Reed swore but refrained from returning the gesture, and calmly, quietly, being in perfect control, pulled away from the curb.
* * *
"So, who are you having brunch with tomorrow?" Gina asked, as they strolled down the street to their building.
Zoe gave her a sideways glance. "You know very well I haven't got a date for brunch," she said, and lifted a hand to wave at old Mrs. Umberto, who was leaning out her third-story window, keeping an eye on the comings and goings in the street below.
By tomorrow morning everyone on the block would know that Zoe Moon and Gina Molinari had been seen getting out of a fancy black car.
"Are you seeing the same guy for dinner, too?" Gina pressed.
The corners of Zoe's eyes crinkled up when she smiled. "Smart-ass."
Gina's answering grin was unrepentant. "You want to tell me why a date with the invisible man is more attractive than going out with a gorgeous not-so-stuffed-shirt who drives a Jag and has a serious case of the hots for you?"
"What makes you think he has the hots for me?" Zoe hedged.
"Oh, please." Gina rolled her eyes. "First of all, you told me yourself he did, remember? Last Wednesday, when you were so pissed about the way he'd acted? And second of all, I'm not blind. The man didn't take his eyes off of you all afternoon. He touched you every chance he got. And, oh my, that kiss…" She placed her right hand on her chest and patted it, miming a wildly beating heart. "It curled my toes, and I was just watching from the sidelines."
Zoe flashed her friend another sideways look. "Can you keep a secret?"
Gina touched two fingertips to her tongue and held them up as if she was a Girl Scout pledging allegiance. "Spit promise," she vowed solemnly.
"It curled my toes, too." Zoe sighed and glanced down at her black hightops. "I think they're still curled."
Gina's mouth all but fell open. "It curled your toes? Really?"
"Really," Zoe admitted, her tone halfway between baffled and embarrassed.
"Oh, wow. That is so great. It's about time some guy got to— Are you blushing?"
"No, I am not blushing," Gina said, even as her redhead's complexion turned a telltale pink. "And he did not get to me. Not the way you mean. He's a good kisser, okay? A world-class kisser. I'll grant you that. And I admit it—I enjoyed kissing him. But it doesn't mean anything more." She wouldn't let it mean anything more than that. "And it isn't going any further."
"Jeez, Zoe, how can you not want it to go any further? The man's a hunk. A rich hunk. He's got a serious case of the hots for you. And he made your toes curl with just one measly little kiss. As far as I know, no guy has ever managed that particular feat before. So how can you just blow him off?"
"I didn't blow him off," Zoe said irritably, wishing she'd kept her opinion of his kiss to herself. "I very politely declined his invitation to brunch."
"And dinner," Gina reminded her.
"Yes, and dinner."
"You want to tell me why?"
"Well, for goodness sake, Gina." Zoe stopped short on the sidewalk to face her insistent friend. "I've got a meeting with him on Monday morning, remember? A business meeting." She cocked an eyebrow. "You ever hear the one about not mixing business with pleasure?"
"So, don't mix them. Do business at the meeting and jump his bones after."
"Oh, that would be real professional, wouldn't it?" She shook her head, forestalling whatever reply Gina might have made. "He's already expressed his reluctance to have anything to do with me. Businesswise," she added, when Gina shot her an incredulous look. "You and I both know he only arranged the meeting on Monday because his great-grandmother pressured him into it somehow. He thinks I'm a con artist, remember? He called New Moon a fly-by-night enterprise and practically tossed me out of Moira's house on my rear."
"And whose fault is that?"
"I didn't plant the idea in his head," Zoe reminded her. "I just reinforced the opinion he already had."
"So, change his opinion. I don't think it would be all that hard to do, considering. The man wants to have his opinion changed. Anyone can see that."
"And I'm supposed to do that by jumping his bones? Not a chance. He'd think I was using sex to get him to okay Moira's investment in New Moon."
"Hmm." Gina nodded thoughtfully. "I hadn't considered that."
"Besides, why would I even want to go out with a man who thinks I'm some kind of con artist, but still has the hots for me, anyway? It just proves he's shallow and superficial and … and…"
"Yeah, but you've got the hots for him, too, and you think he's a stuffed shirt, so you're even."
"I do not!"
"What? Think he's a stuffed shirt or have the hots for him?"
"He is a stuffed shirt and I do not have the hots for him."
Gina screwed up her mouth in a disbelieving moue and looked down at the toes of Zoe's black hightops.
"Okay. I'm … mildly attracted, all right?"
"Ha! There's no mild about it. I was there, sweetie. I saw your eyes glaze over when he planted that little smacker on you."
"Oh, they did not glaze over. You're exaggerating."
But not by much.
That "little smacker" had rung all of Zoe's bells and set every nerve ending she possessed to tingling in the most alarming way. Quite amazing, she thought, for a kiss that had lasted all of three seconds. He hadn't parted his lips or used his tongue, or touched her anywhere except for where his hand clasped the back of her neck and his mouth covered hers. But when he'd let her go and turned away to give his order to the waitress, Zoe had been very glad she was sitting down. Otherwise, her knees would have buckled.
"I'm not some brainless bimbo at the mercy of my hormones," she said firmly. "So the man is attractive. So what? I don't have to jump every attractive man I meet, do I?"
"Well, you never have before, but—"
"And so what if he's a great kisser? I've kissed better."
Gina rolled her eyes. "Sure you have."
"And just because he apparently doesn't see anything wrong with mixing business and pleasure doesn't mean I have to abandon good sense, too, does it?"
"No, it doesn't but—"
"So what's your point?"
"My point?" Gina shrugged, conceding defeat. "Did I have a point?"
"Apparently not," Zoe said as they turned into the alley between the dry cleaners and the Ristorante Marcella. "So let's not have any more talk about—" A wide smile lit up her face. "Hey, guys. How's it going?"
Three young neighborhood boys looked up at her greeting. "Hey, Zoe. Hey, Gina," they chorused.
One of them rose to his feet, stuffing a piece of white chalk in the pocket of his jeans as he did so. "We just got all set up for a game of potsies," he said, gesturing to the large, powdery white circle on the asphalt, "but we haven't lagged to see who goes first. Do you wanna play, Zoe?"
"I don't think so, kiddo. Last time I played potsies with you pirates, I lost my favorite tiger's-eye aggie to Spencer."
Still on his knees on the ground, Spencer grinned, showing the gap where one of his front teeth had recently gone missing. "I got it right here, Zoe." He patted his marble sack. "But you've got to put your giant steelie up against it if you want to try to win it back."
"That settles it, then. I'm not putting up my biggest steelie just so you can hustle me out of it."
"Chicken," Spencer jeered, and the other two gleefully took up the chant. "Chicken. Zoe's chicken."
"I'll play bridgeboard if you want," she offered slyly, knowing they'd refuse. Bridgeboard was really an indoor marble game, meant to be played on a very smooth surface. There was no knocking another player's marble with your shooter, which seemed to be a requirement of the boys' favorite games and the main reason young Spencer had his eye on her steelie. The marble's weight and size made it an excellent and very effective shooter.
"Bridgeboard's a girl's game," one of them sniffed disdainfully.
"Well, there you go. I'm a girl." Zoe fl
apped her hand at them when they laughed at her, half a wave, half a gesture of pretended affront. "Ciao, guys. Have fun," she said as she and Gina headed toward the locked gate that led upstairs to the hallway of the two apartments above the Ristorante Marcella.
There was a note taped to her door.
"Mama Marcella wants to see me," she said when Gina tilted her head inquiringly.
"What'd you do? Forget to pay your rent?"
"I don't think so." She looked up. "She wants to see you, too."
"Me?" An expression of trepidation crossed Gina's face. "How come?"
Zoe shrugged. "All it says is that she wants to see me the minute I get in—minute is underlined twice—and that I should bring you with me." She handed Gina the note. "See for yourself."
Gina took the note and read it. "What do you think she wants?"
Zoe shrugged. "Only one way to find out." She slipped the key to her apartment back into the pocket of her jeans without opening the door. "Let's go see Mama."
They trooped back down the stairs.
"Did you change your mind, Zoe?" one of the boys asked hopefully.
"Nope. Sorry. Mama wants to see me."
The three boys looked at each other. Mama Marcella was a legend in the neighborhood. She was related to half of its inhabitants by blood and the other half by marriage. Of the five people standing in the alley, only Zoe had no formal familial tie to her. Not that the lack of official sanction had ever stopped Mama from interfering in anything she deemed her business. And Zoe, by virtue of her long friendship with Gina, was very much Mama's business.
"Whad'ya do?" Jason asked.
"Nothing, as far as I know."
"Must of done something if Mama wants to see you."
Zoe tried to think what that something might have been as she and Gina walked around to the rear of the building like two condemned prisoners on their way to the gallows. Her conscience was clear. She couldn't remember having done anything lately that would require an interview with Mama.
As they entered the ristorante through the kitchen, the mouthwatering scents of simmering marinara, freshly grated Parmesan and roasting garlic floated out to greet them. The staff was busy setting up in preparation for the Saturday night dinner crowd. Two waitresses had just finished breaking down the steam table and were lining it up again, changing the pans of sauces and prepared dishes to reflect the more extensive dinner menu. A busboy was refilling salt and pepper shakers.
Mama was standing in front of the stove, tasting spoon in hand, haranguing one of her cooks about the huge pot of sauce that was simmering over a low gas flame.
Apparently, he'd forgotten to add some essential ingredient, the lack of which held the potential to ruin the business Mama had spent the past fifty years of her life building to its present glory. Zoe and Gina stood quietly, just inside the door, waiting for the diminutive restaurateur to run down before they made their presence known.
"It must have sugar in the sauce to bring out the sweetness of the tomatoes," Mama said as she added the ingredient and stirred it in with a big wooden spoon. "There, now. Taste." She lifted a clean tasting spoon to the young cook's lips. "You see that it is better, yes?"
"It is…" He closed his eyes and raised his fingertips to his lips, kissing them in an extravagant gesture of culinary ecstasy.
Mama hit him on the arm with the spoon, leaving a blob of tomato sauce on the sleeve of his white chef's jacket. "Next time, you remember," she said sternly, but she smiled. Fortunately for the cook, Mama had a soft spot for handsome young men.
"It smells wonderful," Zoe said, judging the time was right to make their presence known.
"Ah, you are here. Good. Lucia…" She summoned one of the waitresses working on the steam table with a flick of her wrist. "Bring wine."
She stripped off her voluminous white apron and handed it to the other waitress, who came scurrying forward to receive it. The trim, black silk couture dress Mama wore was set off by a delicate gold chain and a plain gold crucifix. Sleek gold teardrop earrings swayed against her neck, peeping out from beneath the short, stylish sweep of chestnut hair, in which no trace of gray had ever been allowed to show. Mama lifted a hand to pat her hair, then smoothed both palms down the front of her already impeccably smooth dress.
"Come." She gestured to her two tenants, imperiously beckoning them to follow her. "We must talk."
Zoe glanced at Gina and raised an eyebrow. Gina shrugged and shook her head. Whatever it was, it was serious. They were headed for the dining room, and Mama had ordered wine. With Mama that usually meant someone was either about to be formally commended or royally chewed out, and you could never tell by her demeanor beforehand which it was going to be.
"Mama, whatever it is, I'm sure—" Gina began.
Mama held up her hand, forestalling further speech. "Wait. Let Lucia pour the wine first. Then we will talk." She pointed at the table. "Sit."
They sat, as obedient as chastened puppies, hands folded in their laps as Lucia uncorked and poured the wine. They tried not to watch or exhibit any impatience and make the poor girl even more nervous than she already was. Mama Marcella had no such qualms. She observed the entire process with the eagle eye of a general reviewing his troops.
"Very good, Lucia. You are improving," she said when, the glasses had been filled exactly halfway and no wine had been spilled on the pristine white tablecloth.
Lucia ventured a relieved smile.
"But you still take too long. My customers will be finished with their dinner before you get the cork out of the bottle." She flicked her hand in a vague but unmistakable gesture of dismissal. "Tell Michael to come back out here, subito, and change the linen on table six," she said, as Lucia turned to go. "The tablecloth is stained on the edge. And one of the water glasses on table nine is spotted."
Lucia nodded and retreated to the kitchen to deliver the bad news to the hapless busboy. When Mama said subito in that tone of voice, she meant ten minutes ago if not sooner.
Mama turned her attention to the two young women sitting across the table and lifted her glass of wine. "Cin'cin," she said, and sipped.
Zoe and Gina repeated the toast and did likewise.
The formalities satisfied, Mama put her glass down. "Now." She pinned Zoe with her field marshal gaze. "Why does some man come to my restaurant today during the busiest hour of lunch and ask questions about you, hmm?"
"Someone was asking questions about me?" Zoe wouldn't have thought the day could hold any more surprises. Apparently, she was wrong. "What kind of questions?"
"Questions with answers that were none of his business," Mama said. "How long do you live here?" She pointed upward to the apartments overhead. "Do you pay your rent on time? Do you have loud parties? Are you a good girl or no?"
"Someone was asking if I was a good girl?"
Mama nodded. "Sí. He asked me if I know where you get your money to live. If you have rich parents or a job or—" Mama's lips thinned "—if you have boyfriends who give you money and expensive presents."
"Boyfriends who give me money?" Zoe's mouth fell open in astonishment. It took a moment or two for the outrage to kick in. "Who was asking questions about me?" she demanded. "Did he give his name?"
Mama slipped her hand inside the modest V-neck of her black dress and pulled out the business card she had tucked under her bra strap. "He gave me this," she said, handing the card to Zoe.
'"Leland Davies Investigations,'" Zoe read aloud. She looked back up at Mama. "A private investigator?" Her forehead crinkled. "Why would a private investigator be asking questions about me?"
Mama shrugged. "He said you were being considered for a very important job and he was doing a…" she groped a moment for the word "…a background check. But I did not believe him. Those were not the kind of questions that are asked when someone is considering hiring a person for a job. Even I—" she tapped her chest lightly "—do not ask such questions."
"No, of course not," Zoe agreed, her min
d racing as she considered possibilities. "Besides, I haven't applied for a job anywhere. I don't even need a regular job now that New Moon is doing so well."
"That's it," Gina said.
"What's it?" Zoe said.
"Che cosa?" Mama said.
"New Moon," Gina repeated. "Reed's having you investigated because of New Moon."
"Oh, no. No. Reed wouldn't…" Zoe began in automatic protest, then stopped.
The Reed she'd met that afternoon—the one in the red shorts and the torn rugby shirt, the one who had kissed her in an excess of high spirits and testosterone—wouldn't. But the Reed she'd met last Wednesday in Moira Sullivan's parlor most certainly would. That Reed Sullivan would view the hiring of a private investigator to pry into her life as just good business. To him it would be as routine as ordering a credit report, even if he didn't suspect her of being some kind of unsavory character out to fleece a sweet old lady.
"Who is this Reed?" Mama asked, her worried eyes on Zoe's face.
"Reed Sullivan," Gina said when Zoe was too slow to answer. "He's the great-grandson of the woman who might lend Zoe the money to expand New Moon."
"Ah, New Moon. I do not know why you go to strangers for the money, bambina," she chided, "when you have family to help you."
Zoe felt a tightening in the region of her heart, knowing Mama meant those words as sincerely as if they'd been spoken to Gina.
The two girls had met when they'd been assigned adjoining desks in Mrs. Tuttle's seventh grade English class. For Gina, it had been her first experience outside the confines of the all-girl Catholic grade school she'd attended since kindergarten. For Zoe, it was the first day at a new school, in a new neighborhood, in the new smaller family unit created by her mother's third divorce. Gina became her best friend. And Gina's large extended family opened its collective heart to the lonely young girl their gregarious young relative had brought home to Sunday dinner.
Once the Molinaris had taken you in, you were in for life. And part of being "in" meant Mama felt perfectly free to poke her nose into any aspect of your life.
Zoe loved it.
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