by Anna Premoli
Grace paused to reflect. “Well she sounded pretty sincere to me. She told me that they had worked really hard, that they’d cooked a delicious stew and that they hadn’t gone at each other with the paring knives the way you’d thought they would. In addition, she confirmed that she put them to work peeling potatoes, just as you requested.”
Wyatt had a vision of those two staring in horror at a mountain of potatoes piled up in front of them to be peeled and he smiled with satisfaction.
“Are we going ahead as planned?” Grace asked him.
“Absolutely. Everything as planned,” he confirmed, sternly.
“You know, I never thought I’d say this to you, Judge Wyatt, but you know? You can be really terrible when you want to be.”
Wyatt took it for what it was, which was a great compliment. “You’ll see Grace – there’s plenty more where that came from.”
*
The centre for the elderly in Brooklyn was in the north of the district, which had now reached such dimensions that it was almost impossible not to get lost. Over two and a half million people lived there, most of them in ethnic groups. Amalia found it ironic that all those different groups had made such a huge effort to emigrate to a new country and then decided not to mingle with each other. The Italians lived mostly in Bay Ridge and Dyker Heights, the Orthodox Jews were holed up in Borough Park, whilst the Russians, for example, never moved from their Little Odessa in Brighton Beach. Each stubbornly stuck to his own part of the neighborhood.
Amalia came out of the subway and set off on foot, following the directions she had been given on her cell phone. For once, Wyatt had sent them to do something that hadn’t forced them to set their alarm clocks at 6 a.m.. Unfortunately for her, the order to attend the centre for the elderly was set for 4 p.m., because the inhabitants took their daily nap in the afternoons. And in fact, three minutes before the allotted time, Amalia found herself ringing the doorbell of the large building that stood in the middle of a small city park.
A girl of not much more than twenty opened the door.
“Amalia!” she exclaimed, as if they were old friends. Amalia was slightly taken aback by such enthusiasm. Perhaps they already knew each other somehow?
“Have… Have we met before?” she asked, as she followed her into the building.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’m Steffany, by the way. But he told me that it must be you and he was right!” she said with a smile. The ‘he’ in question must have arrived recently, seeing as he hadn’t taken his jacket off yet. Apart from that, his long legs were clad in jeans and he was wearing a blue shirt and a classic blue v-neck sweater. He looked pretty good, Amalia thought reluctantly: she suspected that Ryan would look amazing even dressed in a sack. The two stood for a moment staring at each other, then both of them decided it would be wise to behave politely.
“Hello, Amalia,” he greeted her with a tone that she was now beginning to recognize. He wasn’t happy to be there with her, but seemed to have somehow managed to accept his fate. There was a certain resignation in his eyes and his greeting was a big step forward.
“Hello,” she smiled back. She took off her jacket and handed it to Steffany. “So what are we going to do today?”
From the corner of her eye she was able to observe Ryan’s expression as he carefully examined the way she was dressed: starting with her tight black pants and going on to the blue sweater she had chosen specifically to draw attention to the color of her eyes. She wasn’t totally guileless, and still had a few arrows left in her bow. She only had to decide whether to use them or not. The problem was still a long way from being resolved. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, because she wanted to look elegant. For a second it seemed that Ryan had gasped when he had noticed her hairstyle. What had he against her having her hair up? She would have to investigate the matter more thoroughly.
Steffany jumped up. “Today we’re organizing a birthday party for Lydia who’s going to be eighty-five. It’ll be awesome!” She had a natural and contagious exuberance that made you want to jump up and down with her.
“Wonderful! I love a good party!” answered Amalia. If nothing else, there were no convicts, no kitchens and – most importantly – no knives. This was a considerable improvement.
“I don’t think it’s the kind of party you’re used to,” cut in Ryan, who was perfectly suited to playing the role of party pooper. He didn’t even need to try that hard.
He certainly wouldn’t know, but Amalia had anything but good memories of her birthday parties. Her parents were already paying someone to take care of organizing them even before party planners appeared on the New York social scene – and went on to become something rich kids could do to pretend they had a job. Her parents had always been one step ahead on that front… Too bad she was anything but ecstatic about those birthday parties organized in smart country clubs with people she hardly knew. They weren’t parties, they were torture.
But she was willing to bet that Ryan would never believe her, even if she did decide to share her memories with him. The less she revealed about herself the less danger she was in of getting hurt.
“You don’t know what kind of parties I’m used to, so don’t generalise.”
He shrugged his shoulders dubiously, but had the good sense to say no more.
“Right then, shall we start with the balloons? I thought we could hang them on the walls. And then we have this banner that we somehow need to attach to the chandelier,” the young girl explained while pulling everything they needed from a large bag. The banner was immense, Amalia only hoped that the ceiling would be able to take it. “What do you think?” Steffany asked candidly. “Listen, I have to go to the kitchen and check that everything else is ready – you know, the sweets, snacks, and the cake. If you want you can start to choose the music. The CDs are hidden somewhere in that closet at the other end of the room.”
“There really are a lot of balloons,” said Amalia anxiously.
“There’ll be a lot less once you start blowing them up and hanging them on the walls.”
It was the prompt response of a man who knew everything. Ryan had in fact already started to get busy and she, not wanting to be outdone, began to do the same, succeeding in blowing up a fair number. All that was left to do now was to start decorating the room with them.
“It’s not fair, you’re taller than me. You can get to places that are impossible for me,” she complained, as she jumped up, trying to tie a balloon to the edge of a curtain.
“Well, thank God for that,” he muttered. He turned to look at her and saw her jumping up and down like a kangaroo without managing to secure her balloon. What was he waiting for to help her – a written invitation?
“Ryan, could you please come and help me?” she begged, admitting defeat.
He looked bored, but did as requested.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Give me a boost.”
He stared at her as if she were crazy, and folded his arms over his chest. “Absolutely no way,” was the immediate answer.
“Come on, don’t be a pain in the ass – just give me a boost. What are you afraid of, touching me?” she taunted, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to resist such an insinuation. Like all men, even Ryan was predictable in some ways.
In fact, his answer came right on cue. Obviously.
“Of course I’m not…” And the fox fell right into the trap.
“Just as I imagined.”
Amalia congratulated herself for manoeuvring him into a corner. He sighed, cursing her, but then held her by the waist and lifted her up with a firm grip. Wow, really firm. Amalia deliberately took her time finishing the job because she liked the dismayed expression on Ryan’s face as he held her up: it was as if he was fighting an internal battle and didn’t know whether to tighten his grip or release her altogether. Ryan being Ryan, he would almost certainly opt for the latter eventually, so Amalia hastened to declare the mission accomplished, so as not
to take unnecessary risks.
“Okay, you can put me down,” she said. He didn’t need to be told twice. They found themselves with both feet planted firmly on the floor, standing rather too close to each other for comfort, which for them was a little unusual. His green eyes stared at her suspiciously whilst she smiled at him provocatively. Oh yes, there was definitely some sort of conflict going on in there at that precise moment in time.
“While we’re at it, why don’t we hang the birthday banner up as well?” she suggested, indicating that he should lift her up again.
Ryan was sure that he was going to go crazy. By now he had lost all sense of reason, because as he lifted her up for the second time he started to get the unmistakable feeling that he didn’t want to let her go. To begin with, her body emanated a wonderful smell. Ok, as it was her, it was no doubt a very expensive perfume and it was natural that it would seem exotic and seductive, but he was sure that the perfume of her own body was mixed in with that smell and, unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore it. Then there was the heat he felt just by touching her: he felt like a teenager again. It was really pathetic. He needed to find a distraction as soon as possible, other than working late every night… Another ten days of this and he would go out of his mind. If he even made it that far. Because as things stood in the moment, he doubted that he would make it to the end of the evening.
“Are you done?” he asked gruffly. “I’ve had enough of weightlifting for today.”
Amalia gave no indication of being offended by his remark and continued, unabated, to work. Her arms were beginning to ache like crazy, but she was determined to complete her double mission: to hang the birthday banner up and to make Ryan as uncomfortable as possible. It had been almost too easy, she thought.
“Okay, you can put me down,” she said. “Gently, please.”
As expected, he dropped her to the floor abruptly – so abruptly that Amalia had to grab instinctively behind her to prevent herself from falling backwards. “Wow, who knows what you would have done if I hadn’t specified ‘gently’,” she quipped sarcastically, looking up at him. She was still holding on to him tightly, while he was staring at her in a strange way, his pupils seemingly growing larger by the second. For a moment it seemed that Ryan’s mouth was moving towards hers but undoubtedly it was an optical illusion.
Not to mention the fact that Amalia would never have allowed him to kiss her.
Maybe they could talk about that last point though. There was always that damned curiosity of hers, which had first been awakened so many years ago, which was to see how soft his lips were. Purely for scientific reasons, nothing else, of course.
“Oh, what a great job!” Steffany shouted as she walked back into the room. If she had noticed the strange position she found them in, she didn’t let on in any way. “Lydia will be so happy.”
“Is the cake ready?” Amalia asked her, after moving away from Ryan and turning her back on him to avoid meeting his gaze.
“The cake is amazing! I’m really pleased with it! Now all we need to do is to choose the music. Ryan, do you know anything about music from the forties?” she asked, pointing to a pile of CDs.
“Erm… Well I know more about the music of the last few years,” he said approaching the pile warily.
“I know what we need,” interjected Amalia. Making some space, she began to search among the CDs, examining them one by one with a look of total concentration. Ryan watched skeptically, waiting for her to make a fool of herself.
“I suggest we start with these,” she said shortly afterwards, handing Steffany some CDs.
“Wow, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald!” exclaimed the astonished young girl. “So you really do know your stuff.”
The look on his Royal Highness’s face was another thing altogether. He wasn’t even trying too hard to hide his disappointment.
“Why only female singers?” He asked suddenly, clearly wanting to bicker.
“My dear ignoramus, Ella Fitzgerald usually performed with Louis Armstrong, so it’s not only female singers,” replied Amalia, glad to have the chance to catch him out, “but if you insist, we can also throw this in.” And so saying, she handed him the CD of Nat King Cole’s greatest hits.
“That’s better,” he muttered. All that intimacy had made him irritable and he needed to find something they could argue about at all costs. Better a fight than that weird desire to be close to her.
Steffany turned away and went to put the Ella Fitzgerald CD on. A few seconds later, music filled the room, summoning the birthday girl and her guests. Within five minutes the room started to fill up with sprightly old men and women who would have been dancing had it not been for the problems the majority of them had with walking. Lydia was delighted with the surprise and embraced Steffany to thank her.
“It wasn’t just me, really. They helped me as well,” she explained, pointing to Amalia and Ryan, who were standing awkwardly to one side, not really knowing how to interact with either each other or the party guests. Lydia summoned them with a wave of her hand. “Then I have to thank you as well, with all my heart! This is the best party I’ve ever had!” she said, admiring the decorations they had put up.
Amalia blushed, almost guiltily. “There’s no need to thank us,” she said quickly.
“No, absolutely not,” echoed Ryan uncomfortably. “Especially because the only reason we’re here is because we were forced to come,” he added, in a low voice that only Amalia could hear.
She looked guiltily at him. “Yeah… You’re right…” It would have been nice to be able to say that they were there of their own free will, but the truth was far less poetic: they were in that room at the behest of Judge Wyatt, who had found a really effective way of getting back at them. “We are here because we have to be here. But it really isn’t that bad. I mean, this way we have the chance to do something completely different – something that we would have never considered doing otherwise.”
Ryan’s expression was thoughtful. “You’re right, it’s not bad. Present company excepted,” he concluded, almost laughing.
“Of course – present company excluded,” Amalia repeated, smiling back at him. They stood there staring at each other for a while, unable to start a meaningful conversation but equally determined not to let their gaze fall.
‘What beautiful eyes’, thought Amalia, almost sadly. A very unique green that was totally wasted on a man who seemed to do nothing but glare murderously at her. Except that in those rare moments when he dropped his wary expression, she thought she could see something very significant in those depths – something very different to the impression Ryan was determined to give her.
“So since we ain’t able to, how about you two show us a nice dance?” said Lydia suddenly, snapping them back to the real world.
“What?” asked Amalia in astonishment, conscious of having been miles away.
“A nice dance!” repeated the spirited old lady. “Come on, you don’t want me to have to beg, do you?”
A strange look of panic spread across Ryan’s face.
“Lydia, I’m afraid I don’t really know how to dance,” he said apologetically. But she was not the type to take no for an answer.
“Nonsense, you handsome young devil, you – everybody knows how to dance! In my day a guy would be glad of the opportunity to wrap his arms around such a pretty woman, and would not have let her get away,” she responded. The truth was that, even today, no one sane would have passed up the chance to be close to Amalia, but to hold her in his arms was the last thing he needed. Ryan O’Moore wasn’t stupid and knew his limits, and that afternoon he had come closer to them than he ever had before. He didn’t need pushing closer to the precipice – not when his body was already so aware of Amalia and her every movement. If he closed his eyes he could still feel her presence, if he turned his back on her he could perceive every move she made and if she came too close to him, he felt as if he was under some kind of spell. And all because of that damn perfume of
hers!
“Really, I can’t dance,” he said again, trying to sound convincing by using the tone he only normally used in court.
Amalia looked amused as she watched his efforts to extricate himself from the situation and had an irresistible desire to embarrass him further. “No problem, I can lead you,” she said, giving him a condescending look, as if this was perfectly normal. Dancing with Ryan and leading him would be an unforgettable experience – an episode to be written in the history books. It was rare that she had the opportunity to make him feel uncomfortable, so why waste such a perfect one?
Ryan looked exasperated. “You want to lead?” he asked grimly.
“If you hadn’t already realized, I love leading,” she said emphatically, flashing him an insincere smile.
“All right, all right, I get it,” he mumbled as he was pushed towards her. Why the hell couldn’t they just leave him alone? Why was everything so difficult?
He found himself standing in front of Amalia, who was looking at him with that provocative expression of hers. The cruel bitch was actually enjoying this, he thought. She even had the audacity to make fun of him. Well he would show her ‘how to lead’…
For a moment his resolve was left floundering as he heard the first notes of the song Lydia had selected with great care: the well known melody of Every Time We Say Goodbye echoed around the room. It would have been an emotional challenge for anyone, but it was definitely too much for those two. Amalia braced herself and waited for Ryan to approach. Seeing his indecision, she went into action and took hold of his right hand, placing it on her waist while trying to ignore the heat emanating from her face.
“Oh God,” groaned Ryan, removing his hand, breaking the contact. With a very determined move, he took hold of her left hand by force, pulling her close to him with the other. “I’m not left-handed you know.”
“I know – I wanted to lead,” said Amalia, trying to break free. But it was pointless. Ryan was a picture of determination and obstinacy and woe to anyone who tried to reason with the man once he had got an idea into his head.
