Nathan shrugged. “You know I don’t have holidays. I had a job in Paris, got home New Year’s Eve.”
Louie’s beer arrived. He poured it into a glass, took a sip. “Christ, I’m beat. I packed off my wife’s relatives this morning, but it won’t be quiet for long. My sister’s flying in this weekend.”
Nathan nodded absently. He fingered the menus, setting them aside. He caught Louie’s eye. “I thought we’d talk first.”
Louie looked quizzically at him. “You said it was important?”
Nathan held his gaze. “Yes, it’s about Tara.”
Louie flushed. “Is this any of your business?”
Nathan leaned over, set a restraining hand on Louie’s wrist. “Don’t get an attitude with me, Lou. Hear me out.”
Louie sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m all ears.”
“You’re also being a smartass. Listen, she’s pretty tore up.” Louie winced, made a dismissive gesture—he didn’t want to hear. Nathan continued. “I ran into her in the lobby on New Year’s Eve. She was just getting home from work, and she fainted in the hall. I had to carry her in.”
“What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s pregnant.”
Louie’s jaw dropped. “What?” He blinked. “She told you this?”
“Yes.”
“Christ.” He rubbed his jaw. “She was taking the pill. As far as I know, she was taking the pill.”
Nathan looked at him with sympathy. “Apparently, she stopped.”
“How far—?”
“She said a couple of weeks.”
“What now: abortion?”
Nathan looked grim. “She’s in love with you. Do you think she’d abort your child, after she made a decision not to use birth control? Come on, Lou … she’s having the baby. What surprises me is that you weren’t proactive. After Ceci … why didn’t you ever have a vasectomy?”
Louie grimaced. “Pretty stupid of me, huh? It’s a fear of mine … years ago I had a friend who got infected, after. They had to do skin grafts on his dick. Jesus,” he shook his head, reached for his beer. “She tells you but not me. Why the fuck didn’t she say anything to me?”
“You really shocked her, Lou. She knew it wouldn’t last … she never expected … but it was so sudden. Now, she doesn’t want you to know at all. She’s planning on going back to Michigan, raise the baby in her mother’s house. She asked me not to tell you.”
“I almost wish you hadn’t. Jesus.”
Nathan signaled for another glass of wine. “I thought it was something you needed to know.”
“Damn right I needed to know. I appreciate you telling me, Nathan. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Something in Nathan’s tone gave Louie pause. He met his friend’s steady gaze, deliberately falling silent while the waiter replaced Nathan’s empty glass with a full one. The large group at the front table was getting up, noisily scraping back their chairs, calling good-bye to one another.
Louie watched them start toward the door, eyes shifting to Nathan, who was still studying him. He said, “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”
“Well, you’ve got good instincts. And I’ll tell you, honestly, you won’t like what I’m going to say. Look, you’re the love of her life. No one is ever going to be able to touch that. But I’ve watched her look at you, and I’ve thought if she ever looked at me like that just once—”
Louie stared at Nathan, incredulous, feeling the shock of what he was saying. He started to slide back from the table, and Nathan reached over, placing a heavy hand on his forearm. “Lou, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Louie jerked back his arm. “Fuck you, Nathan.”
“I want your blessing.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Louis’s voice echoed in the quiet restaurant, the people at the bar glancing over. “I can’t believe what you’re saying to me. How am I supposed to give you my blessing? How can you ask me such a thing?”
The waiter started toward their table, took one look at Louie, and wisely retreated. Nathan said, “Lou, I value your friendship. You know that.”
“I think you’ve got a lot of fucking nerve. Jesus, what a friend! What makes you think she’ll have you?”
“I can only hope. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“What? I’m supposed to tell you this is okay? How can you come to me with this? I can’t give you my blessing, Nathan.”
“I hope it’s because you plan on marrying her yourself.”
Louie’s face darkened. Abruptly, he pushed away from the table. “Nathan, if you say another word, I’m going to kill you.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Tara had seen Louie angry, but he’d never been angry with her. Now she felt the sting of his anger and she was devastated. He came to the condo, barging in just as she was preparing to go to bed. He accused her of low motives, trying to entrap him. Did she think he was going to leave Angie for her?
Tara said, “I love you, Louie. I want your baby. I didn’t plan to get pregnant—”
“You deliberately stopped taking the pill and didn’t tell me. You deceived me—”
She thought of how wrong this was and felt a sudden shame. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t do it to entrap you. In fact, I don’t want anything from you. Go back to Angie, where you belong. I’m leaving Florida. I’ll go home to Michigan and have my baby. Nobody will ever need to know. I won’t embarrass you—”
“I know. Doesn’t that matter to you?”
“I didn’t want you to know. That was Nathan’s doing—”
“Oh yes, he couldn’t wait to tell me.” Surprised by the venom in his voice, she looked sharply at him. Louie said, “Has he crossed the line with you?”
“Crossed the line with me, how? He’s a friend. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
He stared at her, unblinking, his dark eyes bearing into hers. Finally, he exhaled and said, “I’m sorry. I am jealous. I’m jealous of any man who goes near you, who even looks at you. You see, baby, I wasn’t supposed to love you. You’ve changed things for me too. We have … had … something special. I can’t explain it. I’m not proud of myself. Angie’s threatening to divorce me and Stella’s not speaking to me. And I’m worried about you. And now you’re going to have a baby. So I’ve got the kid to think about too.”
Tara sat on the couch where Nathan had nursed her. At Louie’s confession, she began to cry, and now the anger went out of him, and he put his arms around her and spoke meaningless babble about his obligations to his family, none of which had mattered before. But Tara had no enmity. She’d known his circumstances from the get-go, lamenting only that they did not have more time. She wanted his baby because it was all she had of him, all she would ever have.
The meeting was bittersweet, the feelings between them intense. He left without anything being settled, but two days later he returned. This time they made love, poignantly, tenderly. But after she fell asleep he slipped away. The next morning Victor called and said, “You got his head all messed up, doll. He’s not going to come and see you again. But he’s going to take care of you—whatever you want, doll. If you want to go home to your folks, he’ll get a place for you and the baby.”
Tara made tentative plans to leave Florida in the spring, after she finished the season at the Walker. By February she was seeing an obstetrician and dealing with morning sickness. February was also one of the busiest months at the Walker, and Tara pulled double shifts, working longer than she wished to, for not only was she fatigued by her pregnancy, she was grieving her double loss: Louie and Rosa. Weekends were spent with Jerry and Pam, where she pitched in with Joey, doing everything she could to have a semi-normal life. But after the excitement of being in love with Louie
, there was no life.
She came down with a nasty head cold, for which she could take no remedy. On a day when she should have stayed in bed, she dragged herself to the hotel. Louie had contractors working around the clock, and Tara was in the lobby discussing the details of the restoration with the foreman when she toppled over in a faint.
Tony called EMS. The paramedics revived her, starting an IV and checking her vitals; she had a fever, her pulse was erratic and her blood pressure low. She told the young man bending over her that she was pregnant. Later, she wouldn’t remember saying this. She would remember vomiting, a memory she would much rather forget.
Tara tried to decline the ambulance ride to the hospital; it was unavoidable. She was examined by a doctor and tucked into a cubicle in the emergency ward. Tony peeked in on her, standing at the side of her bed with a face that was like Louie’s and wasn’t. He smiled grimly. “Listen,” he said, “They think it’s the flu, but because of your condition they are going to keep you overnight.”
Shivering beneath a blanket, Tara sipped ginger-ale from a straw. Her heart went out to Tony, who must surely know she was carrying his father’s child. She said, “You’re very kind to take this trouble with me.”
His eyes met hers. He said, “I called my father. He’s on his way.”
They’d never discussed her relationship to Louie. She felt guilty, involving him. “I’m sorry, Tony. For everything.” There was a commotion outside the cubicle, monitors beeping, orderlies running. Tony yanked the curtains shut, dragged over a chair. Tara said, “I’ve put you in an awkward position. I want to apologize—”
“It’s not necessary.” He patted her arm. “You need to take care of yourself. If I had known you were pregnant—”
“God, you were the last person I could tell—”
He surprised her by laughing. “No wonder he’s been such a bastard lately. He really cares for you. This is what alarmed my mother, forced her to her ultimatum. He made the right decision, and he knows it, but it’s the first time in his life he can’t have it both ways. He doesn’t like to be thwarted.”
Tara said, “Your mother … is she …? I never—”
He gave her another look, a flash of something there—vindication. His voice was measured. “I don’t know what he told you, but he’ll never leave her. You do understand this?”
* * *
By the time Louie arrived, it had sunk in. He’ll never leave her. She’d known this all along, of course, heard it from Louie’s own lips, but somehow, coming from Tony, it resonated on a deeper level, gave the breakup a whole new meaning. For the first time she understood that it really was over. She had to move on, if not for her sake, then for the sake of her child.
Tara told Louie this, releasing him. He listened thoughtfully, saying little, his dark eyes contemplating her. At one point he blamed himself, saying, “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve been so fucking careless. How did we get to this so quickly?”
Tara started to protest, but the fever weakened her. She was racked with chills, face burning. Louie asked a medic for another blanket. He said, “Don’t talk. I want you to rest. We’ll talk later, when you feel better.”
They never did talk. An orderly arrived and wheeled her up to maternity where they ran a battery of tests and determined the fetus was fine. Louie stayed with her through the evening. Finally, the fever broke and she slept. Tara had a memory of him being there in the night, his hands touching her, but when she woke in the gray light of morning, Nathan was sprawled in the chair next to the bed. When Tara expressed surprise at seeing him, he said, “Louie called me.”
* * *
Two days later Nathan asked her to marry him. She looked at him like he was crazy. She said, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m going to have a baby. Louie’s baby.”
“Well,” he said drolly. “I didn’t think it was Victor’s.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes. This baby … I’m willing to raise the kid as my own. No resentments, Tara. I know the score. I know you love Louie. But, in time, it’s possible you can love me too.” He held up a hand, forestalling her protest. “Oh, yes, I know … he’s the love of your life. But it was so hot between you that it couldn’t last—those types of affairs never do. What we have is something different, better. You know we’re compatible. You have to admit that.”
Tara was aghast, blown away. “Nathan, what are you saying? You’re my friend. Like a brother—”
“A little more than a brother, I think,” he said smugly. His eyes burned into hers—he no longer bothered to conceal his affection.
She found herself blushing. “I don’t want to marry you for the wrong reasons.”
“What are the right reasons?”
“You were Louie’s friend—”
“I still am Louie’s friend.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Look, it doesn’t bother me. I’m willing to give it a shot. I don’t need your answer right away. Just think on it. It makes sense, you and I. And there’s something else too.” She looked expectantly at him, still flabbergasted by his proposal. “Your nephew, Joey … if you do marry me, Tara, I’d like to adopt him. Give him the home he deserves.”
She was touched to tears. “But Nathan,” she said, stunned. “Why?”
“Why? Isn’t it obvious? I’m in love with you, Tara. I have been since the first day I laid eyes on you.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Walls of windows provided visitors to Marty Morgan’s office with a bird’s-eye view of Los Angeles. Competing with the cityscape was Oscar, the statue perched atop a fluted column and spotlighted from above. Lesser awards and trophies filled a glass case. On the wall behind the marble slab that functioned as Marty’s desk were black-and-white photographs of revolutionaries and controversial heroes, Che Guevara and Chairman Mao amongst them.
Marty fancied himself a revolutionary on a lesser scale, influencing the masses through art. Proud of his achievements, he felt hugely important, last year’s unpleasant business in Florida all but forgotten. The finances of it had been legit, fooling Marty’s financial guru and Uncle Sam. Marty’s humiliation had been painful, but he kept his mouth shut and moved on with his life, relieved to put it all behind him. And with his lifestyle, it was easy to distance himself, literally and figuratively.
Today, Marty was lounging, feet propped on the desk, while reviewing a script. He wore frameless reading glasses, holding a red marker and making notations. He was expecting a call from a famous producer, and he was having a hard time concentrating. When his private line rang, he cast aside the script and swiveled in his chair, planting his feet on the ground. Smog was buttressing up against his windows, denying any views of Santa Monica or the canyon.
Expecting to hear the producer’s voice, Marty was annoyed when a woman said, “Mr. Morgan, this is Emily Myers. I’m calling from L&M Enterprises on behalf of my boss, Mr. Louis Morelli. Mr. Morelli would like to schedule a meeting with you when you next return to Florida.”
“Excuse me,” said Marty, wondering how this call had circumvented his secretary. “There must be some confusion. This is Marty—”
He heard the smile in the woman’s voice. “Mr. Morelli was concerned you might not remember him. He said to tell you this is in reference to the real estate venture you discussed last fall, and that I was to remind you of how you met him through Ari Klein.”
All of a sudden Marty’s stomach was in his throat, and he broke into a clammy sweat. He picked up his Evian bottle with a shaky hand and took a swig of water. This was a call from the grave, a death rattle. “I remember,” he said.
“Wonderful,” said Ms. Myers. “Mr. Morelli felt certain you would. He hopes you’ll be amenable to a meeting. Will you be returning to Florida soon?”
“Uh … uh, next week, I think.�
��
She scheduled a meeting, adding that she would call him the day before to confirm. After ascertaining his contact information, she said, “Mr. Morgan, I think you’re the first person I’ve ever spoken with who’s actually forgotten Mr. Morelli after meeting him. Most people don’t.”
“Why is that?”
She laughed airily. “Mr. Morelli’s quite unforgettable: A very charming man.”
Yeah, he was a real charmer all right. Marty hung up, felt the cold dread prick at his bowels. He sat with his head in his hands, his script forgotten. When his long-awaited call from the hotshot producer finally arrived, he was on the toilet and missed it.
* * *
Marty assumed Morelli would look like Tony Soprano. Expecting a cigar-smoking polyester-clad Italian, Marty was surprised when he walked into Tramonti’s and Morelli stood to greet him.
The Delray Beach hotspot was hopping, with a line trailing out the door, three deep at the bar. The maitre d’, a young, handsome kid, fresh off the boat from Palermo, didn’t recognize Marty, but several people called his name as he traipsed through the dining room. Morelli and DeAngelis were sequestered at a round table tucked against the wall. The mobster himself came to his feet as Marty was led to his table. Offering his hand, he said, with a hint of mirth in his dark eyes, “I’m Lou Morelli. I’m so glad you could make it.”
As if Marty had a choice. As if he hadn’t shit out his guts the entire past week, loaded with Imodium to make this dinner, astonished that Morelli expected him to eat.
Morelli was wearing a silver-gray suit that looked like it had been custom made in Milan. He was suntanned, with silver threads in his coarse hair, a Dean Martin type without the crooner’s puppy-dog eyes. But he definitely had presence—the waiter recognized Marty but summarily dismissed him to chat with his host. DeAngelis, introduced to Marty, did not stand or shake his hand. His eyes showed he did not like Marty.
Even though Marty disdained dressing up as bourgeois and pretentious, the sporty elegance of the two men left him distinctly disadvantaged with his Birkenstocks and trademark ponytail. He hitched up his jeans as he sat, ordering a J&B and water and hoping the Imodium didn’t betray him. Morelli and DeAngelis were drinking Chianti, but Marty declined the wine. Morelli said, “I’ve got some octopus and calamari coming.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 28
