Invitation to Italian. Tracy Kelleher

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СКАЧАТЬ they have very good espresso,” Iris added.

      “I’ll remember that the next time I need to take my car to the shop—or need a coffee.”

      Julie held out the towel, carefully folding it over to catch where the bag of ice cubes had started to leak. “Here. Thanks.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. You need it more than I. It’s the least we can do as a proper hospital.”

      “You sure you don’t need my insurance card first?” she asked.

      “Don’t press your luck,” he warned.

      “Dr. Fonterra, Mrs. Phox.” Julie nodded and left.

      “An interesting woman,” Iris commented.

      Her words brought his attention back into the room. “Dr. Antonelli certainly is…ah…unique.”

      “If you mean she has chutzpah—”

      Sebastiano frowned. “Chutzpah?”

      “Yes, such a lovely Yiddish word. It just rolls off your tongue. I find Yiddish so useful when dealing with people. I can see that I must give you a Yiddish dictionary.”

      Sebastiano had this uneasy feeling they were about to go down the rabbit hole again. “I take it that it means rude?” he asked.

      Iris pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Rude, yes, I suppose so. But at the same time passionate.” She paused. “I’m no expert of course.”

      By which Sebastiano took it to mean that Iris thought she was indeed an expert.

      “But,” Iris continued, “I would think that in her line of work that kind of passion—or should I say compassion—often goes missing after the first year or so on the job.”

      Sebastiano picked up his pen. “There’s merit in what you say. But I would also argue that sometimes one’s strength is also one’s weakness.”

      Iris touched her chin and laughed softly. “You put a lot of stock in logic and order, don’t you?” she asked.

      “For someone in my position, they are traits to be expected, I suppose.”

      Iris studied him closely. Then she picked up the leather-bound folder resting on the corner of the desk and flipped it open. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “You have the agenda that I sent over?”

      Sebastiano slid his copy out from under the blotter. Whatever he might think about Iris Phox—and unfortunately, there seemed to be way too much spare time in his evenings to ponder such questions—she was impeccably organized.

      “Now,” she said, “as you will note, there are several items for discussion.” She paused, lifted her head and blinked in his direction. “However, I’d like to deviate from the usual protocol, take a moment to digress. That won’t prove inconvenient for you, I trust?”

      Only several other pressing appointments and meetings, not to mention the rest of my life, Sebastiano thought.

      But since he really had no choice in the matter, he smiled graciously. “For you, Iris, I have all the time in the world.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Monday, noon

      “I DON’T KNOW WHO was the bigger ass—him or me,” Julie confessed. She rested her head in her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. It was lunchtime, and even though she’d showered and changed, and downed several cups of black coffee, she still felt like crap. Whatever. She would just have to deal with it. Besides, it was her day off, and here she was with her best friend, Katarina. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table at Katarina’s grandmother’s house. She should count her blessings.

      Which was hard when she’d just been relating what a fool she’d been.

      Katarina settled in against the pillows in the window seat. “Hey, watch your language. Babika may be upstairs checking on the baby, but, trust me, she has ears more sensitive than the latest CIA listening device.” Babika was Slovak for “Grandmother” and harked back to Lena Zemanova’s Eastern European origins.

      “Sorry,” Julie said, nodding. “Anyway, what can I say? As usual I flew off the handle—not that it wasn’t a matter of urgency. But he got all officious, with that ‘I’m in charge’ attitude.” She gingerly felt her bruised cheek. She’d applied massive amounts of concealer, hoping to cover the worst.

      “Just please tell me that bruise isn’t his fault. I can put up with temper in a man—God knows I’m living with a teenage son. But violence is completely unacceptable.”

      Julie waved off her concerns. “Not to worry. Il Dottore had nothing to do with my shiner. I have my own klutziness to thank for that. Then, there was the glass vase I also chipped today.” She left out the part about it belonging to Sebastiano Fonterra in her own defense.

      “I don’t understand how you can be so coordinated at sports, and the next minute trip over your own feet. My God, I remember during the summers as kids how you were the star of the swimming and softball teams. Didn’t they even recruit you to play in the men’s basketball summer league when you were in high school and college?”

      “No, by college I’d called it quits. Anyway, I might be coordinated when it comes to sports, but in real life—forget it.”

      Katarina studied her childhood friend.

      Did she know? The reason I’d quit? Julie wondered. She had never talked about it with Katarina, and she still couldn’t now. Only her family knew why she’d given up a full basketball scholarship to the University of Connecticut, and even they’d never discussed it with her. Ever.

      Not that Katarina was the type of person to dwell on the past. After all, she had her own issues growing up with a single mother, who was always moving. From what Julie had gleaned, the only source of stability in Katarina’s life had been her grandmother Lena.

      Maybe that’s what drew them together: a refusal to dwell on the past. Or maybe it was because they both loved red wine and sappy movies, and that despite the unspoken vagaries of childhood and young adulthood, they were still there for each other.

      From upstairs in the small clapboard house, a fierce cry could be heard. Katarina immediately tuned in. “Ah, it sounds like my son and heir is awake. I knew it was too good to last. Thank goodness Babika was able to watch him while I met with Rufus.” She slanted her head to listen to her grandmother’s sturdy footsteps descending the stairs. Then she leaned toward Julie. “I was there to help him evaluate his financial situation if he decides to sell the bar—”

      “He’s going to sell the Nighttime Bar? It’s a Grantham institution. He can’t just sell it!” Julie protested. The Nighttime Bar might have been a hole in the wall off Route 206, but it was a hole in the wall that had attracted some of the top names in jazz over the years, musicians who sought an intimate, knowledgeable crowd СКАЧАТЬ