by Nic Tatano
“Interesting. And all the other ingredients?”
“You need the eggs and breadcrumbs to soften them up. The garlic, parsley, salt, pepper and other stuff gives it a kick.”
“We really need to start this early?”
“The sauce has to simmer for four hours, minimum. It’s a slow process. That’s why most people make a ton of meatballs and sauce, then freeze a bunch of containers. If you’re gonna tie up the kitchen for a whole day, you might as well. Too much trouble and time to make a small amount.”
“Yeah, looks that way.” I finish rolling the meatballs. “Okay, now what?”
She points at a frying pan. “Now we lightly fry them in olive oil on a low heat, just enough to hold them together. Then you toss ‘em in the pot and the heat from the sauce cooks them the rest of the way. That’s how you get nice soft meatballs. And the sauce picks up the flavor.”
“From the pork.”
“Among other things.”
I start putting the meatballs in the olive oil. “I just realized, I didn’t write anything down. And we didn’t measure anything.”
“After a while you just know how much spice to use. As for the meat, it’s always two pounds of beef to one pound pork. Season to taste. If you like things spicy, go wild. If not, tone it down.”
“I love your sauce, A.J.”
“Then you go wild. Italians aren’t shy with spices.”
I finish putting the first round of meatballs in the oil. “Starting to smell good in here.”
“I’ll bring you some provolones from the deli and you can hang them from the ceiling if you really wanna impress this guy.”
“I think this will be enough.” I keep an eye on the meatballs.
“So, what made you do it?”
“What?”
“Ask a guy out. I never thought you had the guts.”
“I met another nice guy yesterday who is taking me sailing tomorrow. I figured I had nothing to lose.”
“You’re playing the field? Hold on, let me call the network.”
“Hey, what I’ve been doing hasn’t been working. Besides, I keep running into the cop. It’s almost like the universe wants us to be together. He seems like a nice old fashioned guy. Protective of women. Honorable profession.”
“Dangerous profession.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, I haven’t had much luck with fix-ups or guys asking me out until yesterday, so I figured I’m on a roll. Also figured it was time I did the choosing.”
I’m rather overdressed for dinner at home, in a royal blue dress and heels, but if dinner isn’t perfect I at least want to look as good as possible.
And maybe that will distract him from the fact I’m nervous as hell.
This must be how guys feel. It’s obviously different when you’re doing the asking.
The sauce is done and tastes delicious. Meatballs are just like A.J.’s. I’ve got fresh pasta ready to cook and some nice garlic bread ready to go in the oven. Honestly, there’s no way he’ll be disappointed in the food.
And yet I still feel like a virgin on prom night.
The doorbell rings and makes me jump. I try my best to exhale some tension without success. (Shoulda hit the wine earlier.) I force a smile as I head to the door and open it.
He’s overdressed for dinner at home as well, in a nice dark sport coat and tie. “Right on time, Marino.”
He’s carrying a bottle of wine and a box from a bakery as he enters. “Wow, it smells good in here. Like my mom’s house.”
“I assumed you like Italian food.”
“Not too much of a stretch, huh?” He heads for the kitchen, takes a look in the pot. “Damn, that looks good.”
“I confess I had help from a paisan.”
“Ah. You need any help now?”
I hand him a corkscrew and a couple of glasses. “You can take care of the wine and I’ll get the pasta going.” I turn on the oven to heat the garlic bread already inside and start boiling the water. I hear the pop of the wine bottle and turn to see him pouring two glasses. He hands one to me and I hold it up to him. “To New York’s finest.”
He clinks my glass. “To damsels in distress who need us. Especially those worth saving.” He locks eyes with me and all my tension disappears.
Maybe I really am on a roll.
I watch him lean back and pat his stomach. “Damn, that was good. Madison, I’m impressed.”
“Like I said, I had help from A.J. Otherwise you might be eating cat food. But thank you.”
And then I hear the meow.
I toss my napkin on the table. “And now some other guys need dinner.”
“Right. You still bottle feeding them?”
“Yep. Wanna help?”
“Sure.”
I move to the kitchen, prepare the bottles and hand two to him. “Grab a seat on the couch and I’ll bring them out.” I head to the spare room, grab two kittens, and take them back to the living room. I hand him the tabby while I sit down with the tortoiseshell. “Okay, just hold a bottle up in front of the kitten and it knows what to do.” I demonstrate with my kitten, then watch as he follows suit.
He flashes a wide smile. “I can see why the video went viral. This is really cute. How much longer till they can feed themselves?”
“Not much. So, you like cats?”
“Yeah. I know that sounds out of character for a cop, not to be a dog person, but I like the fact that they’re independent. I like women who are the same way as well.” He points at my kitten. “So, that one’s your favorite?”
“How did you know?”
“You’re feeding him first. As you did on TV.”
“Yes, he’s my favorite. And I’m keeping him.”
“He got a name?”
“Not yet.” The tortoiseshell finishes his bottle. I burp him and put him in my lap. “Want to see more of his personality before I name him.”
“Ah. Hey, you ever read that thing about how to name a cat?”
“There’s a guide book on that?”
“No, it’s from that book of poems … they based the musical Cats on it.”
“I’ll have to give it a look.” I hear a meow and see that the tortoiseshell has climbed over onto his lap. “Well, you little turncoat. Here I say I’m keeping you and you run away.”
“Like I said, I’m a cat whisperer.” The tortoiseshell curls up, looks at me and meows, then starts purring.
He approves of the officer.
“Well, I guess you are.”
He looks out at the room. “By the way, not to be nosy or anything … did you by any chance have a grandmother like mine with a plastic covered couch?”
“Huh?”
He points at the legs of a chair. “What’s with all the bubble wrap? You just buy this furniture?”
“Well, the one I’m keeping is blind in one eye and kept bumping into stuff since he has no depth perception.”
He looks down at the tortoiseshell. “This one’s blind? Poor little guy.”
“He can see with one eye, but the vet says he’ll develop pathways eventually as long as I don’t move the furniture. Anyway, he can’t jump either, since one of his back legs is deformed.”
“So you’ve basically cat-proofed the house.”
“Yep. Now he can play with his friends and when he bumps into stuff he doesn’t get hurt.”
“You’re really amazing, you know that?”
With the kittens fed and put to bed, I sit next to the first man I’ve ever asked out as the movie starts, handing him a glass of wine. Between the two glasses I’ve already had and the fact that he makes me feel perfectly safe, my anxiety is gone. His earthy cologne distracts me from the movie.
So, what’s the protocol when a woman asks a man for a date? Is the woman required to make the first move since the roles are reversed?
What the hell, I’m on a roll. Give him a hint.
I slide closer, resting my head on his shoulder. He puts his free arm around me. �
��You comfortable, Madison?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Very. This is certainly a nice way to repay me for doing that … favor for you.”
I turn and smile at him. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I’m trying to think of ways to do more favors.”
“I do have those jars that need opening.”
“Line ‘em up.”
“Later, Mister.” I grab the remote, pause the movie, then turn back to him. We lock eyes.
“Giving up on the movie already?”
I nod. “The opening credits weren’t terribly interesting.”
“I agree.” He begins to stroke my hair. “Damn, you’ve got great eyes. They’re like emeralds.”
“You gonna kiss me, Officer, or do I have to call 911 and report a romance emergency?”
“That won’t be necessary. Unit ninety-ninety is ten-ten.”
“Copy that.”
He takes my head in his hands and gives me a long, soft kiss.
Two hours later (the movie was on “pause” for so long the DVD player shut itself off) he looks at his watch. “I hate to say this, but I need to get going.”
“It’s only ten.”
“I’ve got an early flight tomorrow morning.”
Now in the annals of dating, telling a woman you have an early flight, appointment, or crack of dawn workplace starting time is a classic way for a man to leave. Usually, though, it’s after sex. My face drops a bit.
Then I remember Tish’s trick to find out if the guy is telling the truth. “You want a ride to the airport?”
His face lights up. “Seriously? Wow, that would be really nice of you.”
Well, that’s the answer I was hoping for but not expecting. (Of course, now I actually have to get up early and drive the guy to the airport. Truth serum does have its down side.) “So, where are you going?”
“Arlington, Virginia. My Chief is sending me there for special training. I want to eventually become a detective. I’ve been spending some of my free time investigating cold cases and actually solved a few. The powers that be took notice so they’re sending me.”
“Wow, that’s terrific. How long will you be gone?’
“A month.”
My face tightens. “A month?”
“Yeah, but I’ll be back the day before the dance. Not exactly the best timing considering how much I enjoyed this evening.”
“I’ll be here when you get back, Officer. I’m not a flight risk.”
Chapter Eleven
As I drive Nick Marino to LaGuardia Airport this morning, I can predict with reasonable certainty that this conversation will take place during Sunday brunch:
A.J.: “Lemme get this straight. She had a great date with the cop last night, is driving him to the airport, and then is going straight to Jersey to go sailing with another guy?”
Rory: “The woman feels like she’s cheating if she has lunch with two different guys during the same month. Her guilt will be off the charts.”
Tish: “I’d pay good money to see the look on her face if the cop hugs her at the airport and she heads off to see the other guy. She’ll feel like a cheap bimbo. Probably stop at a church and go to confession as a pre-emptive strike.”
Nick pulls his plane ticket from his pocket. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Madison. But you really didn’t have to get up early for me.”
Uh, I was gonna get up early anyway to … demon, be gone! Out, guilt spirit! “Hey, you’ve done plenty for me. It’s not a big deal. Besides, the thought of you on that awful airport shuttle … well, I couldn’t live with myself.”
“Still very nice of you, Madison.”
I pull up to the curb at the departures lane and turn off the car. We both get out and head for the trunk. Luckily the airport is very strict about how long you can park there, as a long goodbye would make the guilt monster even worse. I pop the trunk and he grabs his suitcase. “Well, have a good trip and come back ready to be the next Sherlock Holmes.”
He smiles and shuts the trunk for me. “See you in a month. But talk soon.” He leans forward and gives me a big hug, then heads for the door.
What a surprise. I feel guilty as hell.
It is a little known but seriously cool way to get from Manhattan to the Jersey shore.
Basically, it’s a water taxi. Actually it’s bigger than a checker cab, as it’s a boat that will hold about a hundred people.
Beats the hell out of the Jersey Turnpike or a train.
After dumping my car in the network parking lot I boarded the boat for the one-hour ride to Jamison’s place in a town called Monmouth Beach. He was right, the weather is spectacular while looking at the water is incredibly relaxing. And for someone who has rarely been on a boat I’m spending pretty much the whole day on the Atlantic Ocean.
The floating taxi pulls up to the dock and I see him waiting on the pier, looking for all the world like he belongs on a sailboat with JFK. Tousled hair, khaki shorts, a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and docksiders with no socks. I give him a wave and he waves back, flashing that cute boyish smile.
Okay, the guilt is gone.
I’m a big girl. I can have two first dates in twenty-four hours. It’s not cheating. On either one.
It’s just one date.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
He greets me with a smile as he takes my beach bag. “Enjoy the ride?”
“Seriously, that’s your commute every day?”
“Yep. Well, on the days I go into the city.”
“Damn, you’ve got everything figured out about working in Manhattan, don’t you?”
“I grew up here. By the end of the day you’ll see why I came back and never want to leave. You might not want to leave either.”
He leads me down the pier to the parking lot and over to a gleaming candy apple red Mercedes convertible. “Nice ride.”
He shrugs as he tosses my bag in the back seat and opens the door for me. “It gets me from point A to point B.”
“Yeah, right.”
He pulls out of the parking lot and within minutes we’re riding along next to the Atlantic Ocean, the sun warm on my face while the salt air whips through my hair. Hard to believe I’m an hour out of Manhattan, as it’s like another world here. New Jersey gets a bad rap, but it has some spectacularly beautiful areas, and this is one of them. The street across the road from the ocean is lined with gorgeous mansions. It’s pretty obvious this is a well-heeled town.
He pulls into the parking lot of a marina. “Okay, first mate, ready to work?”
“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it. But remember, I’ve never done this.”
He gets out and opens the trunk while I grab my beach bag, filled with a hat, a change of clothes in case I get wet and SPF 1000 sunblock, which will keep you from getting burned on the planet Mercury. Redheads are very sensitive to sun and we have to be careful. He pulls out a very large picnic basket with a bottle of wine sticking out the top, and cocks his head toward the water. “All aboard, young lady.”
I look for a small sailboat as we walk down the pier. There are no small ones. There are no medium sized sailboats either. He stops in front of a beautiful vintage wooden sailboat that has to be forty feet long. “This is your small sailboat?”
“Gets me from point A to point B.” He holds my hand as I climb aboard, noticing the name painted on the back.
Miss Right.
“So, who’s the boat named after?”
He hops onto the boat. “No one.”
“Was that the name of the boat when you bought it?”
“No, it had a horrible name. Mid-Life Crisis.”
“So who’s Miss Right?”
“Don’t know yet. Still searching for her. When I find her she gets the keys to this thing.” He puts the basket down and points to the middle of the boat. “You can change down there.”
I’m wearing white linen pants and
a green cotton top. “Change into what?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t tell you the first mate is required to wear a string bikini.”
“Nice try, Mister. Too bad I don’t own one.”
“Just kidding, Madison. Though it is a waste of a pretty redhead. Anyway, why don’t you open the wine and I’ll get us underway.”
I give him a salute. “Aye, Aye, captain. That’s something I know how to do. I’ve had lots of practice with wine bottles.”
A half hour later a gentle breeze is taking us slowly along the calm water. The sun and temperature are perfect. Jamison sits next to me and opens the picnic basket. “Ready for lunch?”
“Always. So, what’s on the menu?”
He pulls out a few plastic containers. “Nothing fancy. Lobster salad. Cheese and crackers. A few other goodies.”
“Right, nothing fancy.”
He dishes out the lobster salad onto a couple of plates. “I’m really glad you came, Madison. It’s more fun sailing when you have company.”
“Hey, thank you for inviting me. This is a treat.”
“So this is really your first time on a sailboat?”
“Yep. But this is not what I expected. You buy this thing from the Kennedys?”
He laughed a bit. “I like vintage stuff. Boats were made a lot better years ago. Now everything is plastic and falls apart. This boat doesn’t have the modern amenities, but who cares? The whole point of sailing is to enjoy the water. And I really missed this when I was stuck in jobs working in places like Kansas and Wyoming. Big part of the reason I quit the news business.”
“Well, looks like you made the right decision. You’re obviously doing very well with your production company.”
“I do okay.”
“Yeah, right.” I take a bite of the lobster salad. It’s so good I have to close my eyes and savor it. “Damn, that’s awesome.”
“Well, I didn’t make it. I will be cooking dinner though.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what’s on that menu if you consider this to be nothing fancy.”
“Actually, just steaks on the grill. I’m not a great cook.”
“Well, neither am I, so that sounds fine. I’m a pretty simple girl at heart. I think you never really change from the way you grew up. Of course, I rarely had steak when I was a kid.”
