That's (Not Exactly) Amore (13 page)

Nancy and I are both dateless this Friday night and are truly fine with it. (Well, one of us is fine with it. One of us wonders why Joe bothered to say he’d call and ask me on a date if he wasn’t going to do it.) Anyway, what is a Friday night at home without a great chick flick? And that’s how I find myself watching Tom Hanks finally take Meg Ryan into his arms and seal the relationship while Brinkley jumps all over the two of them. That’s the only part I find annoying, but not enough to ruin my enjoyment of these two finally kissing. (They never actually did kiss in
Sleepless in Seattle
—I felt robbed.)

Nancy gives a heavy sigh just like me. Her head is resting on the back of the sofa. She rolls her neck and turns her head to look at me. “Want to watch it again?”

A friend after my own heart. I grin. “Yeah.”

She stops the DVD mid-credits, just as her cell phone blasts out, “We welcome you to Munchkin Land . . .”

Like any considerate roommate, I get up and go into the kitchen to make us a snack. I’m trying to drop a few pounds, and Nancy’s one of those women who naturally calculates every calorie, so I prepare each of us a dish of fresh strawberries, a dollop of light whipped cream, and a few chopped walnuts. Nancy shows up just as I’m loading a tray with cups of herbal tea and the dessert dishes.

“That looks good,” she says. “You’re a regular artist when it comes to food.”

I can’t help being pleased by the praise. “Thanks.”

I follow as she takes the tray into the living room and sets it on the coffee table. “So,” she says. “You won’t believe it, but we got the permits.”

“What do you mean?”

“For Nick’s.” She gives me a shrug.

“You mean all the permits went through?” The thing is, we shouldn’t be able to start knocking down walls for at least two more months.

Nancy averts her gaze. I know she does it on purpose.

“What do you know that I don’t?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nothing, really. I guess we get to start demolition as soon as Joe agrees to shut the place down for a few weeks.”

“Wow. Lucky for us, huh?” I’m starting to put two and two together, but I’m not sure how it adds up.

“Um-hmm,” she replies around a bite. I don’t think she wants to talk about it. And really, I’m a little afraid of waking up to a big horse’s head on my pillow, so I’m not going there either. I shudder at the thought of Mr. Pantalone’s flashing eyes as he stormed out of Joe’s office two days ago. How could he possibly be Nick’s brother or Joe’s dad? I mean, yeah, Nick’s a tough guy and Joe is a little rough around the edges, but they’re both good-hearted and gentle when it counts. This guy looked more than rough around the edges; he looked downright mean. And he wasn’t even polite when he brushed right by me. It’s hard for me to imagine that beneath that surly exterior resides a fluffy teddy bear. I have a feeling he’s not a bit like Nick.

Nancy and I look at each other with unspoken agreement and we both shrug. I point the remote toward the TV and we once again enter the innocent world of
You’ve Got Mail
. It seems easier than speculating on the world of a Tony Soprano wannabe.

12

S
omething good comes from the permit situation. For the first time since two weeks into the class, when I failed my first pop quiz, I’m able to smile with confidence at my professor as I walk into class. This guy never looks me in the eye. I’m guessing because he’s afraid I’m one D away from going postal on him.

I walk with confidence to the small metal music stand he uses for a podium. He glances up nervously. “Miss Sullivan,” he says with a nod. I can tell he wishes the podium was bigger so he could hide. But too bad for him. Besides, I have good news for a change.

I slide copies of the permits in front of him. “Just wanted to let you know our project is going forward.” As soon as we find the contractor. But that shouldn’t be too hard, should it? Especially if Joe’s dad railroads him on the contractor like he did on the permits.

Mr. Brooks’s eyebrows go up in surprise as I toss him a grin and head to my seat.

Jazz greets me with her twenty-three-year-old smile and scoots her legs out of the way so I can get by. “You should have seen his face when you walked away,” she says, laughing.

“He can’t believe I did something right for a change.” I sit next to her in the theater-style seats and look down on our bewildered professor. “Does he look disappointed?”

“Maybe a little.”

Sheesh. Aren’t teachers supposed to hope their students succeed? I thought that was a sign of a good teacher.

“Hey, how in the heck did we get those permits so soon anyway?” Jazz opens her design book and flips her spiral notebook open, pen poised to take notes as Mr. Brooks (aka Mr. I-Want-My-Student-to-Fail) stands, clears his throat, and switches on the overhead projector.

I shrug. “Who knows?”

Mr. Brooks pierces us—and when I say “us,” I mean me—with a shut-up stare.

Jazz leans in close and whispers, “I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as we don’t get in trouble for anything
they
do.”

Why does everyone assume there was something sinister involved? I write on my notebook to her:
Maybe we just hit city hall during a slow time for permit requests.

Jazz laughs and writes:
Oh, sure. End of February? When everyone is gearing up for spring renovating?

I lean in and whisper, “Fine. Point taken.”

After class, we walk out into a rainy late-February night. I, of course, forgot my stupid umbrella. “Lucky for you,” Jazz says, popping her umbrella open, “I’m taking the subway tonight. I’ll share my umbrella if you carry it.”

“Gladly,” I say with a laugh. “No yoga?”

“Instructor is having a baby. I’ve been doing it by myself at home.” We dodge in and out of umbrellas as we hurry down the street to the subway station to catch the next train. We just make it.

We both find a seat, which is rare. Jazz looks at me. “Maybe you have a fairy godmother.”

“What?”

“You know. The permits.” Only Jazz can leave a conversation for two hours and expect me to follow her train of thought when she picks it back up as though we never paused for a lecture on French furniture.

“Oh. Maybe.”

She snorts. “A fairy godmother named Vinnie.”

I nudge her in the ribs. But part of me worries that she might be right.

I dread stepping off the subway and walking up the steps into the pouring rain. Why didn’t I have the forethought to carry my umbrella? If Dancy and Tabby still lived in our apartment, one—or more likely both—of them would have walked down to the station with an umbrella. But that’s not going to happen. I’m faced with a decision. Do I cover my head with my $150 textbook, risk pneumonia by letting the rain soak me, or take the undignified approach and yank my coat up over my head? I choose option three. Even if it is a little risky because I can’t really pay close enough attention to my surroundings. And it is nighttime. In New York. And I am a woman alone.

Good grief. Now Joe’s the voice in my head trying to scare me into hailing a cab to go three blocks. And I’m just about to give in when I hear: “’Ey, Laini! Wait up!”

I turn in the rain, and there’s Joe, carrying an enormous umbrella. He’s grinning like he knows he did a good thing. “You want me to walk you home?”

“Only if you don’t mind sharing the umbrella.”

“That’s the idea.” His voice is a little husky and I’m not sure if he’s trying to be flirty or if it’s just a matter of staying dry.

He slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side.

“Hey, there’s that cop you’ve been seeing.”

My heart skips a beat as I follow Joe’s gaze to the corner right outside a little skate shop ahead. There’s a group of kids milling around, and I can tell without knowing his exact words that Mark is telling them to break it up. Which they do just as he turns and sees me in the crook of Joe’s arm, headed his way. He scowls. I offer a tentative wave and an innocent smile as we approach each other.

“What are you doing out in the rain?” he asks. He’s wearing rain gear and a plastic bag over his cap. It’s not very flattering. But I guess that’s not the point anyway.

“I’m on my way home.”

“From the coffee shop?” He gives Joe a once-over and grudgingly extends his hand. Which Joe accepts, just as grudgingly. I swear. Men.

“Actually, I had class tonight. Lucky for me, Joe was there to meet my train since I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Joe looks a little smug about it. “I didn’t think she should be walking home all alone on these streets at night.”

Mark stares, a little hostility in those blue eyes of his. “I patrol this area in the evenings. She’s safe on my streets.” He turns his gaze on me and his defenses lower as concern washes across his face. “You weren’t scared, were you?”

Well, only for a second.

I open my mouth to speak, but Joe does it for me.

“You didn’t even know she’d be walking alone tonight.”

“Well, I do now, so I can escort her the rest of the way home, if you need to get back to the shop.”

“Thanks anyway.” Joe sounds anything but grateful. “The coffee shop is closed. I’m free to take her all the way home.”

I feel like a rope. You know, the tug-of-war kind.

“Officer Hall, you ready? There’s a call, or did you want me to take this one on my own?” That guy again. He’s so mean to Mark! My heart squeezes a little. If this were a movie, Mark would get a heroic jump on the guy—save his life or something and get a little respect. Too bad this is real life.

Irritation spreads across Mark’s face as he turns toward the squad car parked alongside the curb. I follow his gaze and recognize his partner from the night of the break-in.

“Yeah, McNealy. I’m coming.” He turns to me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Hall!” the other officer hollers, his voice impatient. “Come on. Are you deaf? We got a call.” How does Mark work with that jerk?

“I have to go,” Mark says. “I’ll call you.”

Joe bristles.

Mark turns on his heel, waving as he goes.

“Glad I’m not the victim of a crime waiting while the cops try to hit on a woman,” Joe mutters.

“Come on.” I move forward and he lurches to keep up. “I’m freezing out here.”

“That’s another thing,” he says, once again falling into step beside me. “He just kept you out in this without regard for your well-being.”

“Don’t be surly. Mark’s a nice guy.”

All I get in response is a noncommittal grunt. Am I wrong to grin at his jealousy?

When we reach my apartment, Joe holds the umbrella over me while I unlock the door.

“You want to come up for hot chocolate?” I figure it’s the least I can do, considering he came out just to make sure I got home okay. He hesitates. “It’s okay, Joe. Don’t feel obligated.” I admit I’m stinging just a bit. I mean, he went all macho with Mark. I figured he’d jump at the chance to come up to my apartment.

“I’m just not sure it’s proper. You know, like it doesn’t look right.”

“Joe, it’s barely after eight o’clock.”

“I know. But . . .”

“Oh, come on. You owe me a date anyway.” Don’t ask me why I’m suddenly feeling bold and beautiful. Maybe the exchange between a great-looking cop and a great-looking shopkeeper has given me confidence. “Remember? You said you’d call and never did?” I keep the tone light so he doesn’t think I’m harboring any real feelings about it. That would never do.

“’Ey, I didn’t forget. Just trying to figure it all out, that’s all.”

I grin, stepping inside. “You coming? Since the break-in I don’t go up until I’m sure this downstairs door is closed firmly and locked.”

And with that, his hesitation seems to melt like sugar in the rain. He nods. “Hot chocolate sounds good.”

When he gives me that grin, it’s hard to think about his family having “connections” with city hall that might not be completely legitimate. But then, he did say sometimes it’s better to do things by the book. So . . . Oh, why even try to speculate? Just give the guy his hot chocolate and stop overanalyzing everything.

The next night, I meet Tabby and Dancy for sushi at Inagiku, a Japanese restaurant in the Waldorf-Astoria. Dancy’s treat. Otherwise, it would have set my budget back a week.

I do some fast talking and explain my dilemma to my friends—the dilemma about Joe’s dad maybe being a little too well connected at city hall. “Do you think I should confront Joe about it?”

“Maybe you should just let it go,” Dancy says. “If his father has connections at city hall, there’s not a lot you can do now anyway. The project is moving forward, so just stop worrying about it.”

“Unless you think Joe is involved.”

I stare at Tabby. “What do you mean? Do you think Joe is like Michael Corleone?”

“Have you been watching
You’ve Got Mail
again?” Dancy asks.

A sheepish grin. “Guilty. Nancy loves watching the two of them together as much as I do.”

Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan.

“What does
You’ve Got Mail
have to do with anything?”

I guess it’s not completely fair of us to lead her along. I’m about to fill her in when Dancy shakes her head.

“You know how they talk about
The Godfather
?”

Tabby shrugs. “Oh, yeah. That’s true. ‘Go to the mattresses’ and all that.”

“I swear, Tabs,” I say. “How can you be an actress and never have seen
The Godfather
?”

“I don’t like to fill my head with violence. Besides, I’m a New York actress, not a film star.”

“And soon you won’t even have that. What will be your claim to fame after Felicia Fontaine is no more?” I ask.

Tabby grins and pats her flat stomach. “Mommy and Wife are all the titles I need.”

It seems like I can’t spend time with Tabby anymore without feeling that sense of jealousy. Not the kind of jealousy that makes me wish I could have what she has instead of her. But maybe just the kind that wishes we were both married and pregnant at the same time.

“Okay,” I say, because I really need to pull myself out of the impossible dream for now. “What do I do if he really is involved with organized crime? Do you think I might get arrested?”