It Began with a Crush. Lilian Darcy

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      “I’ll get it for you. Stay put.” He hopped out of the minivan and went to talk to the tow-truck driver, and she was feeling so bad by this time that she didn’t even look, just bent forward, then kept very still and tried to breathe slow and even—in through her nose, out through her mouth—focusing on a single object.

      In this case, a pink plastic pony on the minivan’s gray-carpeted floor.

      Joe Capelli was a family man.

      Even in her shaken and fuzzy state, Mary Jane could work that out.

      She felt even worse about what had happened, thinking of him arriving back late for his home-cooked meal after this unwanted errand, and disappointing his apron-clad wife and their no doubt adorable brood of brown-eyed children.

      Not actually quite sure where the apron was coming from. She couldn’t imagine any wife of “Cap” Capelli’s ever wearing such a thing.

      He came back with a plastic cup of water and she moved carefully to get the pills out of her purse. “Are you sure it’s not whiplash?” he said, after she’d swallowed the pills and the water.

      “Tension headache,” she said. “I get them...when I’m tense.”

      “Right.” He climbed back into the vehicle and she heard the tow truck pulling out into the street.

      “Is everything okay?” she asked.

      “For today. Listen, do you have someone to take care of you when you get home?”

      She didn’t answer right away, looking for the best way to admit that she would be spending the evening on her own, either in the office itself or for brief intervals upstairs in a largely food-free apartment, listening for the bell or the phone down in the office, until she closed it up at nine-thirty.

      Daisy and her staff would be too busy in the restaurant to take care of anyone but the dinner crowd, and Nickie would leave as soon as Mary Jane was back. Nickie was eighteen years old, bright and perky, efficient enough in her various tasks around the resort but not exactly a nurturing personality.

      “Not really,” seemed to sum all of this up pretty well.

      “Are you hungry?” he asked.

      “I think that’s part of what’s making this headache so bad,” she admitted.

      “Let me bring you back to my place and feed you, and by then hopefully your head will be better and we can work out what we’re going to do about transport for you till Friday.”

      “It’s not your problem, Joe. Surely I’ve already given you enough grief.”

      “We’ll work something out,” he said, quiet but firm, and she couldn’t find the words to argue any more. “Toss that cup in the back, if you want,” he added. “It’s messy enough in there already.”

      But she couldn’t bring herself to do something that untidy when he was being so good, so she held on to it.

      North Street was only a few minutes away. She closed her eyes for the drive, and didn’t open them until she felt him turn onto those brick strips she’d missed before. He parked in front of a detached garage, then turned to look at her. “Any better?”

      “Not yet.”

      “My girls might be a little noisy for you in the house. Do you want to just sit here in the minivan until the pills kick in? Come in when you’re ready. And if there’s something you’d like me to bring out to you now, just say.”

      “No, it’s fine. But I will stay in the car. Thanks.”

      “Juice box? Snack pack of crackers?”

      “No, really.”

      “Okay, then. Front door’ll be open, when you’re ready. Don’t knock, or anything. Just come in.” He closed the minivan door almost silently, and she appreciated his concern for her pounding head.

      Seconds later, he’d headed for the house and she was on her own, in his minivan, in front of his garage.

      The girls, he’d said. Two or more. Could be teenagers or three-year-olds, although the plastic pony did suggest the lower end of the age spectrum.

      Well, she’d find out soon.

      She sat, doing more of the careful breathing, trying to relax her shoulders and neck, and wondering if he could be right about the whiplash. She very much hoped not. After twenty minutes, she felt the pain letting go and the nausea subsiding, and knew it was time to go inside.

      * * *

      “Do you want creamy sauce, or red sauce?” Joe asked the girls.

      They did their silent exchange of opinion, seeming to know from just looking at each other what they were going to choose and then announcing it in unison as usual, “Creamy!”

      He hoped Mary Jane would approve. He’d thrown a couple of loaves of foil-wrapped store-bought garlic bread into the oven, grabbed a bag of cheese ravioli from the freezer, and dumped premixed and prewashed salad greens into a bowl. The girls loved cheese ravioli, and would happily have eaten it three times a week.

      Well, sometimes they did.

      It was an easy dinner choice for a busy man, when paired with a container of pasta sauce from the supermarket deli section, and he told himself it was a pretty healthy meal if he made a salad on the side. He just hoped there would be enough of it tonight to feed himself, Dad, the girls and Mary Jane.

      Here she was.

      She came quietly into the kitchen, still looking pretty washed out but a lot better than before. She had beautiful skin, fair and fine-pored. He’d noticed it before, at the garage, and it was even more obvious under the kitchen lights. She’d looked like a ghost when she was in the grip of the headache, but now there was a faint blush of pretty pink color, and her lips looked lush instead of dry. She was pretty. Not beautiful, but sweet and nice-looking in a girl-next-door way. He wouldn’t have valued looks like hers ten years ago, but now he knew better.

      Woman-next-door, though, he revised. She was his own age, thirty-five.

      “Pills worked?” he asked.

      “Starting to.”

      He shook some crackers from a packet onto a plate and said, “Maybe those’ll help, till dinner’s ready. Want a glass of juice, as well?”

      “That would be lovely.”

      “Glasses are up there.” He gestured with his chin as he grated Parmesan cheese. Yes, you could buy the stuff already grated, but he didn’t have an Italian last name for nothing. “Juice in the refrigerator.”

      “Is there anything you’d like me to do to help?”

      “No, we’re good. I’ll call the girls. They’re supposed to be setting the table. By the time they’re done, it’ll be ready. Cheese ravioli, with creamy chicken and mushroom sauce.”

      “Sounds СКАЧАТЬ