Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (surface ebook reader TXT) 📗

“I see. I guess I never thought of you that way before.”

Okay, best to get it out into the open. “Does it bother you?”

“Actually…no. I find it a little exciting. Who knew I’d be dating a beautiful, dangerous woman. I feel like Bogie, in The Maltese Falcon.”

“Well, I’m no Mary Astor,” I snapped, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry, Kevin, I’m dead tired and I’ve had nothing to eat for about nine hours. I’m not fit to talk to.”

“I could bring over a pizza. Or some Chinese? I’m great at neck rubs.”

There was more than a hint of sexual undertone in the offer. I felt a little tingle and I knew that we could end up in bed if I agreed, but I wanted some magic for our first sexual encounter, not this wiped out feeling. So I quoted Sam Spade’s line to Brigid O’Shaughnessy at the end of the film. “I won't because all of me wants to, regardless of consequences.”

He chuckled. “Hammett has a lot to answer for. But I’m glad you want to. Ah, well, see you tomorrow night, Dangerous.” Click. He hung up.

Tomorrow night. The benefit for the Muscular Dystrophy Association at the Italian Community Center. The one that I’d agreed to attend in support of my neighbor, Joseph, and his family. Me and Kevin. And Papa. And Aunt Terry. And lots of Papa’s friends and business associates. My heart started to pound in time with the headache that was tuning up inside my skull. I needed to eat something, before nausea set in.

I toasted two slices of Brownberry twelve-grain bread, and slathered one side with chunky peanut butter and the other with Smucker’s apricot spread. Then I smacked them together, cut the sandwich in half, poured a glass of soy milk and sat at my dining table to eat my favorite comfort food. PB&J may sound juvenile, but it’s good for the nerves.

As I munched, I remembered the night when I invited Kevin to the benefit. It was an I-don’t-want-to-go-alone-and-be-poor-single-Angie moment, and Kevin had immediately accepted. He was obviously looking forward to the get-together, and he knew a lot of the families from his work as a physical therapist. It might not be so bad. I might be able to keep him away from Papa and Terry. Maybe. In some alternate universe, where Italian papas and surrogate mamas don’t care who their child dates.

Screw it, I thought, as I headed for a warm shower and bed. I fell asleep and dreamt of Papa chasing Elisa with a knife, and Terry slow dancing with Kevin.

***

My digital clock read 6:13 when I woke. Saturday morning. I rolled over and hugged the pillow, remembering when my kids were little. On Saturdays, they would jump in bed with me and Bozo, watching cartoons and waiting for Mommy and Daddy to get up. Now Emma and David were grown, with spouses and children and homes of their own. Now they worried about me. Now they waited for me to “grow up” and “settle down.” And they’d be at the benefit tonight. Damn! How could I forget? Papa bought tickets for all of us, after Joseph melted his heart one day in the elevator.

Groaning and muttering curses on myself, my family, and the fate that put me in this position in my fifties, I dressed, splashed water on my face and headed out the door for an early morning run. More from force of habit than from real precaution, I scanned each jogger, runner, walker, biker and blader in my vicinity. Milwaukee’s lakefront is a beautiful, preserved area that many East-siders enjoy recreationally, but a woman can’t be too careful.

At McKinley Marina, I bought a cup of coffee from the refreshment stand and sat on a bench looking out over the lake. Get a grip, I thought. You’re not a kid. You don’t need anyone else’s approval. It doesn’t matter if Papa or Terry or Emma or David like Kevin. But it did. Deep down, it did.

Why? I asked myself. I mentally ticked off the possibilities. One—because you care deeply for Kevin and believe he might be the one you want to have a long-term relationship with. No, I answered. I like him and I enjoy his company, but that’s as far as it’s gotten, so far. Two—because you’re afraid that he’ll embarrass you in front of your family. Unlikely, I responded. He’s gracefully survived a couple encounters with friends my age, who all liked him and told me what a great guy he was. Three—because you’re afraid of the whispering, the innuendos about May-October relationships, the ‘what does he see in her?’ comments.

Yes, that’s the one. For all my bravado, for all the self-confidence that I exhibit, inside there was that little seed of doubt. Doubt that Bozo planted when he started running around. Doubt that grew with every man like Tony. Doubt that bloomed with every woman who was younger, prettier, firmer, sexier. I didn’t want to play the fool, or even look it.

Angry with myself, I slammed the coffee cup into the wastebasket and started my run back home. I showered, dressed in twill pants and a cotton top, and headed for the office. In order to concentrate solely on the Belloni case, I needed to clear my calendar. I called a colleague from the old Walterman days and asked him to handle a missing kid case—a seventeen year old who left home when her parents insisted that she stop seeing her boyfriend. Other than routine paperwork cases, it was the only active investigation on my plate, except for Belloni. I handled some bills, did a few credit and background checks on the Internet, wrote up my report for Bart and sent it off by courier to his office. It was only two o’clock. Kevin was picking me up at seven. I didn’t need five hours to get ready. When you’re slightly panicky about a guy meeting your family,