The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “It already is.”

  FLASHOVER

  The final stage of the process of fire growth.

  About, about, in reel and rout

  The death-fires danced at night.

  —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  21

  “I want to know more about this girl you’re seeing.”

  Bo continued to hammer out the new garden shed Mrs. Malloy insisted she needed, pausing only to shoot her a wink. “Mrs. M., don’t be jealous. You’re still the love of my life.”

  She sniffed, set the fresh lemonade she’d made him on a sawhorse. Her hair remained a brilliant red, and she was wearing trendy amber-lensed sunglasses. And a floral bib apron.

  “You got a look in your eye, boy, tells me I’ve been replaced. I want to know about her.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Tell me something I couldn’t figure out for myself.”

  He set aside the nail gun, picked up the lemonade. “She’s smart and funny and intense and sweet. Her eyes, they’re like a lioness, and she’s got this little mole, right here.” He tapped above his lip. “She comes from a big family. They run an Italian place in my neighborhood. She grew up there. Hey, maybe your brother knows her. Isn’t your brother a cop?”

  “He is, these past twenty-three years. Has he arrested her?”

  He laughed. “Doubtful. She’s a cop. Baltimore city. Arson unit.”

  “So’s my brother.”

  “Get out. I thought he was . . . I don’t know what I thought. They must know each other. What’s his name again? I’ll ask her.”

  “It’s O’Donnell. Michael O’Donnell.”

  Now he set down the lemonade, pulled off his safety goggles. “Okay, Twilight Zone music. He’s her partner. She’s Catarina Hale.”

  “Catarina Hale.” Mrs. Malloy folded her arms. “Catarina Hale. The same one I tried to fix you up with years ago?”

  “You did not. Did you?”

  “My brother says he has a pretty new partner—and I say, is she single? And he says yes, and I say, I’ve got a nice boy, the boy who does work around the house for me. I tell him he has to ask her if she wants to go out with a nice boy. But she’s seeing someone else. Turns out not to be such a nice boy, but Mick won’t bring it up to her again. So.”

  “Wow. It’s this weird circle with us, me and Reena. I mean we circled around each other for years, never quite connecting. Have you ever met her?”

  “Once, when she came to a party at Mick’s. Very pretty, good manners.”

  “I’m going to dinner tomorrow. Her parents’ house. Family dinner.”

  “You take flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “You take her mother some nice flowers, but not in a box.” She shook her finger as she gave Bo instructions. “It’s too formal. Nice colorful flowers you can hand her when you go in the door.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re a good boy,” she pronounced, then left him to work so she could go inside, call her brother and get more inside scoop on this Catarina Hale.

  Flowers, he could handle flowers. They had them at the grocery store, and he needed to pick up a few things anyway. He stopped by the store near Mrs. Malloy’s house, wheeled a cart in. Milk, he was always running out of milk. Cereal. Why didn’t they stock the cereal near the milk? Didn’t that make sense?

  Maybe he should pick up a couple of steaks, have Reena over and grill them. With that in mind, he picked up a few more things, working his way over to the florist.

  He stood, thumbs in pockets, studying the selections in the refrigerated displays.

  Mrs. M. had said cheerful. The big yellow ones—he thought they were lilies—looked cheerful. But didn’t lilies say funeral? Nothing cheery about that.

  “Harder than I thought,” he muttered out loud, then glanced over, slightly embarrassed, when a man stepped up beside him.

  “In the doghouse, too?”

  “Sorry?”

  The man gave Bo a long-suffering smile, then frowned at the flowers. “Thought maybe you were in the doghouse. That’s where I lived last night. Gotta get the wife some flowers, buy my way out.”

  “Oh. No, dinner at my girlfriend’s parents’ tomorrow. I think it’s roses for a doghouse pass.”

  “Shit. Guess so.” He stepped to the counter and the clerk on duty. “Looks like I need a dozen of those roses. Red ones, I guess. Women,” he said to Bo and scratched his head under his gimme cap.

  “Tell me about it. I think I’m going for those.” Bo glanced at the clerk. “Those different-colored things with the big heads?”

  “Gerbera daisies,” he was told.

  “Daisies are cheerful, right?”

  The clerk smiled at him as she took out the roses. “I think so.”

  “Cool. A big mess of those daisies then, when you’re done. Just mix them up.”

  “Bet wives cost more than mothers,” the man said mournfully.

  Bo looked back at the daisies. Was he being cheap? He was going for pretty and cheerful, not cheap. Why was it so complicated? He waited until the roses were wrapped.

  “See ya.”

  “Yeah.” Bo gave the man an absent nod. “Good luck,” he added, then fell on the mercy of the clerk. “Look, it’s a family dinner thing—my girlfriend’s family. Are the daisies the thing? Is a dozen enough? Help me.”

  She moved to the cold box again. “They’re perfect. Major points for casual, happy flowers.”

  “Good. Fine. Thanks. I’m exhausted.”

  Easy as pie, keeping an eye. Change of pace to follow the boy next door, check him out up close. Asshole working on Saturday.

  Could’ve stuck him in the parking lot. Could’ve waited for him to come out with his fistful of posies and jabbed him right then and there.

  Hey, buddy, can you give me a hand a minute? His type runs over like a frigging puppy. Have the knife in his gut while the son of a bitch is still grinning.

  Toss the roses on the seat of the car. Doghouse my ass. Like you’d ever let a woman rule the day. Whores and bitches. Need to be kept in their place. Keeping them in their place was half the fun.

  Wait and watch anyway. Watch him come out, walk to his truck with a couple of bags. Dumb-ass daisies sticking out the top. Probably a fag underneath. Probably thought of butt-fucking some other fag when he was banging her.

  Do the world a favor and stick a knife in his gut. One less queer in the world. How would she feel if the queer she’s banging bought it in the supermarket parking lot?

  Better ways, better days.

  Cruise on out of the lot behind him. Nice truck. There’s a thought. Fun time to burn up that nice truck. More fun if he was in it. Something to think on.

  Mrs. Malloy hit the bull’s-eye, Bo decided. Bianca not only smiled when he handed her the flowers at the door on Sunday afternoon, she kissed him on both cheeks.

  Some of the family were already there. Xander, the brother, sprawled in a chair in the living room with the baby tucked in the crook of his arm. Jack, the brother-in-law—somebody get him a scorecard—was stretched out on the floor with one of the kids playing with cars.

  Fran, the oldest sister, wandered out from the kitchen rubbing circles on her belly the way pregnant women do.

  Another kid peeked out from behind Fran’s legs and gave him a long, owlish stare.

  Reena moved forward—hugs, kisses—like none of them had seen one another for six months. Then she scooped up the little owl. And the stare became a giggling grin.

  He was offered a drink, a chair. Then the females deserted the field.

  Xander turned from the game on TV, gave Bo a big, toothy smile. “So, when you marry my sister, you could take out the wall between the two houses. Give you lots of space for five, six kids.”

  Bo felt his mouth drop open, heard some response gurgle in his throat. Otherwise, the room was silent but for the play-by-play commentary on the ball game.

  Then Xander hooted with laughter and booted
his father’s leg with his foot. “Told you it would be funny. He looks like he swallowed a bulb of garlic.”

  Gib kept watching the screen. “You got something against kids?”

  “What? No.” Somewhat desperately, Bo looked around the room. “Me? No.”

  “Good. Have mine.” Xander rose, and to Bo’s frozen shock, deposited the baby in Bo’s lap. “Be right back.”

  “Oh. Well.” He looked down at the baby, who stared up at him with long, dark eyes. Since he was afraid to actually move, he shifted his gaze to Gib. He knew there was panic in it, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “What, you never held a baby?”

  “Not this small.”

  The kid on the floor scooted over. “They don’t do much. My mama’s having another baby. And it better be a brother.” He turned, looked darkly at his father.

  “Did my best, pal,” Jack said.

  “I’ve got a baby sister now,” the boy told Bo. “She likes doll babies.”

  Taking his cue, Bo shook his head in pity. “That’s disgusting.”

  Obviously sensing a kindred spirit, the boy climbed up on the arm of the chair. “I’m Anthony. I’m five and a half. I have a frog named Nemo, but Nana doesn’t let me bring him to dinner.”

  “Girls are funny that way.”

  In his lap the baby squirmed and let out a cry. A bellow was more like it, in Bo’s opinion. He jiggled his legs without much hope.

  “You can pick him up,” Ryan told him. “You just have to put your hand under his head, ’cause his neck’s all floppy. Then you put him up on your shoulder and pat his back. They like that.”

  The baby continued to wail, and since no one came to his rescue—the sadists—Bo gingerly slid a hand under the baby’s head.

  “Yeah, like that,” his baby expert said. “And kinda scoop the other under his butt. He’s wiggly, so you gotta be careful.”

  Panic sweat dribbled a line down his back. Why did they make babies so damn small? And loud. Surely better arrangements could be made for the propagation of the human race.

  Holding his breath, he lifted, angled, fit and let it out again when the bellows simmered down to whimpers.

  In the kitchen, Fran whipped eggs in a bowl, Reena chopped vegetables while Bianca basted the chicken. It was, for Reena, one of those comfort moments. Essentially, intimately female and familial.

  The back door was open to the breezy warmth, the room was full of cooking smells and perfumes. Bo’s flowers were prettily arranged in a tall, clear vase, and her niece was busily banging a spoon in a big plastic bowl.

  Work, and the worries of it, were in another world. Part of her was still a child in this house, and always would be. That was comfort. Part of her was woman, and that was pride.

  “An will be here as soon as she’s done at the clinic.” Bianca straightened, shut the oven door. “Bella will be late, as usual. So, look at you.” She put her hands on her hips, studied her youngest daughter. “You look happy.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Love sparkle,” Fran said and, setting the bowl aside, leaned over the island as much as her belly would allow. “How serious is it?”

  “Day at a time.”

  “He’s hot. What?” With a shrug, Fran eased back. “I can’t think he’s hot? Plus he’s got that puppy look in his eyes, so you’ve got sweet and hot, like melted man candy.”

  “Fran!” The name came out on a shocked laugh as Reena goggled at her sister. “Listen to you.”

  “It’s not me. It’s the hormones.”

  “Everywhere I look, somebody’s pregnant. I just saw Gina a couple of days ago. She ate a quarter of a three-day-old coffee cake.”

  “With me it’s olives. I could eat a vat of olives. Just lift up jar after jar and—” Fran mimed shaking them into her mouth.

  “With all my babies it was potato chips.” Bianca checked a pot on the stove. “Ruffles, every night. Nine months times four? Holy Mary, how many potatoes is that?” She came around the counter, caught Reena’s face in her hand, shook it gently side to side. “I like that you look happy. I like this Bo. I think he’s the one.”

  “Mama—”

  “I think he’s the one,” Bianca continued, undaunted, “not only because he gives you a sparkle, not only because he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating of women, but I think he’s the one because your father gets the beady eye when he’s around. That’s his radar. ‘So, this guy thinks he’s going to take my daughter away? We’ll just see about that!’ ”

  “Where’s he going to take me? Pluto? He lives in the neighborhood.”

  “He’s like your father.” She smiled when Reena frowned at her. “Strong and solid, hot and sweet,” she added with a wink toward Fran. “And that, baby of mine, is what you’ve been waiting for.”

  Before Reena could respond, An walked in with Dillon over her shoulder. “Sorry I’m late. What are we gossiping about?”

  “Reena’s Bo.”

  “Cutie-pie. Dillon was giving him a bit of a hard time. He took it like a champ.” She sat at the table, flipped open her shirt and guided the baby’s seeking mouth to her breast. “Your dad’s grilling him about his business,” she added, then waved Reena back. “No, leave him be. He’s holding his own. Mama Bee? I think you might get that back terrace on the shop you’ve been angling for.”

  “Oh really?” Bianca tapped a spoon on a pot. “I like when my kids bring useful people to dinner.”

  Xander poked his head in. “Hey. We’re heading down to the shop for a minute.”

  “Dinner’s in one hour. If you’re not back, sitting at the table, I’ll beat you all unconscious with a spatula.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take the baby.” Fran bent to pick up her daughter.

  “Sure.” Xander boosted his niece onto his hip where she bounced and babbled. “Reena? This guy’s okay.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she replied as her brother disappeared out the door. “We’ve only been dating a few weeks.”

  “When it’s right, it’s right.” Bianca gathered up peppers, took them to the sink to wash them.

  Down the block, Bo stood with Gib, Xander, Jack and a couple of kids. He gauged the ground in the rear of Sirico’s, noted the stingy seating area that was set up for the summer season, the traffic pattern from tables to the door.

  “Bianca wants more of a terrace,” Gib explained. “Italian influence, maybe terra-cotta tiles. I figure pressure-treated wood would be easier, quicker, cheaper, but she keeps pushing for tile, maybe slate.”

  “Yeah, you could throw up a platform in lumber pretty easily. Come off the back there, angle it. Do maybe a faux paint treatment—something Italianesque—you know, a mural deal, or just paint it to look like tile or stone. Seal it up.”

  “Mural.” Gib pursed his lips, “She might go for that.”

  “But.”

  “Uh-oh.” Xander grinned, rocked back on his heels. “I hear dollar signs in that but.”

  “But,” Bo repeated as he stepped off the rear of his imagined terrace, using his strides as an approximate measuring. “If you were going to go for it, you could add a little more, do the tile, put yourself in a kind of summer kitchen. You got that whole open-kitchen deal going inside, so you’d be mirroring it—smaller, more casual out here.”

  “What do you mean, ‘summer kitchen’?”

  He glanced back at Gib, saw he had his attention, warily. “You could put another stove out here, another cooktop deal, workstation. You lattice off those two sides, maybe you plant something viny, and do a kind of pergola, carrying the vines up and over the roof—just slats. Keeps it sunny but dappled, so it doesn’t drive your customers away when it’s too hot and bright.”

  “That’s more elaborate than I had in mind.”

  “Okay, well, you can just extend what you’ve got, resurface or—”

  “But keep going on it. Pergola.”

  Xander elbowed Jack and spoke under his breath. “Hooked
him.”

  “Well, see . . .” Patting his pockets, Bo trailed off. “Anybody got something to write on?”

  He ended up using a paper napkin, with Jack’s back for a writing surface, and sketched out a rough design.

  “Christ, Mama will love it. Dad, you’re so screwed.”

  Gib rested his elbow on Xander’s shoulder, leaned in closer. “How much would something like this cost me?”

  “For the structure? I can work you up an estimate. I’d want to take true measurements first.”

  “You done back there? I want to see it.” Jack turned around, studied the napkin. Then lifted his gaze to his father-in-law. “Screwed. Only way out is to make him eat the napkin, kill him and dispose of the body.”

  “I already thought of that, but we’d be late for dinner.” Gib let out a sigh. “Better go back and show it to her.” He gave Bo a slap on the back and a fierce grin. “We’ll see how long he lives after the estimate.”

  “He’s kidding, right?” Bo asked Xander as Gib started back.

  “You ever watch The Sopranos?”

  “He’s not even Italian.” And looked like a nice, ordinary guy, carrying his granddaughter up the sidewalk toward home.

  “Don’t tell him that, I think he’s forgotten. Just messing with you. But this place?” He paused out front. “With my father his emotional pecking order is my mother, his kids, their kids, his family, then this place. It’s not just a business. He likes you.”

  “How you figure?”

  “If he didn’t like somebody Reena brought to Sunday dinner, he’d be a lot more friendly, a lot quicker.”

  “And that’s because?”

  “If he didn’t like you, you wouldn’t worry him because he’d tell himself Reena wouldn’t get serious about you. You wouldn’t matter. If Dad’s got a favorite of us, it’s Reena. They’ve just got something . . . extra. Ah, Bella’s gang just got here.” He nodded up the street toward the late-model Mercedes SUV.

  A willowy girl, early teens, Bo judged, got out first, flipped a shiny crop of gleaming blond hair over her shoulders and sauntered toward the Hales’.

  “Princess Sophia,” Xander told him. “Bella’s oldest. She’s going through her I’m-bored-and-beautiful stage. There’s Vinny and Magdalene and Marc. Vince—corporate lawyer, lots of family dough.”