by Rosie Genova
“May I help you, madame?” Though he said it with the accent on the second syllable, he was about as French as a plate of fries.
“Yes,” I said, attempting to sound the right note of haughtiness. “I am meeting a friend here this evening and I wonder if he’s been seated.”
“I believe the gentleman is waiting in the bar.” He stepped back behind a lighted podium and opened a leather portfolio. “I assume you have a reservation,” he said without looking up.
“Of course. It is for seven o’clock.” For some reason, I was enunciating each word like a New Jersey version of Eliza Doolittle.
“It was for seven o’clock,” he said with a sniff. “It is now seven thirty-four.”
In a futile attempt at chumminess, I leaned my elbow on the podium. “You know what traffic is like in the summer.” I threw him a brilliant smile, but it had no effect on Sniffy.
“I do indeed, madame, which is why I suggest that our guests leave ample time to get here. I’m afraid we shall be unable to seat you until nine thirty.”
“That’s unacceptable.” But one look at Sniffy’s flared nostrils had me rethinking my indignation. “I mean, couldn’t you find us something a bit earlier?”
He closed the book. “I’m afraid not. Now, if you’d care to wait with the gentleman at the bar, I’ll happily show you the way.”
And I’d like to show you an Italian gesture or two. Instead, I smiled through my teeth. “I’ll find it. Thank you.”
As I stood in the doorway of the bar, it wasn’t hard to find Cal. Though he was dressed in a dark suit, he was the only man in there with hair that reached his shirt collar. He was sipping a drink—probably whiskey—and I enjoyed the contrast of his large, rough hands against the starched white cuffs of his shirt. He turned around on his stool, a slow grin forming as he looked at me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, and reached out my hand.
He pulled me closer, keeping my hand in his. “You show up looking like that, a man forgets where he is, let alone what time it is. And in case you haven’t noticed, cher, I’m a patient guy.” He raised his glass. “Would you like one?”
“Please,” I said as I sat down. “But a small one, okay? I’m still getting used to the taste.”
He gestured to the bartender and took my hand again. “You look beautiful,” he said, his green eyes holding mine.
“You clean up pretty nice yourself there, sir.” I squeezed his hand lightly, but slipped mine out of his grasp. It was too early in the night to get disoriented by the Lockhart charm, and his signals that were jamming my personal navigation system. “Cal, I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop and see Nonna.”
He lifted a brow in my direction. “You went to see Giulietta?”
“Uh huh.” I nodded, keeping one eye out for that Scotch. “I had to ask her about . . . a recipe.” The bartender slid a glass in my direction, and I sent him a grateful smile. Thanks for the distraction, pal. “I’m trying to get her to teach me how to cook.” I lifted my glass to Cal’s; he tapped mine lightly, and I heard the unmistakable ping of crystal.
“Can I ask you something, Victoria? If you grew up in that restaurant, how’s it only now that you’re gettin’ cooking lessons?”
“Now, there’s a question.” I took a sip of the Scotch; I would need it for this story. “Well, you’re right. I did grow up there. I helped out in the dining room from the time I was ten years old. Danny and I both waited tables when we were in high school. I think the plan was for my brother and me to take over the business.”
“But you guys had other ideas.”
I nodded. “Once Danny decided on a career in law enforcement, he was let off the hook.”
Cal swirled the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. “And all eyes turned to you.”
“Yup. I studied business at Rutgers with the idea that I’d run the restaurant someday. In the summers, I’d wait tables, hang out in the kitchen with Nando and Chef Massi. I was allowed to do some vegetable prep, but that was it. Nonna promised I’d eventually learn the sauces and our core dishes, but once I took over, I’d be strictly front of the house.”
Cal frowned slightly. “Did you want to be at the restaurant?”
“Another loaded question, Mr. Lockhart.” I shook my head. “I was conflicted about it. Until . . .”
“Until when?”
I looked straight into his smoky green eyes. “Until Tim came back from culinary school and my parents hired him as a line cook.”
He tilted his head, his face holding an expression of warmth and something akin to sympathy. “And then the restaurant business didn’t look so bad anymore.”
“No. I think my parents had hopes that we’d get married and run the place together.”
“And what about you, cher? What were your hopes?” He took my hand and held it lightly, as though I might snatch it away from him.
“The same. But that, sir, is water under the Driscoll Bridge.” I let my hand rest in his briefly, savoring the moment of comfort.
“Is it?”
“Yes. It is.” I lifted my glass for another sip of Scotch, which went straight to my head. I needed to eat something and get off the subject of Tim as soon as possible. “May we talk about something more interesting, please?”
He grinned, and that went to my head, too. “Fine with me,” he said, and as if reading my mind, pushed a bowl of cashews in my direction. “But you still haven’t told me why you never learned to cook.”
“Ah. That would be the Revenge of Nonna.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that after Tim broke up with me, I decided to leave Oceanside. And once I did, Nonna locked up her recipes for good.” I grabbed a handful of cashews, but forced myself to eat them like a lady, one at a time.
A glint of amusement shone in his eyes. “You’re kiddin’ me.”
I shook my head. “Nope. She made it clear that there would be no cooking lessons unless I came back to run the Casa Lido. And we both dug in our heels,” I said with a sigh. “For eight years. So now I’m consigned to meatball maker and escarole chopper. But I’ll wear her down.”
He tapped the end of my nose and smiled. “You’re a lot like her, you know. Why do you think her and me are such fast friends?”
“I would say mainly because you’re not Tim.” I downed the rest of the Scotch, and my head spun like a boardwalk ride.
“Truer words were never spoken.” He lifted my chin and held my eyes with his own. “’Cuz that guy was stupid enough to let you go. And that’s his loss.”
I blinked, wondering if he was about to kiss me. Instead he emptied his drink and handed the bartender his credit card. “Victoria, would you like to get out of here?”
I looked at my watch. Dinner was still an hour and a half away, and I needed something in my stomach besides a bowl of nuts. I’d have been happy with a burger, but I also wanted this meal to be special. “My plan was to take you to a nice dinner,” I said.
He waved his arm. “This is all a little stuffy for my taste anyway. And I think you could use a little fresh air, no?”
“Actually, yes.” I stood up, a little shaky on my sling-backs.
He took my arm and tucked it under his, leading me gently through the crowded bar. And despite the fact that I am an independent woman, it felt pretty nice to be taken care of.
It was also nice to tell Sniffy we were leaving. His only reply was to purse his lips and make a great show of scribbling out my name. Way to make your customers feel welcome, pal.
Once outside, I took deep breaths of the clean sea air.
“Better?” Cal asked.
“Uh huh. My head’s a little clearer. But I don’t think I should drive.”
“I’m in complete agreement. In fact, I’ll drive ya back here later. After we get some food in you.” He led me to the parking lot, where I expected to see his work truck. Instead, we stopped in front of black BMW.
“Wow,” I said. “Nice car.” And what I di
dn’t say was, Woodworking must be paying better than I thought.
“Thanks,” he said briefly, holding my door open.
I slid into the black leather seat, getting a whiff of New Car Scent mixed with Hunky Guy; it was nearly as intoxicating as that whiskey I’d downed. I leaned forward, noting the walnut dash, arrayed in dials and colored lights. I turned to Cal and grinned. “Hey, did 007 own this before you?”
“Nobody owned it before me.” He pressed the button for the ignition—a revelation for me, as my lowly Honda requires a key—and the engine started with a soft growl. I glanced at his profile as we pulled out of the parking lot, but his expression told me very little.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“You like jazz? There’s a club not far from here in Messina Beach. Nothin’ fancy, but they make a great burger.”
“Well, I don’t know much about jazz, but I do know my burgers. Do they use Angus beef?”
“Not sure about that, Victoria, but they taste mighty good. And there happens to be a trio playing there tonight that hails from my hometown.”
“Really? They play New Orleans jazz?”
“Yup. Seen ’em play Preservation Hall back in the day. Sat so close I had to duck the trombone spit.”
“Eww,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Can we get a seat in the back, please?”
“Wherever you like, ma’am.” We had reached the town, and he pulled into the driveway of a familiar, low-roofed building.
“Oh, this used to be the train station in town. We’d come here sometimes to go to Rahway and then into New York.” We got out of the car and I studied the dark red shingles and black shutters on the windows. “It looks just like I remember it.”
“Well, it’s a club now.” Cal held out his hand. “Shall we?”
We got there in time to hear the group play a rousing version of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” inspiring a number of audience members to sing along. The atmosphere was lively and loud, and about as far from the Shelter Cove Inn as you could get. But I was glad we’d come.
The trio was ending its set, and after Cal got me settled, he headed to the stage, where he engaged in much hand clasping, man hugging, and backslapping. He was still grinning when he came back to the table. “Pretty cool they remembered me,” he said.
“Well, you’re a pretty memorable guy, Calvin Lockhart.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We got our drinks—beer for him and wine for me this time around, which I sipped slowly. After a waitress brought us our burgers, I asked Cal a few questions about jazz.
“I like all kinds,” he said. “Charlie Parker’s the king, in my book, but I also like me some Chet Baker and John Coltrane.”
“I’ve heard of them,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ve heard their music.”
“I got a Chet Baker CD in the car; I think you’d like him.”
“Sorry if this seems like I’m stereotyping you,” I said, “but I assumed you’d like country music.”
He took a deep swig of his beer. “Not particularly. Unless you count the Allman Brothers. Don’t get me wrong, though; I’m a big fan of the Man in Black.” At my blank look, he grinned. “That would be Johnny Cash. You know, ‘Ring of Fire’?”
“Ah. I saw the movie about him. But you’ll have to excuse my ignorance. In my house the twin musical gods are the Men in Blue—collar, that is. Sinatra and Springsteen.”
He raised his glass. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that. I’m a fan myself.” He gestured to the stage. “I think they’ll be back in about ten minutes. Would you like to stay to hear some more?”
“Sure. I’m still working on this burger anyway. And you were right—it is good.”
“Glad you like it.” Then he leaned toward me, his face serious. “In the meantime, wanna tell me what you and Miss Firecracker are up to?”
I looked down at my wineglass. “We’re not up to anything.”
“Right. But you happened to be at the country club the night that woman was killed. And you’re tellin’ me you’re not running around asking questions. Doin’ research that you’re pretending is for some book you have no intention of writing?”
“Maybe a little.”
“A little, huh?” He rested his chin in his hand, studying my face.
“Okay, maybe more than a little.” I stopped as a memory from our last date suddenly surfaced. “Hang on, Cal. Remember the night we were up on the boardwalk? You told me you worked at the Belmont Club. Before you took the job at the Casa Lido.”
There was now a wariness in that green gaze. “Yeah. Back in the spring. Why?”
I sat forward in my chair. “Did you know Elizabeth Merriman? I mean, did you have any dealings with her?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t a big job and I wasn’t there very long. I saw her maybe one or two times. But I never talked with her. Anyway, she didn’t strike me as the type to chat with the hired help.” He looked away from me and sipped his drink.
From what I knew about Elizabeth Merriman, she was exactly the type to chat with—no, make that order around—the hired help. “I’m surprised.” I said. “I mean, the night I was there, she was micromanaging for sure.”
He shrugged. “All’s I know is I never spoke with her. So I can’t really help you.”
I couldn’t shake the feeling that Cal was hiding something. But maybe he was just a private guy, as lots of guys are. “One more quick thing, if you don’t mind. Do you remember seeing a large ring on Elizabeth Merriman’s hand?”
He looked at me carefully. “Think so. A big ole rock, right?”
“Right.” I waited to see if he would describe the ring, but decided he needed some prompting. “According to my grandmother, she wasn’t wearing it when she was laid out.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Coulda been stolen, cher. A diamond of that size would bring somebody a pile of money.”
“That’s possible,” I said. “It’s . . . quite a rock.” Only it wasn’t a diamond. I had spotted that emerald from across the Belmont Club kitchen the night I met Elizabeth; there was no way it could be confused with a diamond. But maybe Cal was mistaken. Or maybe his memory was faulty. Or maybe he’d never seen Elizabeth Merriman’s ring at all. Had Cal worked at the Belmont Club or hadn’t he? I should ask Dad about his references. I felt guilty for even thinking such a thing; for all I knew, Elizabeth had any number of rings. Still, there were things about Cal that didn’t add up. Like a brand-spanking-new BMW, for example.
“Well, thanks anyway,” I said.
He wiped his mouth on his napkin and smiled. “Sorry I can’t be more help.” He’d finished his burger but pushed the fries to the side.
I pointed to his plate. “Are you going to waste those tasty fries?”
“Gotta watch my waistline,” he said, patting his stomach.
“Please, you don’t have a spare ounce on you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “So you’ve noticed.”
“I suppose you could say that.” My face grew warm, the result of a glass of wine and the memory of Cal in a pair of tight jeans. But I was saved by the appearance of the musicians coming back to the stage, and we were treated to another half hour of raucous New Orleans jazz.
At the end of the set, I motioned to the waitress for the check, but when she brought it to the table Cal slapped his hand over the black billfold. “I got it,” he said.
“But this is my treat. I asked you, and I screwed up our dinner reservation. At least let me pay.”
“Tell you what.” He took my hand, turned my palm up, drew small circles there with his finger. “We can wrestle for it. First person with a pin pays the check.” His face split into a grin and he raised an eyebrow. “That’s a win-win all around, wouldn’t you say?”
With my free hand, I took the last gulp of my wine and felt my face—as well as a few other body parts—suffuse with warmth. “Fifty-fifty?” I said weakly.
�
��You drive a hard bargain, girl,” he said, giving my hand a final squeeze.
We each seemed lost in our own thoughts as we rode back to the Shelter Cove Inn. Mine were a winey whirl of questions: Did I like this guy enough to see him again? Yes. To get involved in a relationship with him? Maybe. Did he have genuine feelings for me or was he merely hoping for a fling? Too soon to tell. As he pulled up to my car, I worried about that moment of awkwardness—the possibility of a good-night kiss—and took the coward’s way out.
“This was really fun, Cal. Thanks.” I gestured to the building. “I’m kind of glad we didn’t get in there. Thank you so much.” I opened my door, about to jump out, but he put a hand on my arm.
“I’m not saying good night yet, Victoria. I’m following you back to your house and making sure you get inside safe. I don’t like all this snoopin’ around you’re doing.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about William Fox, but I didn’t. He helped me inside my car and pointed to my door, which I dutifully locked. As we pulled out of the lot, he stayed behind me. On the way home, when I’d glance at the rearview mirror, he was always there, a safe distance away. It was reassuring. He was watching out for me, so why was I hesitant to tell him about William the Intruder or about Toscano’s veiled threats? I still had to talk to Sutton, so I had to be discreet. But there was also more to it. There was a part of me that didn’t quite trust Cal.
Granted, he was a private person, but there was so little I knew about him. He’d referred once to an ex-wife, but not by name. And he’d never talked about any other family. True, the Rienzis were close to the point of smothering, but I’d expect a guy to occasionally mention a parent or sibling. For all I knew, he had a kid somewhere. And now there was the issue of Elizabeth’s ring.
As I turned down my block, I remembered the last date we were on. We’d been talking about accents, and, without warning, he’d launched into a perfect New Jersey voice. If my eyes had been closed, I’d never known it was Cal speaking. So what, Vic? He’s got a good ear for voices. Does that make him untrustworthy?
