by Nic Tatano
“Why don’t youse two get a room?” asked a middle-aged hardhat who walked by.
We broke the lip lock and laughed. “What an excellent idea,” said Vincent, who then carried me toward the building with my head resting on his shoulder. “By the way, about that coffee?”
“Yes?”
“You’d better make a large pot. We might be up a while.”
***
I was already set to meet the girls for lunch on Saturday and wasn’t really sure what I should tell them about the previous night or even if I should tell them anything. This stuff should remain private, right?
Well, that was sensible girl talking. Happy girl could not wait to share her experiences with the world. What the hell, call The Post and get it on Page Six. Call the station and break into programming. This just in … Belinda Carson might have found her soul mate. Film at eleven. Happy girl didn’t care. Happy girl was too damn excited about what the future might hold. But sensible girl was telling happy girl to tone it down, that one great night doesn’t necessarily mean happily ever after.
I was the last to arrive at the restaurant, an old-fashioned Greek diner with a hundred things on the menu, all of them good. Burgers or salads or pasta, you couldn’t go wrong. It looked like a silver train car on the outside, while the inside was filled with old beige Naugahyde booths and a long counter, which was always packed with customers, mostly of the blue-collar variety. Those old-fashioned jukebox selectors sat on each table, offering nothing recorded after 1963. We all loved the place because it was a throwback to a happier time.
I tried to keep my smile casual as I reached one of the round tables in the back, not wanting to tip my hand. “Hey guys.” There was already a menu in front of my seat so I picked it up as I sat down.
“So, how was your week?” asked Serena.
“Not bad,” I said. “Couple of good stories. Nothing Emmy-worthy, but okay. You?”
She shrugged. “Boring week. Plain old civil lawsuit. I got an itch for another good sexual harassment case.”
“You would,” said Ariel.
“So many sleazy men, so little time,” said Serena. “And I’ve got a new outfit that’s crying out for a male jury.”
“In your case, you’d want a hung jury,” cracked Roxanne.
“Speaking of which, I have to write some copy for an erectile dysfunction commercial,” said Ariel, with a gleam in her eye.
“Sounds like a hard assignment,” I said, which made her laugh.
Roxanne had thus far said nothing and was studying my face. “You go see Vincent yesterday?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I brought him a box of Italian cookies from Nick’s pastry shop and got him a gift certificate for a massage, since he slept on that hide-a-bed while I was sick.”
“That’s nice,” said Ariel. “He’s done a lot for you lately.”
“Really,” said Serena. “Man is a saint. I’m surprised he hasn’t been canonized by the Catholic Church after taking care of you for four days.”
Roxanne was still staring at me when suddenly her eyes grew wide. “Aha!”
“Aha what?”
She pointed at me and lowered her voice to a sultry tone. “You had sex!”
I played dumb. “What are you talking about?”
“You got the glow.” She turned to Serena and Ariel. “She’s got the glow.”
I waved it away. “Pffft. You and your glow. That’s a bunch of bullshit.”
“No, no,” said Serena, “there might be something to it. You did have a little bounce in your step when you walked in. And your skirt was on backwards.”
I snapped my neck down, horrified.
“Made you look,” said Serena.
“So there is something there,” said Ariel.
“There’s nothing there. And stop trying reporter’s tricks on me. I’m happy because it’s Saturday. I enjoy the weekend.”
“Enjoy the weekend, my ass,” said Roxanne.
“C’mon, dish,” said Ariel. “Your left eyelid is starting to twitch like it always does when you’re hiding something. It’s your tell.”
“I have a tell? You never told me I have a tell.”
“You don’t tell someone they have a tell because if you told them they wouldn’t have a tell anymore,” said Serena. “Law school 101.” Now all three of them were staring at me and I was cornered at a round table. “Cough it up, Wing Girl, lest your left eyelid go into convulsions.”
“Fine! I had … ” I dropped my voice, realizing I was in a public place. “What you said I had.”
“Aha!” said Roxanne.
“Will you stop with the aha! already?”
“C’mon, details,” said Serena. “Rebound sex after you know who, one-nighter, guy you found on Craigslist, what’s the story here?”
“Yeah, we’re supposed to have approval,” said Ariel. “You sneaked one by us. So who is it?”
“Just a guy,” I said.
“What a steaming pile of horseshit,” said Roxanne. “You don’t do one-nighters because of the guilt factor. You’d be too afraid you’d get hit by a bus before you made it to confession.” Suddenly a huge smile grew on her face. “I know who’s been sleeping in your bed,” she said, like she was reading a bedtime story.
My face flushed, with no way to stop it. “Can we please change the subject?”
“No!” They all responded in unison.
“So who is it, Rox?” asked Ariel.
“Yeah,” said Serena, “Tell us before we have to waterboard her.”
“She can tell you,” said Roxanne, looking in my direction.
“Fine,” I said. I looked around to make sure no one was listening before lowering my head and my voice. “It’s … Vincent.”
To say the mouths of Ariel and Serena hit the table would be an understatement. Roxanne sat up straight and put her nose in the air. “And you’re very welcome,” she said.
A college-age waiter showed up a nanosecond later. “You girls ready to order?”
“No!” from all four of us.
He backed up a bit. “Okay then. I’ll, uh, give you a few minutes.” Then he walked away.
“Soooo … ” said Serena.
“What?” I asked.
“Details,” said Ariel.
“Hey, that’s my cousin!” said Roxanne, who slapped Ariel on the back of the head.
“Ow! Will you please stop doing that?” said Ariel, holding her head.
“That’s why I always sit directly across from her and that damn Sicilian head slap,” said Serena. “C’mon, Wing Girl, we just want one little detail.”
“How about one very big detail,” I said with a devilish smile while I raised my eyebrows.
Roxanne slapped me across the back of the head.
“Ow!” I rubbed my head. “C’mon, Rox, it was a hanging curveball over the middle of the plate. I had to swing at it.”
“No,” said Roxanne, who folded her arms. “What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom when it comes to my family.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll just say—”
She glared at me and pulled her arm back, ready to strike.
“He was a real gentleman.” She dropped her arm and smiled like the cat who ate the canary.
“So,” said Ariel, sliding her chair closer to Serena and turning it to protect the back of her head, “what’s next?”
“We’re going out tonight. It’s our first date.”
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” said Serena. “You’re supposed to have sex after the first date.”
“We’ve been out twice,” I said, “but both times one of us was trying to cheer up the other and it was an impromptu thing. We’ve never really been on a traditional date. So it’s dinner and a show tonight. And then tomorrow he’s taking me to the Giants game.”
“Wow, Wing Girl, you’ve moving at warp speed. Already spending the whole weekend together,” said Ariel.
“We already did that when I had the flu,
” I said.
“Well, you have my approval to proceed,” said Serena.
Ariel nodded. “Mine too.”
I looked at Roxanne, half expecting some smartass comment. Instead she said, actually tearing up, “I’m sorry I ever called you a stunad.”
“Fuhgeddaboudit,” I said in her accent.
“So, guys,” said Ariel, “where do we go from here? Is charm school over?”
“Wing Girl still needs you guys for advice,” I said, back in third-person mode.
“Uh-oh,” said Serena. “What now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just a little worried.”
“You just had a great night and you’re spending the whole weekend together. What the hell are you worried about?” asked Roxanne.
“That I’ll do something that will hurt him. I mean, he’s such a good man … what if this doesn’t work out? He’d be devastated.”
“Did it ever occur to you,” said Ariel, “that if you lost him, you might be the one who’s devastated?”
***
I got a present on Monday from an unexpected source when I picked up the tip line.
“Hi Belinda, it’s Special Agent Willis.”
“Agent Willis, nice to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m fine. The more important question is, how are you?”
“I’m over it and have moved on, but thank you for your concern. I, uh, never got the chance to apologize—”
“Apologize for what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a good man, Willis. I owe you one. So what can I do for you?”
“Well, I have a little news about that person who stole all the money from the pension fund. I thought you’d like to know we recovered almost all of it. Forty-seven million dollars.”
I whistled, not believing the amount. “Good God. And they needed one more payday?”
“Greed has no limit, as you quickly discover in the white collar division. Anyway, he sang like a canary, giving up his two accomplices. One of whom was his wife.”
“You’re kidding me! He wouldn’t cheat on her, but he sold her down the river?”
“Yep, in return for three fewer years on his sentence.”
“So how was she involved?”
“She was Jagger’s executive assistant, if you can believe it. The third person involved was a bank president, who had no trouble cashing all those checks and wiring the money overseas without anyone knowing about it.”
“Incredible.”
“Anyway, they all plead guilty and were sentenced immediately. Shepard got twenty-seven years, his wife got thirty, as did the bank president.”
“Good. I was hoping someone would throw the book at him.”
“By the way, Belinda, I know you were very angry when you asked me to send him to a prison in a miserable place, but you know I have no input on that.”
“Yeah, I know. I was pretty pissed off. You know, the proverbial woman scorned.”
“Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that Mister Shepard will be spending the next twenty-seven years in a federal penitentiary in North Dakota. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
“Agent Willis, you have a wicked streak in you. Thank you.”
“Belinda, again, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but have a good holiday.”
“You too, Agent Willis. Bye.”
In the news business, we often use the term “closure” to wrap up a story.
I finally knew what it meant.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The Fourth of July
The house had undergone a significant makeover since Vincent’s mother passed away. Gone were all the pieces of medical equipment: the motorized wheelchair, walker, special adjustable bed, and stair climber, which had transported Mrs. Martino to the second floor. Vincent ripped up the old stained carpet (which he had left in place as a cushion since his mother was prone to falling) and had hardwood floors installed, but not before I helped him put a fresh coat of paint indoors. I even discovered I was pretty good with wallpaper. The avocado-green kitchen appliances, outta here. He kept the things important to his mother, little stuff like the religious statues and the prints of Frank Sinatra and the Pope that hung in the hallway, though the plastic-covered velour couch went right to Goodwill. It had been good therapy for him; keeping enough stuff to honor his mother while updating the house to modern standards.
It had brought us closer. Imagine, most couples grow their relationship through a series of dates. We used sprained ankles, the flu, and house painting. Then again, we were not a normal couple.
Yes, after several months we were officially a couple. I can say the “c” word.
Neither of us has dated anyone else since our first night together. I wasn’t wired that way and neither was he. I mean, you can’t sleep with one person and date another. Well, some people can, but not us. I’m not some wanton harlot or a trashy jezebel.
The relationship was solid. My worry about possibly hurting Vincent had been slowly dissipating, but it was always lurking in the back of my mind and I still could not figure out why. We were comfortable, enjoying both our time together and our own space.
This Fourth of July would be different, obviously, without his mother around. Vincent was relaxing in a deck chair, sipping a beer and talking sports with the guys. I’d been keeping an eye on the grill while stuffing my face with more Italian goodies I never heard of. The weather was perfect again: warm, but not too hot. And more important, there was not a cloud in the sky to ruin the fireworks.
Last year I was a guest. This year everyone was treating me like family.
***
When it was time for charades Roxanne curiously picked me and Vincent out of a hat as a team, which confirmed my yearlong suspicion that the fix was in last time. (I was beginning to wonder what other strings she may have been pulling along the way.) Anyway, we were much better at the game this time, knew each other’s moves and often what the other was thinking. But we were in second place with only one more round to go, and you know how I hate to lose.
“Velinda, you’re up,” said Roxanne. (She has combined our names, like Brangelina, though I’m not sure it had the same cachet as it does for the two actors.)
“You first,” said Vincent. He pushed me toward Roxanne, who already had her fedora out. I reached in and pulled out a slip, then nodded at her.
“Let’s rock,” I said.
“Anddddd … go!” She clicked the stopwatch and I did the movie pantomime I remembered from last year.
“Movie!” yelled Vincent.
I laid down on my back, started to twitch and used my hands to demonstrate something exploding from my stomach.
“Alien!” he said.
“Aw, c’mon. Too easy!” yelled a member of another team.
“Fifteen seconds,” said Roxanne, as Vincent extended a hand and helped me up. “Very impressive. You do the next one in less than twenty-nine seconds, you guys win.”
I sat down as Vincent reached into the hat, looked at the paper and nodded at Roxanne.
“Anddddd … go!”
Vincent took his right hand and made a swooping motion around his head and down to his waist, then jabbed his finger in the air.
“A question,” I said.
He nodded. He pretended he was writing something on a piece of paper, then his head dropped to the side, he closed his eyes and let his tongue hang out.
“You’re writing something … and you’re dead. A will!”
He nodded, then pointed at me.
“Will … me?”
He shook his head, then pointed at himself.
“Will … you?”
He smiled and nodded, drew a circle in the air with one hand, then tapped his ring finger.
“Uh, a ring?”
He gave me the “come-on” motion with his hands, which told me I was close.
“Uh, wedding ring?”
He shook his head
, made an exaggerated motion and placed the imaginary ring on his finger.
“Wedding? Marriage? Marry?”
He nodded, then pointed to himself.
“Will … you … marry … you.”
He rolled his eyes, then pointed at me.
“Oh! Will you marry me!”
He nodded and clapped.
I turned to Roxanne. “Time?”
She shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”
“Did we beat twenty-nine seconds?”
“I didn’t start the watch.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because, it wasn’t necessary.”
“Belinda?” It was Ariel, who was sitting behind me next to Serena.
I turned around to face her. For some odd reason everyone was wearing this silly grin. “What?”
“Answer the question.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I just want to know if we won.”
“The witness is directed to answer the question,” said Serena, who had a huge smile as she pointed behind me.
I turned around and saw Vincent on one knee, hand extended, holding a small jewelry box with a seriously big emerald-cut diamond in it.
The air was knocked from my lungs as my jaw dropped.
“You didn’t answer the question, stunad,” said Roxanne. “Answer the friggin’ question. The man is waiting. C’mon, tick-tock.”
Everyone laughed, then grew quiet. I locked eyes with Vincent, who looked right into my soul. “Brass Cupcake,” he said, “will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”
The adrenaline of a big story couldn’t hold a candle to this moment. In the space of a few seconds, I had to make a decision about the direction my life would take, possibly for the rest of my years. I had to decide whether my love of Vincent outweighed my fear of hurting him.
For a girl who works in an industry that deals in black and white, I had to choose a gray area. But then again, love is not a black-and-white issue, never a sure thing. That was the one fact in the equation.
I finally composed myself, realizing the decision was a no-brainer despite the risk. Besides, I knew I’d kick myself till the end of time if I didn’t take the shot. “Harvard, you’ve got it backwards. The real question should come from me, because I’m the reporter here. Will you do me the great honor of being my husband?”
