Rusty Nailed (Cocktail #2)(46)
Author: Alice Clayton

• • •

That night when I got home, Simon was there and had made spaghetti and meatballs. Of course he was. Home, I mean.

“It’s shocking, how much I need balls right now,” I quipped, sitting at the table in my jacket and scarf, my knife and fork pointed up.

“I had a feeling. I found this great Italian market this morning on my bike ride, and they’re one of the only places I’ve ever found stateside that will grind the pork, veal, and beef together,” he said, pouring me a glass of red and putting the pasta into the boiling water. “Makes for a more tender ball,” he said, deadpan.

“So that’s your secret,” I said, sipping the wine. The night was chilly, but inside it was cozy and warm. A fire was ablaze in the living room, its light bouncing off the window wall. Clive was curled into a ball inside the cat condo that Simon had bought for him. Orange carpet, multileveled with a scratching post and a bouncy ball on top of the entire thing, it was hideous. I’d told him Clive would never go for something so garish, so obviously cat, but he f**king loved it.

My boys had a simpatico thing going on. They certainly spent enough time together . . .

There it was again. That corner of something I kept running into my head; the very edge of something cooking in there. It disappeared when Simon set down the salad, then kissed me stupid.

“How’d the meeting go about the bar?” he asked.

He’d been listening the night before when I told him what I had going on today.

“Good, though I was a little distracted. I got an e-mail from Jillian.”

“How’re they doing? I haven’t heard from Benjamin for a while, but we’re talking next week about some investments.”

“Is he still managing everything for you?”

“He’s got someone on them more day to day while he’s gone, but he’s keeping his eye on it too. She say when they’re coming home?”

“No, and that’s the thing. Every time I try to bring it up, she changes the subject,” I said, chewing on a piece of escarole I stole from the salad bowl. Lemon and mustard vinaigrette. Nice.

“Benjamin too. I figured with their honeymoon and all, they’re having too much fun to think about coming home.”

“Must be nice to have zero responsibilities,” I muttered, bumping into that corner again.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he chided, tossing the pasta with tongs. “You want to shred that cheese?”

“I would say that.” I grabbed the cheese and began to shred. “I don’t know; maybe I’ll say something to the girls tomorrow, see what they think.”

“The girls?”

“Yeah, breakfast at the diner? I haven’t seen them for a while,” I said, still shredding. He mumbled something under his breath about me being gone again, but I ignored it. “And another thing—when we talked before Christmas, she told me they were going to Munich for Christmas. But I got an e-mail from her today that said they were in Vienna.”

“I think I heard Vienna. At least that’s what Benjamin said.”

“I know she said Munich; she said it was because Benjamin had friends there.” I continued to shred.

“Benjamin has friends everywhere,” he said, testing the pasta and calling it good.

“The point isn’t whether or not he has friends there. The point is I know what I heard,” I said, shredding furiously.

“Is it at all possible, and I’m just asking here,” he said, tossing the pasta with a little bit of the sauce and then pouring it all into a bowl, “that you didn’t hear her correctly?”

“No.” I shredded.

“Not at all possible?” he asked, setting the bowl down on the table and then going back for the meatballs. “No chance in the slightest.”

“Of course there’s a chance,” I said through gritted teeth. “I just know what I heard.”

“Well then, ask her. That’ll solve it, won’t it? Better than shredding your fingernails into that bowl,” he replied calmly, covering my hand with his and stopping me right before I did that very thing.

I looked down. I’d shredded the entire wedge.

“I can’t ask her, she’s depending on me,” I said, releasing the shredder and heading for the sink to wash my hands.

“She is, but she’s also your friend. If there’s a problem, she’d want to know about it, don’t you think?” he asked, pulling out my chair for me.

“She’s my friend, but she’s my boss first. And yes, I should probably talk to her,” I replied, sitting down and smiling briefly when he placed a kiss on my shoulder before sitting down across from me. “Dammit, I hate when you’re right.”

“That’s a lot of hating, then. I had no idea,” he teased, passing me the bowl with several pounds of grated Parmesan.

I took the bowl, and then showed him a particular finger.

For the record, they were amazing balls.

• • •

“Whole wheat pancakes, blueberry sauce, and a side of turkey sausage, please.”

“Egg white omelette with ham and green onions and a cup of berries, please.”

“Scrambled eggs, hash browns with no butter, rye toast. And could I also please get a grapefruit half?”

We sat at our regular table at the diner, Sophia and Mimi nursing extra big cups of coffee.

“Thanks for coming so early. I know you both like to sleep in on Saturdays,” I said, sipping on my own extra big cup. I had an art installation being set up today, and I knew it was going to be a day for extra caffeine.

“How’s it going over at the hotel? Think you’ll be able to slow down a bit when that’s all complete?” Mimi asked.

“Not likely. We’ve slowed down on some of our residential design to take on this project, but once that’s done, we’ve got clients who have literally put their remodels on hold a few months in order to work with us,” I said proudly. “But some of that depends on Jillian.”

“Still no word on when she’s coming back?”

“Nope, but let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about your wedding—how’s the planning coming?” I asked, changing the subject smoothly. I hadn’t made any progress on what I was going to say to Jillian about everything, unsure how to broach the subject, so I was eager to think about something else.

I could tell you Mimi had begun planning her wedding the day Ryan put a two-karat solitaire on her finger, but that would be a lie. She’d been planning it since she knew what a wedding was. She had notebooks and binders full of tear sheets that she’d been collecting over the years. Table settings, flowers, dresses, linens—you name it, she had it in a binder. Ryan didn’t ask any questions or make a single suggestion; he just sat back and let the Mimi Train run.