Love in an Undead Age - A.M. Geever (love story novels in english .TXT) 📗

have a beer with?” poll. His actions around the vaccine, the source of his considerable power and wealth, left no doubt as to his true nature, but even so, Connor could not help but like him. No matter how evil, every person has at least one good quality. Even Hitler liked dogs.

“Business must be good, Mario, if you’re already offering Connor a job,” Miranda remarked mildly.

“Good enough. A little slow just now, but there are always ups and downs.”

“Maybe you could expand into agriculture. If you perfect the Sonalto tomato, it might expand your market share.”

“Miranda!” Karen hissed as the table fell silent. She raised her voice and continued. “Emily, this pasta is wonderful! Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes,” Emily replied, giving her husband, his face flushed with anger, a warning stare. “I made it this morning.”

“It’s great, Em,” Connor added, trying to neutralize the now charged atmosphere. “Aunt Maureen’s recipe?”

Mid-bite, Emily nodded.

“Dad, what’s a Sonalto tomato?”

The table fell silent again.

“It’s nothing to discuss while we’re eating, Michael,” Emily said to her oldest son.

“Are they on our pasta?” the boy persisted.

“No, of course not!” his mother said. She shot Miranda a filthy look. “And it’s nothing we’re going to discuss today.”

“What’s the big deal about a tomato?” the boy asked again, perplexed.

“Michael,” Emily said, but Mario interrupted her.

“He’s almost nine, Em. He’s old enough to know.”

“Anthony and Maureen aren’t,” Emily disagreed in a low voice.

“And they’re eating mac and cheese in the kitchen with Inez,” Mario replied. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

“Okay, Michael,” Mario said, directing his attention to his son. “You know that people turn into zombies after being bit by a zombie.”

The boy nodded his head.

“Have you ever thought about how the first zombie came about?”

“Well, yeah…but no one ever talks about it,” Michael said, his voice soft.

“Well, before there were zombies, there were biotech companies like mine. Some of them made food and things to grow crops, and Sonalto was one of them. You remember what DNA is?”

“Only the building blocks of life on Earth,” the boy said, sounding insulted.

“You’re so smart, Michael,” Karen interjected. “Maybe you’ll be a scientist like your dad.”

“Well,” Mario continued, “Sonalto changed the DNA of some of the tomatoes they sold so that farmers could spray their crops with pesticides that would kill weeds but not the tomato plants. Since they didn’t have to spray around the tomato plants, the farmers could do it quicker, which let them plant more crops and make more money.”

Miranda snorted. Connor jabbed her with his elbow.

“Did it work?” Michael asked.

“For a while,” Mario answered. “But after a few years the DNA they added to the tomatoes mutated and people who ate those tomatoes turned into zombies. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. No one had ever seen a zombie before, so at first, we tried to help them. We thought they were just sick, but then we realized they weren’t. Before, there used to be restaurants that were the same company all over the world, and they bought a lot of Sonalto tomatoes. Some of those restaurants were in airports, which is one of the reasons the epidemic spread so fast. But those tomatoes that Sonalto made don’t exist anymore. All the tomatoes we eat are safe.”

“Are you sure?” Michael looked down at his plate in alarm.

“I’m sure. See?” Mario popped a tomato wedge in his mouth and chewed, smiling widely. “We eat these all the time and none of us have become zombies, have we?”

“I guess so,” the boy answered with a marked lack of confidence.

“And besides,” Emily added. “We’ve all had Daddy’s vaccine, so there’s no way you can ever turn into a zombie no matter what you eat. Or even if you got bit.”

“Some people still won’t eat tomatoes because they’re afraid, but it’s impossible to be Italian and not eat tomatoes,” Mario said to his son, his voice that of a conspirator. “Isn’t that right, Miranda?”

All eyes turned to the other end of the table, awaiting her reply.

“That’s right,” she said. She bit into a tomato wedge for Michael’s benefit even though Connor could see it killed her to agree with Mario. “That’s one thing your dad and I agree on.”

“I know I said it already,” Karen said with forced good cheer after draining her wineglass, which she held up for a refill. “But really, Emily, this pasta is fantastic!”

Emily latched on to Karen’s conversational lifeline. They chatted about cooking while Michael peppered his father with more questions about zombies. Connor leaned over to whisper in Miranda’s ear.

“I can’t believe you. You’re upsetting Emily!”

“This is why I never come when he’s here,” she growled. “We always end up sniping at one another.”

“Well get your shit together and act like a grown-up. This is supposed to be my family reunion and you’re busy scaring a kid.”

Connor watched her bite back an angry retort. Emily and Karen moved on from cooking to eligible bachelors that Emily might introduce to Karen. Mario started offering suggestions and soon they were all out brainstorming. Michael vetoed two of his parents’ choices of potential suitors with loud exclamations of “Him and Aunt Karen? Ewww!” but gave his stamp of approval to two others.

“Miri, can you pass the water pitcher?” Emily asked, still smiling from the spirited matchmaking session.

“It’s empty, Em.”

“Lupe can get it,” Emily said, looking around. “She must have gone into the house for another bottle of wine. Pass it over and I’ll go get some.”

“I can do it,” Miranda said, starting to stand up.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miri. You’re a guest.” Emily snatched the pitcher away and excused herself from the table.

“Speaking of fixing people up,” Mario said, “I understand you and Miranda were quite the item when all of you were at SCU, Connor.”

From the corner of his eye, Connor saw Miranda stiffen.

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“Maybe the spark is still there?” Mario asked, a devilish gleam in his eye.

“Or maybe not,” Miranda snapped.

What the fuck, Connor thought, not sure if he should be worried that Miranda just said she was not interested in him almost to his face, or if her comment had more to do with who had asked the question.

“You were a Jesuit for a while, weren’t you, Connor?” Mario queried.

Preoccupied, Connor only half heard the question. “Um, yeah, for a short time.”

“What was it like?”

Connor could not say why, but Mario’s questions about his time as a Jesuit made him uncomfortable. “I learned a lot about myself, but I just wasn’t cut out for religious life.”

“It definitely takes a special kind of man to be a priest,” Mario agreed. Connor watched his attention shift from himself to Miranda. “I imagine it would be difficult for any man to be celibate after having a lover as passionate as Miranda.”

“You motherfuck—” Miranda snarled, her cry lost in the clatter of bumped plates and tipping glasses and cutlery as she rocketed to her feet. Connor jumped up as well, grabbing her arm to keep her from flying over the table.

“What the heck is going on?” Emily asked, out of breath. The pitcher in her hand was half empty, and there were wet patches on her blouse and skirt. She must have seen the commotion as she left the house and dashed over to intercede, splashing the pitcher’s contents on herself in the process. She looked around the table and settled on her husband. “Honey, why don’t you help me in the kitchen?”

Mario smiled like a mean-spirited Cheshire Cat. Karen sucked down another half glass of wine. Michael watched the commotion, wide-eyed.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Mario said, his venomous stare focused on Miranda.

“You too, Michael,” Emily said as Mario rose from his chair to follow her rigid form into the house.

“That fucking asshole! That fucking piece of shit!” Miranda spat when they were gone. She wrenched her arm free of Connor’s grip, stumbling over the chair she had knocked over when she had rocketed to her feet.

“Miri, you shouldn’t get into it with him,” Karen scolded.

“So it’s my fault he’s a bastard?”

“You’re the one making smart-ass remarks about tomatoes,” Karen countered. “If you’re upset, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Miranda spun on her heel and stormed off, slamming the French doors that led from the veranda to the end of the house away from the kitchen. Connor started after her, but Karen called to him before he had gone ten feet.

“Let her go, Connor. She’ll just take it out on you. Let her cool down.”

Connor was taken aback by the viciousness of Miranda and Mario’s riposting. He knew Miranda loathed Emily’s husband but had thought they could at least be civil. She was Michael’s godmother; the kids thought of her as their aunt. Connor had assumed they could put a good face on things in front of the children at least. He was afraid to think what might have happened had Emily not all but dragged Mario from the table.

“They really don’t like each other,” Connor said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Karen