his cowboy hat being out of place in New York City might be an accurate one, but giving in and removing it now was out of the question.
A second man had slipped in behind the first one—who hadn’t introduced himself but must be Rudi. This last one could have been Kara’s fraternal twin. He was as short as her, not that any of the Morettis were particularly tall, but Kara and Rudi had clearly inherited their stature from their mother rather than their father.
“Hi, Kar.” His voice was also soft and Justin decided that he liked him right away. Rudi gave her a real hug, not an idle peck. They were sweet together. By the way she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, this was clearly the favorite brother.
“How’s my favorite lawyer?” Justin could just overhear her whisper to her brother.
“To avoid incurring liability, I must inform you that I am your favorite law student.” It was clearly a thing between them.
Their embrace made Justin miss his sister, actually his whole family. He was half tempted to turn around and find his way back to the airport to go see them. Except he was more likely to see Bessie Anne at some foreign air base than back in Texas; the Air Force kept her on the move.
Unlike his older brother, this younger one inspected Justin carefully when Kara finally let him go. He offered his hand and an honest, if cautious shake along with his name. “Rudi.”
Then Justin and Kara were alone once more in the tiny foyer. “Can I stop meeting people now?”
Kara patted his arm. “That should cover you until dinnertime, which will be as soon as Mama and Joe get home from the shop.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him through the inner door.
In the pouring rain, he’d only had the slightest impression of the outside of the house. A long city block with a line of four-story houses made of brownstone, just like in the movies. Each had a front yard about as big as a horse stall and a stone stoop of a half-dozen steps from street to porch. More people lived in this block than were ever on the ten thousand acres of the Roberts family ranch. Again the urge to go kicked at him, but he brushed it off.
Inside, they stepped into a living room that wouldn’t fill the front hall of his family’s ranch house. But it looked cozy with a couple of couches, several armchairs, a low table scattered with magazines, and a TV screen not even two feet across. Of course, in the ranch’s rec room, you’d never sit this close to the screen unless you were a young one down on the floor with a coloring book, so you needed something bigger.
Besides there could be a whole passel of folks when there was a big televised horse race or a Bowl game. A whole lot more than could fit here. But he’d wager that during a game this room was a cozier, livelier place to be.
He kept looking for the doorway to the next room until he realized there wasn’t one to the side. The bay window looked out on the street and the room was the full width of the house.
Close in front of him a narrow set of stairs led upward; beneath it another set led down. To the back he could see Mr. Moretti emerging from what must be the master bedroom wearing a button-down shirt and jeans. That would be the whole floor. It was a very vertical house.
Kara led him up the stairs.
“Nonna and Al Junior with Marta—that’s his wife; she’s a singer in a band—live on this floor.”
“She…what? You’re brother doesn’t exactly strike me as the type.”
“I know. You’d expect a traditional Italian girl…” She raised her voice and turned her face toward the room she’d indicated.
He came out of his room wearing jeans and an NYPD T-shirt.
“…for the big lummox,” she finished without lowering her voice.
“Too bad, Sis. Now you’re not the only ‘wild one’ in the family.” He thumped down the stairs and Kara ignored him except for sticking out her tongue at his back. Al Junior flipped his middle finger at her over his shoulder without bothering to look back.
Justin had never flipped someone off in his life. Had stuck his tongue out at his sister more than a few times though.
“She sings this hot, indie rock, makes you want to dance or have sex or both. Has her first tour coming up. Beautiful Irish redhead, so no gawking.”
Justin could hear the pride of her sister-in-law in her voice and knew that it would run through the whole family despite the unlikeliness of the match.
“And that’s”—Kara pointed at the other end of the hall—“the guest room where Mama will try to put you.” She went to lead him up the next flight, but he turned aside. He set her duffel by the stairs and then, exploring along a narrow hallway, he reached a small bedroom with an open door that faced onto
the street. The bed had a pretty quilt, but no personal belongings. He set his wet duffel in the corner, careful not to rest it against the wallpaper.
“You are not sleeping here.” Kara stood in the doorway, fists on her hips.
“Kara, I—”
“You did not follow me to New York City to sleep in a different room.”
He hadn’t, but that didn’t change things. He took off his hat and set it on the dresser—an old oaken piece of curved wood with an age-faded mirror above it.
Kara glared at it resting there.
Justin stepped over to her and rested his hands on her hips. When she opened her mouth to protest, he simply kissed her. She thudded the side of a frustrated fist against his shoulder, but then clenched his sopping wet T-shirt to keep him in place. There was no denying what was between them no matter where they slept.
“Now go change.” He turned her about and gave her a slap on the butt to get her moving. Just like a high-spirited horse, she glared back at him, but gathered up her duffel and headed upstairs.
The door across the hall had opened, and a tiny woman, wrinkled and gray-haired, tilted her head sideways to look up at him.
“Looked like quite some kiss, young man.”
Justin looked down at her. Kara’s maternal grandmother he guessed, based on her features. Nothing to do but brazen it out.
“Your granddaughter is quite some woman, ma’am. Would be a waste not to make it the best kiss I know how.”
The woman laughed, her voice light but still strong. “You know how to handle her. Most men, they know nothing. She is a girl of high spirits, but her heart, that she is unsure of. I know mine though. If I were a few generations younger…”
By Break of Day (The Night Stalkers) Page 15