The moon hung, swollen and ripe, low in the sky and close. Really close. He could see dimples and holes in the surface.
“It does look like cheese.”
“Look at all the stars,” Rosie whispered, her arm stealing around his waist. “I’ve never seen so many.”
The fathomless black velvet night was shot through with glittering pinpricks. Thousands of them. The sky was a cathedral—majestic and vast. The Milky Way lay strewn carelessly in a thick band across the heavens, like a belt someone dropped.
As they watched, a star fell across the sky, leaving its radiant trail.
“Make a wish,” Rosie whispered. She shut her eyes and pressed her lips tight, wishing with all her might like she always did.
Walter looked at his wife and knew there was nothing left to wish for.
* * *
“That was a pretty good movie,” Rosie said as she brushed out her hair at her dresser.
“You can’t beat Bill Murray.” Walter shucked off his pants. Shook them out and folded them over the chair. He had the day off tomorrow and was hoping he might get started on repairing the gutters on the garage. They weren’t crucial, but another good rain and they’d be in trouble.
“Jennifer loved it.”
Walter nodded. He had been struck dumb by the sound of his daughter’s unchecked laughter. God, it had been years since she’d been so unguarded around him. They should watch that movie every night.
He eased between the cool sheets and sighed. He crossed his arms behind his head and watched his wife’s shoulder’s flex and lift as the brush ran through her hair. It turned sable in the low light of the bedside lamp. The strap of her slip slid down her arm and Walter wished Rosie could see herself the way he saw her right now. This moment. She would know there was nothing more winsome.
“What a nice day,” Rosie said, and he caught her eye in the mirror.
“It was nice,” he sighed. “Come to bed.” Rosie smiled and put down the brush. She pulled the blankets free from her side of the bed and slid in next to him.
Immediately she pressed her cold feet to his calves.
“Good God, woman, do you have to do that?”
“It’s cold.”
“No it’s not, it’s June.”
“Oh,” Rosie said, leaning up on her elbow. “I almost forgot. I have a doctor’s appointment for a physical tomorrow. Can you take me?”
“Sure, I can take you,” Walter said.
The gutters could wait another day.
23
It seemed to Walter that he blinked and he was in bed with Rosie, and when he blinked again he was alone in a giant king-size bed, Rosie’s cold feet no longer pressed to his.
He stared at the ceiling and smiled. What a day. Perfect. The most perfect day there ever was. His joy bubbled and boiled over and he laughed. He had forgotten they had made love that morning. That had been a particularly nice surprise
He sat up and the sheets and thick rose-patterned quilt that were not anything Rosie would have picked out fell from his chest onto his stomach.
He recognized the room. It was the Primrose Suite at the York Hotel in Milwaukee. One year on a business trip, they’d screwed up his regular reservation and he got bumped up to this suite with the king-size bed and the Jacuzzi bathroom and the small sitting room with the fold-out couch.
He stepped out of bed, surprised when his bare feet sank into the thick carpet. He wiggled his toes and nearly giggled. He felt so young. He patted his stomach but couldn’t tell how old he was. There was not a single mirror in the room for him to check. He ran his hand up his neck and his scar was gone.
He felt new.
He pulled open the drapes over the windows. It was sort of rainy, gray, not gloomy, just wet. It was the kind of weather that Rosie liked best. Bath weather, she called it.
There was a low rumble. Walter looked around for the eruption of a filing cabinet through the carpeted floor. But none came.
What in the world?
“Peter? You here?” He looked around for the kid, wondering what he was doing in the Primrose Suite at the York Hotel.
There was a knock on the door. “Room service,” a voice said through the mahogany wood, and Walter padded over to open the heavy, ornate door.
Peter, the little shit, in a bell boy uniform, pushed a giant service cart loaded with silver dishes into the room and Walter had to step out of the way or lose a toe.
“Hi Peter,” he said with a rush of bonhomie for the guy. “What’s going on?”
“Well, we got bacon and some chocolate milkshakes and egg salad sandwiches—”
“What am I doing here?”
“I trust you slept well?” Peter asked, uncovering dishes. Walter knew what the question was. The real question.
“It was everything I wanted it to be,” he said. “It was perfect.”
“Excellent, glad to hear it,” Peter said and then added under his breath, “‘Bout damn time.”
“But what is this?” Walter gestured to the room, the open door. “I thought I was out of limbo. I’m ready for what’s next.” He surprised himself by just how ready he was, eager, even, to fade to black.
“Really?” Peter smirked.
“Yes, I am. I—”
The rumbling noise stopped and Walter turned to stare at the partially open door to the bathroom. The light was on and steam was curling its way around the door.
The noise had been water filling the bath.
“Walter? Is that room service?” It was Rosie’s voice coming from behind that cracked door. Water trickled and gurgled, and he knew his wife was in that Jacuzzi bath. “Remember you’ve got to tip him.”
“Yeah, I deserve a heck of a tip,” Peter muttered.
“What is this? What—?” Walter could not put words to his hope. If he was wrong...
“It’s what you always wanted it to be,” Peter told him. “You just needed a little faith.”
Walter laughed, but it was more of a sob—he was flooded with things so big he couldn’t tell what they were. He turned to Peter, naked and shameless in his relief and joy. But the boy disappeared in a rain of glitter and stardust.
“Walter?” Rosie called. “Where are you?”
“Heaven,” he breathed. “I’m in heaven.”
Dear Reader - thank you so much for taking this journey with me. I have been thinking about Walter and Rosie for twenty years and I’m just so thrilled to finally be able to share them with you.
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* * *
Wedding At The Riverview Inn
* * *
Out of the corner of his eye, Gabe Mitchell saw his father, Patrick, spit a mouthful of seaweed-wrapped tofu into his napkin like a five-year-old.
Gabe kicked him under the table, appalled but envious.
“So?” Melissa, the chef responsible for the vegan spa cuisine, asked. “Was I right, or what?”
“Or what,” Patrick muttered, balling his napkin up beside his plate.
“You were right,” Gabe said and kept chewing. He chewed and chewed and the bland mouthful didn’t break down. He was going to be chewing forever. “This is really something.”
“Well?” She smiled broadly. “When do I start?”
Patrick laughed, but quickly coughed to cover it, so Gabe didn’t bother kicking him again.
He managed to swallow the bite in his mouth, took a huge sip of the unsweetened berry smoothie to wash it
down and was appalled to discover she’d somehow made berries taste bland, too.
He’d interviewed and auditioned five chefs and this one really was the bottom of a very dark, very deep barrel. Not that he had any problem with raw food, or vegan food. It was the food with absolutely no flavor that was really disheartening. It was like she’d taken the flavor out of the food.
“Well—” he smiled and lied through his teeth “—I have a few more interviews this week, so I will have to get back to you.”
The girl’s eagerness turned on a dime and became narrow-eyed mean-spiritedness, which wasn’t going to help her get the job. “You know,” she said, “it’s not going to be easy to find someone willing to live out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I understand that,” he said graciously.
“And it’s a brand-new inn.” She shrugged. “It’s not like you have the credentials to get a—”
“Well, then.” He stood up and interrupted the defeating diatribe before she got to the part about how he was ugly and his father dressed him funny. “Why don’t you gather your equipment and I’ll call you if—”
“And that’s another thing.” Now she was really getting snotty. “Your kitchen is a disaster—”
That one hit him in the gut. Or maybe it was the seaweed finally working it’s way through his system but he was suddenly at a loss for words.
“You know how building projects can be.” Patrick stood, his silver hair and dashing smile gleaming in the sunlight. “One minute shambles, the next state of the art.”
“You must be in the shambles part,” Melissa said.
“Very true, but I can guarantee within the week state-of-the-art.” His blue eyes twinkled as though he was letting Melissa in on a secret. It was times such as these that Gabe fully realized the compliment people gave him when they said he was a chip off the old block.
Patrick stepped to the side of Melissa and held out his arm toward the kitchen as though he were ushering her toward dinner, rather than away from a job interview she’d bombed.
Gabe sat with a smile. Dad was going to handle this one. Great. Because I am out of niceties.
“Tell me, Melissa, how did you get that tofu to stay together like that? In a tidy little bundle,” Patrick asked as they walked toward the kitchen.
Melissa blushed and launched into a speech on the magic of toothpicks.
God save me from novice chefs.
The swinging door to the kitchen swung open, revealing his nowhere-near-completed kitchen, and then swung shut behind his father giving the terrible chef the heave-ho.
Gotta hand it to the guy, sixty-seven years old and he still has it.
Silence filled the room, from the cathedral ceiling to the fresh pine wood floors. The table and two chairs sat like an island in the middle of the vast, sun-splashed room.
He felt as though he was in the eye of the storm. If he left this room he’d be buffeted, torn apart by gale-force winds, deadlines, loose ends and a chefless kitchen.
“You’re too nice,” Patrick said, stepping back into the room.
“You told me to always be polite,” Gabe said.
“Not when you are being poisoned.”
Patrick lowered himself into the chair he’d vacated and crossed his arms over his flannel-covered barrel chest. “She was worse than the other five chefs you’ve talked to.”
The seaweed-wrapped tofu on his plate seemed to mock Gabe, so he threw his napkin over it and pushed it away. At loose ends, he crossed his arms behind his head and stared out his wall of windows at his view of the Hudson River Valley.
The view was stunning. Gorgeous. Greens and grays and clouds like angels filling the slate-blue sky. He banked on that view to bring in the guests to his Riverview Inn, but he’d been hoping for a little more from the kitchen.
The Hudson River snaked its way through the corner of his property, and out the window, he could see the skeleton frame of the elaborate gazebo being built. The elaborate gazebo where, in two and a half months, there was going to be a very important wedding.
The mother of the bride had called out of the blue three days ago, needing an emergency site and had found him on the Web. And she’d been e-mailing every day to talk about the menu and he’d managed to put her off, telling her he needed guest numbers before he could put together a menu and a budget.
If they lost that wedding…well, he’d have to hope there was a manager’s job open at McDonald’s or that he could sell enough of his blood, or hair, or semen or whatever it took to get him out of the black hole of debt he’d be in.
All of the building was going according to plan. There had been a minor glitch with the plumber, however Max, his brother and begrudging but incredibly skilled general contractor, had sorted it out early and they were right back on track.
“Getting the chef was supposed to be the easy part, wasn’t it?” Patrick asked. “I thought you had those hotshot friends of yours in New York City.”
Gabe rolled his eyes at his father. Anyone who didn’t know the difference between a fuse box and a circuit breaker was a hotshot to him. And it wasn’t a compliment.
“They decided to stay in NewYork City,” he said. All three of his top choices, which had forced him into this hideous interview process.
Fifteen years in the restaurant business working his way up from waiter to bartender to sommelier. He had been the manager of the best restaurant in Albany for four years and finally owner of his own Zagat-rated bar and grill in Manhattan for the past five years and this is what he’d come to.
Flavorless food.
“I can’t believe this is so hard,” he muttered.
Patrick grinned.
“I open in a month and I’ve got no chef. No kitchen staff whatsoever.”
Patrick chuckled.
“What the hell are you laughing at, Dad? I’m in serious trouble here.”
“Your mother would say this—”
Icy anger exploded in his exhausted brain. “What is this recent fascination with Mom? She’s been gone for years, I don’t care what she’d say.”
His cruel words echoed through the empty room. He rubbed his face, weary and ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’ve got so much going on, I just don’t want—”
“I understand, son.” The heavy clap of his father’s hand on his shoulder nearly had him crumbling into a heap. “But not everything can be charmed or finessed. Sometimes it takes work—”
“I work.” Again, anger rose to the surface. “I work hard, Dad.”
“Oh, son.” Patrick’s voice was rough. “I know you do. But you’ve worked hard at making it all look easy. I’ve never seen a construction job go as smooth as this one has. You’ve got every lawyer, teamster and backhoe operator eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“You think that’s easy?” Gabe arched an eyebrow at his father.
“I know better than that. I’ve watched you work that gray in your hair and I’ve watched you work through the night for this place and I’m proud of you.”
Oh, Jesus, he was going to cry in his seaweed. Though at least then it would be salty.
“But sometimes you have to make hard choices. Swallow your pride and beg and compromise and ask for favors. You have to fight, which is something you don’t like to do.”
That was true, he couldn’t actually say he fought for things. Fighting implied arguments and standoffs and a possibility of losing.
Losing wasn’t really his style.
He worked hard, he made the right contacts, he treated his friends well and his rivals better. He ensured things would go his way—which was a far cry from having them fall in his lap. But it was also a far cry from compromising or swallowing his pride or fighting.
The very idea gave Gabe the chills.
“You saying I should fight for Melissa?” He jerked his head at the door the vchef had left through.
“No.” Patrick’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “God, no. But I’m saying you should figh
t for the right chef.”
“What’re we fighting for?” Max, Gabe’s older brother stomped into the room, brushing sawdust from the chest and arms of his navy fleece onto the floor. “Did I miss lunch?”
“Not really,” Patrick said. “And we haven’t actually started any fight, so cool your jets.”
Max pulled one of the chairs from the stacks on tables in the corner, unclipped his tool belt and slung it over the back of the chair before sitting.
As the family expert on fighting, Max had made battles his life mission. And not just physically, though the bend in his nose attested to a few bar brawls and the scar on his neck from a bullet that got too close told the truth better than this new version of his brother, who, since being shot, acted as though he’d never relished a good confrontation.
Yep, Max knew how to fight, for all the good it did him.
“Well, from the look on Gabe’s face, I guess we still don’t have a chef,” Max said, sliding his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt.
“No,” Gabe growled. “We don’t.”
Now Max, his beloved brother, his best friend, stretched his arms over his head and laughed. “Never seen you have so much trouble, Gabe.”
“I am so glad that my whole family is getting such pleasure out of this. Need I remind you that if this doesn’t work, we’re all homeless. You should show a little concern about what’s going on.”
“It’s just a building,” Max said.
Gabe couldn’t agree less, but he kept his mouth shut. Going toe to toe with his brother, while satisfying on so many levels, wouldn’t get him a chef.
“I’m going to go make us some lunch.” Patrick stood and Max groaned. “Keep complaining and you can do it,” he said over his shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Cheese sandwiches. Again,” Max groused.
“It’s better than what we had, trust me.”
“What happened?”
“Ah, she fed us terrible food and then said I was crazy for trying to build an inn in the middle of nowhere and get a chef to come out here for little pay in a half-finished kitchen. Basically, what all the chefs have said to me.”
A Day In the Death of Walter Zawislak Page 17