The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Honey, don’t.”

  “Got started on it early,” Reena commented.

  “I guess. Impulse, really.”

  No, not really, Reena thought. Since the package the chicken had come in, the one she’d dug out of the kitchen trash along with the market receipt for it, indicated it had been bought the Saturday before.

  Which meant it would have been frozen for a few days, and would have taken some time to defrost. “You have a lovely house.”

  “Thanks. We’ve been working on it since we bought it two years ago.”

  “I just bought a row house recently. It’s screaming to be updated, fixed up. Takes a lot of time, effort, not to mention the expense.”

  “Tell me about it.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Deal with one thing, you’ve got six others. Like dominoes.”

  “I hear you. I’m starting to look at paint chips. And when I do, I realize once I do that, I’m going to have to replace curtains, deal with the floors, probably start shopping for new furniture. Then I’m going to have workers underfoot, probably for weeks at a time.”

  “Gets old,” Sam agreed.

  “But if you’re going to live there, you might as well have what you want.” Reena smiled at Sarah as she said it.

  “Well, it’s your home.” Sarah pressed her lips together, avoiding meeting Reena’s gaze.

  “Don’t get her started,” Sam said with a laugh, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  “I’m going to have to get some estimates, I suppose, at least for things I can’t handle myself.” Reena kept her tone casual, conversational. “Like the plumbing, some carpentry. The kitchen. I’m told the kitchen’s usually the biggest chunk in the budget. What kind of bids did you all get for yours?”

  “Got one two weeks ago. Twenty-five thousand.” Sam shook his head. “You go custom cabinets, solid surface, and that can double. It’s ridiculous.” He waved a hand. “Don’t get me started.”

  “It must be hard, Mrs. Greene, to have most of your house done up just as you want it, and have an old, outdated kitchen. Sore thumb.”

  “I guess it’s going to get done now,” Sam put in. He wrapped an arm around Sarah. “Triumph through tragedy. Insurance will cover a lot of it. Not worth Sarah getting hurt.” He lifted her injured hand gently at the wrist, kissed the bandage. And she began to cry again.

  “Come on, baby, it’s not so bad. Don’t cry. Does it still hurt?”

  “If you don’t make the claim, Sarah,” Reena said gently, “this can go away. We can make this go away, but not if you put in an insurance claim. Then it’s fraud. Then it’s arson. It’s a crime.”

  “What are you talking about?” There was anger topping off Sam’s question. “What the hell is this? Fraud? Arson? Is this how you treat people when they’re hurt, when they’re in trouble?”

  “We’re trying to make this easy on you,” O’Donnell told him. “On both of you. We have reason to believe the fire didn’t start exactly the way you’ve stated, Mrs. Greene. This goes to the next step, to your insurance company, we’re not going to be able to help you.”

  “I want you to leave. My wife was hurt. You’re sitting here trying to say she did this on purpose. You’re out of your mind.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Of course you didn’t, honey.”

  “I just wanted a new kitchen.”

  Reena took tissues from her purse, passed them over. “So you started the fire.”

  “She didn’t—”

  “I was mad,” she interrupted, and turned to her husband’s stunned face. “I was just so mad at you, Sam. I hated cooking in there, or having our friends over. I told you, but you kept saying it was too much right now, and we’d have to wait, and you were sick of having the house torn up.”

  “Oh my God, Sarah.”

  “I didn’t think it would be like this. I’m so sorry. And after I did it, it was so awful, and I was so scared. I really did panic,” she said to Reena. “I thought it would burn the curtains, and some of the counter, but it got so much so fast, and I just panicked. And when I picked up the skillet the second time, after I put it on the counter, it was so hot, and it burned my hands. I was afraid the house would burn down, and I ran out, ran next door. I was so scared. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sarah, you could’ve been killed. You could’ve . . . over a kitchen?” He gathered her in when she began to sob, looked at Reena over his wife’s head. “We won’t put a claim in. Please, you don’t have to charge her, do you?”

  “It’s your home, Mr. Greene.” O’Donnell got to his feet. “As long as there’s no attempt to defraud, there’s no crime.”

  “Sarah, people do stupid things.” Reena touched her shoulder. “But fire’s very unforgiving. You don’t want to test it again.” She took out a card, set it on the coffee table. “You can call me if you have any questions, or need to talk about this. Ah, it’s probably none of my business, but when you’re ready to deal with the repairs, I know somebody who might give you a lower bid.”

  People,” O’Donnell said as they walked to the car.

  “I felt a little like I was poking at a puppy with a stick.” She glanced back at the house. “They’ll either be able to make a joke out of this—tragedy plus time equals comedy. Oh yeah, we love these countertops. We got them because Sarah torched the old ones. Or they’ll be divorced in two years. What’s your view on divorce, O’Donnell?”

  “Never been there.” He settled into the passenger’s seat. “Wife won’t let me.”

  Reena snickered and took the wheel. “She’s so strict. We’re pretty strict on it, too, in my family. It’s the Catholic thing, and the family thing. Some of my cousins have been through rocky patches in their marriages, but so far, things have stuck. Makes it a little intimidating to take the step into holy wedlock. ’Cause it can mean serious lock.”

  “You thinking about getting hitched? The carpenter?”

  “No. Well, yes, it’s the carpenter, but no, not hitched. Just thinking in general.” She hesitated, then thought partners were partners, and the same as family. “My sister Bella told me her husband’s stepping out. Has been for years, apparently, but he’s rubbing her face in it now.”

  “Rough.”

  “You ever cheat?”

  “Nope. Wife won’t let me.”

  “That bitch.” Reena sighed. “I don’t know what she’s going to do. First off, it’s a surprise to me that she didn’t blab this to everyone, kept it to herself this long.”

  “Touchy area.”

  “We thrive on touchy in my family. And she’s been seeing a therapist—another surprise. It just makes me think how marriage is a land mine. A really intimate land mine. Adultery to kitchen fires. Never a dull.”

  O’Donnell shifted in his seat to study her profile. “You’re serious about this guy.”

  She started to blow it off, then shrugged. “Heading that way, for me. Gives me the wet palms if I think about it too hard. So I’m going to think about something else, like the fact my fire-starter hasn’t called since the night he torched the school.”

  “You’re not figuring he’s done.”

  “No, no, I’m not. I’m trying to figure how long he’s going to make me wait. Meanwhile, you mind if we take a detour? I’ve got something I want to do.”

  “You got the wheel.”

  Vince’s law firm was downtown, with a view of the Inner Harbor from his office. She’d been there only once before, but she remembered.

  She wondered if the striking brunette who was his administrative assistant was the one he was stepping out with.

  The waiting area was plush, neutral tones, very contemporary, with splashes of plum. She wasn’t kept waiting in it long, but was escorted through to Vince’s spacious office with its wide windows and walls of dramatic art.

  He kissed both her cheeks in welcome. There was already a soft drink on ice and a tray of cheese and crackers on the coffee table in his seating area.

  “Such a surprise
. What brings you to my neck of the woods? Need a lawyer?”

  “No. And I won’t keep you long. I don’t have time to sit, thanks.”

  He smiled, charming, handsome, smooth. “Take a minute. The city can afford it. We never get to talk, just the two of us.”

  “I guess we don’t. You skip a lot of the family events.”

  His smile was full of regret. “The demands of the job.”

  “And of the women you play with. You’re cheating on Bella, Vince, and that’s between the two of you.”

  “Excuse me?” The charm drained out of his face.

  “The fact that you’ve decided to rub her face in it, humiliate her, makes it my business. You want side dishes? Go ahead. You can break your marriage vows. But you won’t continue to make my sister feel like a failure. She’s the mother of your children, and you’ll respect that.”

  He stayed calm. “Catarina, I don’t know what Bella’s told you, but—”

  “Vince, you don’t want to call my sister a liar.” It was hard, it took vicious effort, but she stayed calm as well. “She may be a whiner, but she’s not a liar. That would be you. The liar and the cheat.”

  There was a flash of fury. She felt it burst out of him, saw it kindle in his eyes. “You have no right to come into my office and speak to me like this, about matters that are none of your concern.”

  “Bella’s my concern. You’ve been a member of the family long enough to know how we work. Respect her, or divorce her. That’s your choice. Make it soon, or I’ll make things very hard for you.”

  He let out a surprised laugh. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. Give the mother of your children the proper respect, Vince, or I’ll see other people know where you’re spending your evenings instead of with your wife. My family will take my word on it,” she added. “But I’ll have it documented. Every time you go out to play, someone will be watching, and documenting. When I’m done, you won’t be welcome in my parents’ home any longer. Your children will wonder why.”

  “My children—”

  “Deserve better from their father. Why don’t you think about that? Honor your marriage, or dissolve it. Your choice.”

  She walked out. Not like poking a puppy with a stick this time, she thought as she strode to the elevator. No, the weight on her shoulders now was pure satisfaction.

  Bo walked into Sirico’s carrying the briefcase he used when he wanted to impress potential clients. Or in this case, the parents of the woman he was sleeping with.

  It looked to him as if the dinner shift was well under way. He probably should’ve chosen a less chaotic time. Still could, he decided. But since he was here, he might as well order a pizza for takeout.

  Before he could turn toward the counter, Fran walked over to him, bussed both his cheeks. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

  “Hi, how are you? Let me get you a table.”

  “That’s okay, I was just going to—”

  “Sit, sit.” She took his arm, steered him toward a booth already occupied by a couple eating plates of pasta. “Bo, this is my aunt Grace and uncle Sal. This is Bo, Reena’s friend. Bo, you sit with the family until we get a table cleared.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Sit, sit,” he was ordered again, this time by Aunt Grace, who studied him with avid eyes. “We’ve been hearing all about you. Here, have some bread. Have some pasta. Fran! Bring Reena’s boyfriend a plate. Bring him a glass.”

  “I was just going to—”

  “So.” Grace gave his arm two light slaps. “You’re a carpenter.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Actually, I just stopped in to drop something off for Mr. Hale.”

  “Mr. Hale, so formal!” She batted at him again. “You’re going to design Bianca’s pergola.”

  Word did travel, he decided. “I’ve got some sketches for them to look over. In fact.”

  “In your case?” Sal spoke for the first time, jabbed his loaded fork toward Bo’s briefcase.

  “Yeah, I was going to—”

  “Let’s have a look.” Sal stuffed the pasta in his mouth, gave a come-ahead gesture with his free hand.

  Fran came back with a salad, set it in front of Bo. “Mama says you’ll eat a nice salad, then you’ll have the baked spaghetti with Italian sausage.” Fran smiled winningly as she set down a red wineglass. “And you’ll like it.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “Tell your papa to come over,” Sal ordered Fran as he poured wine from his bottle into Bo’s glass. “We’re looking at the pergola.”

  “Soon as he gets a minute. Do you need anything else, Bo?”

  “I seem to have it all.”

  When Sal cleared the center of the table, Bo took out his sketches. “You’ve got your straight-on, your side and your bird’s-eye views,” he began.

  “You’re an artist!” Grace exclaimed, and gestured to the charcoal sketch of Venice on the wall beside her. “Like Bianca.”

  “Not even close, but thanks.”

  “You got these columns on the ends.” Sal peered over his reading glasses. “Fancy.”

  “More Italian.”

  “More money.”

  Bo lifted a shoulder, decided to eat the salad. “He can always go with treated posts. Either way, I’d paint them. Strong colors. Festive.”

  “One thing to draw pictures, another to build. You got any samples of your work?”

  “I’ve got a portfolio.”

  “In the briefcase?”

  Bo nodded, kept eating, and Sal made another come-ahead gesture.

  “Gib’s busy, but he’ll be over in a minute.” Bianca slid into the booth beside her brother. “Oh, the sketches. These are wonderful, Bo. You’ve got a lovely hand.”

  “An artist,” Grace said with a firm nod. “Sal’s browbeating him.”

  “Of course he is,” Bianca agreed, and managed to elbow her brother and pick up a sketch at the same time. “It’s more than I imagined, more than I planned.”

  “We can always adjust to—”

  “No, no.” She waved Bo’s words aside. “Better than I imagined. Do you see, Sal? You and Grace could be sitting out there tonight, the pretty little lights, the vines, the warm air.”

  “Sweating in August.”

  “We’ll sell more bottled water that way.”

  “A separate kitchen. More help, more expense, more trouble.”

  “More business.” There was challenge on her face as she swiveled full-on to her brother. “Who’s run this place for the last thirty-five years? You or me?”

  His eyebrows went up and down in a facial shrug.

  They argued—or so he assumed, since part of the byplay was in rapid Italian with lots of dramatic gestures. Bo played it safe and concentrated on his salad.

  Moments later, it was scooped away, and a plate of baked spaghetti set in its place. Gib dragged over a chair, sat at the end of the booth. “Where’s my daughter?” he asked Bo.

  “Ah . . . I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet, but she said she’d probably be working late.”

  “Look, Gib. Look at what Bo is building us.”

  Gib took the sketches, took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. Lips pursed, he studied them. “Columns?”

  “You can go with posts.”

  “I want the columns,” Bianca said definitely, and jabbed a finger in her brother’s face when he opened his mouth. “Basta!”

  “It’s more than I thought.”

  “Better,” Bianca said, and her eyes narrowed on Gib’s face. “What, you need new glasses? You can’t see what’s in front of your face?”

  “I don’t see a price in front of my face.”

  Saying nothing, Bo opened his briefcase again, took out an estimate sheet. And had the pleasure of seeing Gib’s eyes widen.

  “This is pretty steep.” He passed the sheet to Sal, who had his hand out.

  “This is top-dollar labor rates.”

  “I’m w
orth top dollar,” Bo said easily. “But I’m not opposed to bartering. This is great spaghetti, Bianca.”

  “Thank you. Enjoy.”

  “Bartering what?” Gib demanded.

  “Meals, wine.” He grinned at Bianca. “Will work for cannoli. Word of mouth. I’m just getting established in this neighborhood. I can give you the material at my cost. Plus if you provide some of the grunt work—hauling, painting—that cuts it back.”

  Gib breathed through his nose. “How much does that cut it back?”

  Bo took a second estimate sheet out of his case, handed it to Gib.

  Gib took a long look. “You must really like cannoli.” Once again he passed the sheet toward Sal, but this time Bianca snatched it. “Idiot,” she said in Italian. “What he likes is your daughter.”

  Gib sat back, drummed his fingers on the table. “How soon can you start?” he asked. And offered his hand.

  23

  “Bo, I don’t want you to feel obligated to cut your profit like this, to work for below your going rate just because it’s my family.”

  “Hmm.” He kept his eyes closed, continued to stroke his hand along her bare leg. “Did you say something? I’m in a cannoli coma complicated by a sexual haze.”

  Understandable, she thought, since he had had three of her mother’s outrageous cannolis before they’d—finally—done justice to his kitchen floor.

  “You do good work, and you deserve to get paid for it.”

  “I’m getting paid for it. I just ate most of my initial deposit. It’s good business,” he continued, anticipating her. “Sirico’s is a neighborhood landmark. This job will show off my work, get people talking. Your parents are leaders in the word-of-mouth department.”

  “Are you saying we’re blabbermouths?”

  “You guys sure can talk. My ears have been ringing since dinner. In a good way,” he added, and yawned. “I think I even won your uncle over by the time it was done.”

  “Uncle Sal, oldest son, renowned cheapskate. We love him anyway.”

  “So, they get a bargain, I get to do a job I’ll enjoy—and reap the advertising. And, oh God, eat your mother’s cooking until I die.”