Ghosts In the Heart. Michael J.D. Keller

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СКАЧАТЬ “You better hope not Petey boy because if we have twins you are taking one of them to court with you.”

      Despite trying to maintain his habitual expression of placid indifference, Mckenzie found himself smiling at the affectionate playfulness that was an obvious part of Peter and Brenda’s relationship. These two didn’t just love each other, they genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

      They munched on the salad and sipped the wine - Brenda taking only minuscule sips for a short time before the door to the kitchen opened again. A tall young woman wearing a white chef’s coat came into the room. Long brown hair once folded up into a hair net now flowed over her back. She walked toward them with the fluid grace of an athlete. The smile on her face was as welcoming as if she were greeting long lost family.

      “Sandy.” Brenda rose to her feet to embrace the namesake of the Trattoria de Alesandra. Noting how she towered over Brenda, Mckenzie realized that she was nearly six feet and certainly taller than her husband. Sandra Costella Yeung was closer to what once was called handsome than she was to pretty. The dark eyes, lightly tanned skin, and muscular frame suggested an earth mother - a heritage not far removed from rural villages of Italy. That image, however, was contradicted by a softly cultured voice reflecting the confident poise of an educated woman.

      When Peter made the introduction, Sandy reached out to grasp McKenzie’s hand. Her grip was firm. She held on slightly longer than a man would before grinning broadly at Mckenzie. “So Alex, are you the adult supervision for these two over aged adolescents?”

      Alex smiled ever so slightly in response. “Is that your way of saying that I look old?”

      Sandy laughed, a merry infectious outburst of gentle good humour. “He is quick, isn’t he? I can see why he is a detective.”

      “When do we get to see why you’re a cook? Peter responded teasingly. If you are out here, who is minding the store back in the kitchen?”

      Sandy pulled out a chair from the table and sat down beside her husband. “Oh, don’t worry Peter, the specialities of the house are being prepared for you.” Glancing around the room at the few remaining patrons who were finishing their meals or preparing to leave, her good humour slipped slightly. “Besides it looks as if you all are our last customers of the evening. The chef is allowed to take a break.”

      Brenda reached over and patted her arm. “Especially when she owns the place.”

      Sandy smiled at Mathew. “Half owner” she said.

      Mathew looked at Alex, saying aloud what Mckenzie had already sensed. “She may only own half the restaurant but she owns all of me.”

      Sandy actually blushed as Peter and Brenda simultaneously said “Awwwwww.” Peter raised his wine glass slightly to his friend and mouthed the words “Well said.”

      The swirl of movement behind them announced the arrival of a waiter carrying a large tray. “Enough of this sentimental goo” Sandy said with a chuckle. “The food is here and any complaints about the quality are the exclusive province of the business manager.”

      The waiter, a tall, mature African American, who Sandy greeted as Eric, deftly arranged two large pizzas on the table.

      “The red one is a Margherita, my Aunt Olivia’s special recipe, with fresh sliced tomatoes, mozzarella, basil and extra virgin olive oil. The white one is called a Bianca. My cousin Dominic told me that his grandmother made it like this in Rome with pesto, mozzarella and ricotta cheese.” Sandy grinned broadly. “I add a little more garlic.”

      “What” Peter said in mockingly serious tone, “no pepperoni or sausage?”

      “Pay no attention to him” Brenda said. “He is a barbarian.” Mathew nodded toward Peter who was ladling a large piece of each pizza on to his plate.

      “We have all known that Brenda. We just wondered why you married him.”

      “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

      Alex leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. The mental attributes that made him a remarkable detective could not be switched on and off at will. Without consciously trying, he began to create mental portraits of the people at the table. Brenda’s prohibition against shop talk had been strenuously reiterated, so the conversation focused on areas most likely to produce laughter or sentimental reminiscences. Bit by bit all of these people took on a detailed form in his mind.

      Mckenzie had always known that Peter Stewart was a child of wealthy privilege who could have chosen a much easier lifestyle than the one he followed. Peter had gone from law school to the San Francisco’s prosecutor’s office because he wanted to make a difference, not because it was a path to more wealth. My father would not have understood you, Mckenzie thought.

      Brenda, on the other hand, had been raised modestly by her two high school teacher parents. They had encouraged their daughter’s interest in science, smiled at Brenda’s maternal desire to heal every injured creature she ever encountered, and were unsurprised when she choose a career in nursing. They grudgingly approved of Brenda’s choice of a husband, at least as far as the parents of an adored daughter ever really approved of any prospective son-in-law.

      Another picture of the Stewarts’s friends also took shape. He had been right to think of an athlete when he first saw Sandy. She had played women’s basketball and run track at USC. In many ways a living refutation of every mistaken cliche about the nature of feminity, she had grown up beating the boys in the neighbourhood at their own games, while also throwing herself whole-heartedly into the culinary skills of her large Italian family.

      Sandy had first met Mathew when they were children. Matt’s stern and humorless father who had never really stopped grieving the death of his young wife, had moved into the house down the street. Left on his own by a distracted and busy single parent, Matt was quickly taken under Sandy’s wing and made an honorary Italian. They had been friends and playmates long before their relationship evolved differently in their teenaged years.

      Matt and Sandy both recalled the day their view of each other changed. Matt claimed that he had simply looked at Sandy in her basketball shorts and t-shirt when he suddenly realized she was a girl. Sandy insisted that they had been playing one-on-one basketball, that she had stolen the ball from him twice, and blocked his shot three times. When he stormed angrily off the court, all consumed by injured young male pride, she had followed to apologize, although she wasn’t really sure why she felt a need to do that. As they sat close together on the back steps, he had suddenly, if somewhat clumsily, kissed her.

      “You did not block my shot three times” Mathew vigorously denied. “It was only twice. Besides, you were taller than me . . . and jumped higher.”

      “I still do” Sandy retorted. “You know he would never play one-on-one with me again.”

      “Well, not basketball anyway.” Mathew said with a quick lascivious grin, and Sandy’s neck turned red.

      Mckenzie grinned despite his attempt to remain noncommital. It said something about their relationship that Matt could still make her blush that way.

      At some point in the conversation, the restaurant closed. No one seemed to find that occurrence particularly significant. Eric, the waiter who had served them earlier, and Angela, an energetic young blond girl who worked in the kitchen casually joined the group of the table. Another bottle of Valpolicella materialized and the raucous conversation continued unabated.

      Mckenzie, СКАЧАТЬ