by Emilia Finn
“Um… okay.” I bring my fingers back to my eyes and press until I see dots. “Do you have proof, Mr. Lockwood?”
Silence overtakes the room for a moment, then, “Proof?”
“Yes, proof. I cannot fire someone for stealing, Mr. Lockwood, if I have no proof of such a thing happening.”
“B-b-but the proof is me, Ms. Mazzi. I placed a crisp twenty-dollar bill in that room. Deloris passed through. After that, the money was gone.”
“Okay, but I need more than that. Have you confronted her about it? Has she confessed?”
“N-n-no, ma’am. I have not confronted her yet, I wished to speak to you first.”
“Okay. So if I go find her now, Mr. Lockwood, and I ask her if she took the money, what do you think she will say?”
“She is likely to deny it, Ms. Mazzi.”
“Precisely. And if you have no proof to offer me, only your word, then you’re asking me to take yours over hers.”
His face pales. “Ms. Mazzi?”
“I cannot make such allegations with so little to go on.”
“My word is… is…” He’s like a small puppy, and I’ve just laid my boot to his stomach. “You think so little of me?”
“I’m asking you to offer me more.” I push up to stand and swipe my diary as I go. Coming around my desk, I stop at the closed door and wait for Lockwood’s eyes. “I do not say that to slight you, sir. But if you expect me to fire staff on your word when you make serious allegations, then I can only assume you think little of me. Move Deloris if you must, reassign her, or send her to me and I’ll find work for her. However, until she is proven to be unfit for the Oriane, my hands are tied.” I open my door and paste on a gentle smile.
I said none of that to piss him off or offend his ego. But it is what it is, and I will not earn a reputation around here as a business bully.
The Oriane is my legacy, and that of Max’s. I could never afford this hotel, these people, this life, if not for the arrangements my husband made for me when I wasn’t looking. I won’t repay him now by creating a reputation of being unkind.
Once Mr. Lockwood huffs and stomps his way out of my office and heads right, toward the stairs, I tuck my diary under my arm and turn left, toward the front doors.
I have a million things to do today, a dozen appointments to attend, and I’m wearing heels that won’t thank me for taking a stroll around town, but I snag a pair of sunglasses from the desk in the lobby, then I walk straight into the sunlight anyway.
The sun’s rays are like a hug, warm enough to embrace, but not so scalding that my skin burns. The warmth seeps into my dark hair. It massages my scalp and brings a smile to my lips.
Drawing in a fresh breath, a heaping lungful of air, I flip my diary open and start reading, even as I walk. I know the direction I’m going, the park Arlo was talking about, so I bypass my car and step off the curb that surrounds my hotel. Then I hum under my breath and read.
It’s not quite eleven in the morning. The high tea with the fancy ladies is set to go into the early afternoon, then at four, I have a couple coming to see our ballroom to discuss their upcoming wedding reception. If they sign on to use the Oriane, and if they choose to also sign Abby on as their florist, then I have some math to do, some maneuvering to attempt, to make sure we both make money and the bridal party walks away pleased with the deal they made. Then, tomorrow, Jake the Builder is back to work on some finishing touches in the rooms that were here before the remodel.
In many ways, building from scratch and having that blank canvas was infinitely easier than trying to remodel something that was built a hundred or so years ago. Newer builds have better storage. Better use of space. Better fittings and fixtures. Better everything.
I remain in my world, plotting, planning, figuring out my schedule and considering a night for Max and I to bake brownies and eat them while they’re still warm. But that mental exercise doesn’t stop me from hearing the slow traffic puttering about town. It doesn’t stop me from hearing the birds call from tree to tree.
And it sure as hell doesn’t stop me from hearing Arlo, even though there’s still a block and a half between us.
She hoots and laughs, calls out, and talks smack. She cheers when something goes right—she scored a goal—and loudly moans when something goes wrong—she missed. But when Max does something right, she’s the loudest of all.
If my son craves silence and prefers being invisible, then Arlo is possibly the cruelest thing I’ve ever done to him.
But as I come around the last block, and the park comes into view, I’m rewarded with a view of my son’s magnetic smile. His warm embrace as our nanny—our newest best friend—swings him around and cheers.
I soak in that sight for a moment. Their happiness, their freedom and complete lack of inhibitions.
I enjoy this new world we’ve happened upon. But then his ball comes around a tree, seemingly on its own. That damn palla rolls by itself and comes into view from wherever either Max or Arlo kicked it.
Except it’s not alone. Because of course, balls don’t move without a human’s influence.
I stop on the spot, far enough from the park to hope no one has spotted me yet, and snapping my diary closed, I watch on as Max wiggles from Arlo’s arms and dashes with flailing limbs toward Nixon Rosa.
“Oh merda.”
Nixon, expecting my son’s attack, spins on the ball, races to the left and avoids a child’s giggling advance, but then he turns toward Max once more, legs bent, chest lowered, challenging stance as they face off. “Come and get it, Mazzi.”
Nixon’s rear end is pointed straight in my direction, which means it looks good in those bright yellow firefighter pants that make my hands sweat. He wears black boots, and suspenders pulled up over his shoulders to keep the baggy trousers up. But he wears no coat, no ill-fitting yellow to hide his top half. No, instead he wears a navy shirt, skintight and annoyingly alluring. But worse than that, he wears a baseball cap turned backward.
“Ah, dannazione.”
“Go slower.” Laughing, Arlo faces Nixon as though on Max’s team. She bends, just like Nixon does, but she’s panting, hands on her thighs, heaving chest and sweaty-faced. “I didn’t agree with this.”
I come closer. Slowly. No sudden movements… all so I can listen to everything they’re saying.
“It’s three to two,” Nixon complains. “You guys are up, so why the hell am I gonna go slower for you?”
“Because you enjoy cardio,” she retorts. “And this sure as hell wasn’t in my job contract.”
“Do you even have a contract?”
“No!” she cries out. “Everyone in this town has a Mazzi contract except me. And yet, I’m the only sucker running around behind a ball today.” She touches her inside thigh. “I’m chafin’, Nix! I’m thirsty. I’m hungry. And I washed my hair last night. Now look at it.” She grabs a dangling lock. “Sweaty!”
“You wanna know what I think?” She doesn’t. I can tell, even from here. “You whine a lot.”
Lightning-fast, Nixon kicks the ball between Max and Arlo, then blows past them so fast that Max drops to his butt with a thud.
I jump forward in mom-mode, ready to run and protect my baby, but Arlo is faster, scooping him up as Nixon hurriedly circles back.
“I’m sorry, Mazzi.” Nixon’s chest grows and shrinks with his breath. “Geez, bud. I didn’t mean to knock you down.”
Arlo fusses with Max’s shirt. She fixes his askew hat, and tucks his long hair back out of his eyes. But it’s not until Nixon’s gaze comes up and stops on mine that the air around us changes.
Nixon visibly swallows, so his throat moves, and his tongue comes out to swipe along his bottom lip.
He watches me the way a hungry man watches a meal.
But underneath that, I’m certain he’s worried for my retribution. He knocked my baby down, so he must pay. But on top of that, the last time we spoke, I was icy and mean. Dismissive and—well, not cruel… but callou
s, for sure.
Nixon’s eyes widen the longer I stand in place, and above those, his brows draw lower. “Idalia?” He takes a step forward, hesitantly, slowly, only to stop when Arlo places her hand on his bicep.
Is she protecting him? Allowing me space to blow up? Does she remember too, my unkindness the last time the four of us were in one space? She was fired that night. Does she worry the same fate is coming for her today?
When no one moves, and Max doesn’t ask to come closer, I start across the grass, careful to keep my heels from digging in. Tucking my diary under my arm, but leaving my sunglasses in place—a shield of sorts, I suppose—I stop in front of the trio and take Max when he extends his arms.
He wants his momma, but he wasn’t prepared to speak up and ask Arlo to bring him closer.
I set him on my hip and pretend my shoes aren’t digging into the soggy grass. “Are you okay, Maximo?” I lift his hat a little, reveal his smiling eyes, and relax, knowing he’s fine. “You got knocked on your butt, huh? I saw you fall.”
“Listen, Idalia,” Arlo starts. “We were just playing with the ball. He was safe—”
“Idalia Mazzi?” Nixon takes a step closer. Not so close that he could be arrested for intimidation, but certainly close enough that his aftershave fills my lungs. “That was my fault. I knocked him—”
“Why are you here, Mr. Rosa?”
“Why—here?” Startled by my sharp question, he looks around us. “In this town?”
“In this park,” I press. “With my child.”
“Coincidence,” he answers easily. “Arlo is my family now, I was walking across town to get something to eat, and I happened across this fun little game.” His forest-green eyes sparkle with something similar to what was sparkling on the night of the grand opening. “They were having a great time, so I asked to join in.”
“And Arlo just let you?” I meet her eyes and raise a brow. “You make a habit of allowing strange men to play with my son?”
“You do the ice thing really well, Ms. Mazzi.” Arlo drops a hand to her hip. “But no. Today is the first time we’ve come to the park without you, so obviously, today is the first time a man has hung out with us.”
“So you have a one hundred percent rate of allowing it so far?”
She rolls her eyes. “I have a one hundred percent success rate of taking care of Max and making him happy,” she snaps right back. “Nixon is basically my brother now.” She looks to him. “Uncle? Grandpa?”
“Watch yourself,” he growls.
She grins. “Uncle, except he’s the kind of uncle I’m allowed to think is cute.”
Nixon’s gaze swings to her. “You think I’m cute?”
“Hot like fiah,” she answers. “I’m playing with the idea of asking Abby’s blessing to take you out to dinner.”
“Except, ya know, you’re eighteen,” he chuckles. “Not really my jam.”
“I could convince you otherwise.” She brings her gaze back to me. “Men like this one are few and far between. I know that, even at my age.”
“Server at the Oriane,” Nixon ponders for me. “Owner of the Oriane. Mother. And… Arlo’s dragon employer?”
“You called me a dragon?” I glare at my nanny. “Really?”
“Nope, that was me,” Nixon sniggers. “Seems you spit fire at everyone except your son.” He looks to Maximo and grins. “You get neither the fire, nor the ice. Lucky you, huh?” He brings his gaze back to me. “Arlo calls him Max. But you call him Maximo with that sexy accent. I like it.”
“Inappropriate word to use around my son. And yeah, his name is Maximo. The second.”
At that, Nixon’s eyes darken. “Jab received,” he snarls. “I’ve asked around since meeting you, Ms. Mazzi. Can you tell me why you have such an intense hatred for my career?”
“On the contrary, I don’t hate your career. In fact, I revere it. I idolize it. I also think it’s matto to want it, but that doesn’t mean I hate it. And you shouldn’t be asking about me.”
“I heard you lost your home,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“And still, you have the gall to ask why I dislike firefighters?” I meet Max’s eyes. “Are you ready to go home, bello? We can grab ice cream on the way.”
“Great, I’m hungry too.” Nixon turns toward town and bites his grin when Arlo’s eyes pop wide. She sees him imposing, sees him pushing. “Ice cream for lunch, Maximo?”
I expect complete silence. I even expect Max to hide in my hair and shake from the pressure of having so many people speak around him. But what I actually get is his enthusiastic nod. He makes a click in the back of his throat, and continues to nod.
“Wait.” My heart thuds, one, two, three. “Really, bello?”
“Then it’s settled. Arlo.” Nixon offers an arm, and smirks when his sisterly niece who thinks he’s hot snags the palla and slides her arm around his.
They’re a couple out for a stroll, a Victorian-era duke and duchess out for tea and gossip. But they don’t leave me behind. In fact, Nixon doesn’t move a single inch.
“You wouldn’t deny your son, would you, Idalia? He said he wants ice cream. It would be… dragon-esque to say no.” He smirks.
“I’ve denied him ice cream a hundred times, Mr. Rosa. As his mother, that is my prerogative.”
“You can call me Nix, ya know? ‘Mr. Rosa’ sounds as though we’re not friends.”
“We’re not friends.” Nevertheless, I step. Once. Twice. And do the very thing I really shouldn’t. Why did it have to be him that makes me look twice? Why the arrogant firefighter? “We’re not even distant associates.”
“Oh, but we are, aren’t we? You employ Arlo, and Arlo is family to me now. Not to mention, I attended the Oriane’s opening night. That makes me a customer too.”
“It makes you a dog at a bone.” His broad shoulder brushes mine as we slowly cross the park. “Plus, there’s your questionable mental capacity.”
Stricken, he looks to his left and studies me with a challenging side-eye. “My mental capacity?”
“You run toward fires, Mr.—um, Nixon. That’s enough to make anyone wonder.”
“Progress.” He grins at my use of his name. “And you didn’t even breathe fire that time.”
“You’re rude, careless with your life, and too arrogant to have such a straight nose.”
“I’m actually quite a kind person. If you think I’m arrogant, then you’ve lived a very sheltered life, and should prepare for when you meet my brothers.”
“You’re presumptive, imposing, and there’s that thing about you running toward danger.”
“I also jumped out of a perfectly functional plane recently.” He grins when my eyes whip up to his. “I was filling my pants when they told me I’d be jumping. But once I did, it was possibly the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever done in my life.” He looks to my son and chuckles. “Have you ever been skydiving, Max?”
“He’s four.” I roll my eyes. “Do you suppose he jumped from a plane between morning tea and naptime?”
“Possibly. I’ve known some four-year-olds who would consider it fun.”
We reach the edge of the park, and though I busy myself with fixing Max on my hip and trying not to drop my diary, Arlo comes around and snags it just seconds before it falls. Our eyes meet—hers are worried… it’s possible she’s awaiting her marching papers—but I nod just once in thanks. Thanks for taking the diary. And thanks for keeping Max safe, even if I imply otherwise when I’m in a foul mood.
“Miss Dixie’s has good ice cream.” Nixon acts like he doesn’t notice Arlo’s and my silent communication. “You guys wanna go there?”
“Yep.” Comforted, Arlo spins back around and slides her arm around her brotherly uncle’s. “Ice cream sounds fab.”
“Idalia?” Nixon says my name, over and over, when many others call me Ms. Mazzi. Naturally, they call me that because I’ve asked them to. But Nixon’s ease when he says a name that isn’t typical in
this country, the lilt he adds to the pronunciation, the sparkle in his eyes when he catches my attention each time.
And he does… catch my attention.
They all add to this man whose impact precedes him.
“Miss Dixie’s?” he asks. “Would you and Max like that?”
“Uh… sure. Okay.” I look to Arlo and mentally plead for her to save me. To divert this mess. To transport us back to the safety of my hotel. “Miss Dixie’s, I guess.”
Satisfied, Nixon leads us across the deserted street and through a doorway that reveals an old-style parlor of black and white checkered floors that glisten under the overhead fluorescent lights.
I slide my sunglasses up and study the shop, which is all but empty. Only a handful of people—teens—sit at a table.
Taking the lead, Nixon makes his way to a booth in the corner of the parlor so we’re sitting by glass windows that take up most of the wall. Arlo slides in one side, which I guess leaves the other for me and Max. Nixon can sit next to Arlo, and I can pretend my hands aren’t sweating just being near this plane-jumping, fire-chasing adrenaline junkie who likes to taunt women who only want peace.
“What flavor do you want?” he asks.
“I’ll have the sherbet please,” Arlo says easily. “In a cup, not a cone.”
“Done.” Nixon’s eyes come back to mine. “And you guys?”
“You don’t have to buy us ice cream.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He reaches back, then remembering he’s wearing those baggy fire pants, reaches inside them and takes out his wallet. “Flavors?”
“Um… chocolate, please.”
“Cone or cup?”
“Cup, please.”
He grins, smug with his victory. “And Max?” He looks to my son, expecting a verbal answer perhaps, or testing to see if Max will break his vow of silence for ice cream. “What flavor do you want, bud?”
I look to Max, hopeful and terrified at the same time, that now might be the moment he speaks. But when he says nothing, and instead retreats from that smiling boy at the park into the child of mine who fears attention, I meet Nixon’s eyes and take back that focus.
