“Play your cards right and we’ll name the next kid after you,” Pepe said.
“Another one? At my age?” According to Mae Anne, the baby had been a surprise. From her first marriage, Rosie also had a grown son, Mark O’Bannon, a lieutenant on the police force.
“Okay, maybe the first grandkid,” Pepe conceded.
Chris handed Maria back to her mother. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your daughter at the clinic. Now I was hoping to collect my key.”
“Of course!” Pepe fished it from his pocket. “I hope the guests don’t make too much noise tonight. The Cornishes are throwing a party in the rear dining room.”
“Jeremiah’s celebrating his company’s expansion,” Rosie added. “They have a beautiful house but Amelia prefers to entertain here when it’s a large group. Lucky for the restaurant!”
Amelia was Norbert Anglin’s widow. About a year and a half after his death, she’d married Jeremiah Cornish, the well-to-do owner of Antiques Anew, one of the town’s largest employers. The factory made antique-style furniture and shipped it to stores around the country, and there was also a shop on the premises.
Chris made a mental note to avoid the restaurant this evening. He had no wish to cause Mrs. Cornish any distress.
“Noise doesn’t usually bother me,” he said. “I learned to sleep through almost anything during my internship.”
“I doubt they’ll get rowdy,” Rosie responded. “But of course we’ll have our usual Saturday-night crowd, as well.”
“Anyone who acts up, I’ll spray ’em with seltzer water,” Pepe joked.
“See you later!” Key in hand, Chris made his way outside and retrieved a couple of bags from his car.
A long staircase led up to the apartment. When Chris opened the door, he was pleased to find the place filled with light and comfortably decorated. Overstuffed sofa. Bookshelves. Posters of Buenos Aires, Venice and Florence. In the kitchen, a table for two, along with a full-size refrigerator and stove. He opened the cupboards to find that Pepe had left a few dishes and basic cookware. Perfect.
From the kitchen window, Chris had a splendid view of the Green. The dogwood trees budding into early-spring glory helped compensate for his one regret about living in an apartment: it didn’t allow for a garden.
The Lowells used to plant a big vegetable patch behind their two-story house on Heritage Avenue. He’d enjoyed digging in the soil, an activity his own parents had apparently never contemplated.
One year, Barry had conned Chris into helping put in a pumpkin patch with the goal of selling their produce. After battling an astounding array of bugs and plant diseases through the season, they’d discovered that the local farmers sold pumpkins much too cheaply for them to compete. Instead, they’d donated the crop to the elementary school for Halloween jack-o’-lanterns.
Chris hadn’t minded the financial disappointment. His main pleasure that summer had been wandering over to help Karen tend the rosebushes. Since then, any whiff of roses reminded him of the way her unruly chestnut hair had haloed her face in the sunlight.
She hadn’t looked so angelic last month when she’d marched into the waiting room. Unless you counted avenging angels, of course. Yet maturity had given her an instinctive sensuality that, he reflected with a pang, probably drew plenty of masculine attention.
Chris made additional trips to the car, lugging in books, bedding and his entertainment system. More boxes contained car seats, along with other baby and child equipment received unsolicited from manufacturers.
He rarely recommended purchases to his patients, as the makers no doubt hoped he would, but he appreciated having items to donate to young mothers. In Nashville, he’d shared stuff with the Teen Mom Cooperative, and he felt certain there’d be a need for it in Downhome.
After he finished unloading, he washed his hands and mulled over what to do next. He had no desire to waste what remained of the sunny day by unpacking. Also, although he’d grabbed a hamburger en route, it had worn off long ago. Good thing he lived over a restaurant.
Softly whistling a tune that reminded him of Italy, he went out. When he was back inside the restaurant, he discovered he was whistling the same song playing over the sound system, although he hadn’t been aware of hearing it upstairs.
At the counter, he ordered spaghetti with clam sauce. Pepe refused to let him pay. “You answered our questions about the baby,” the proprietor told him as he brought the plate. “You didn’t charge me and I won’t charge you!”
“There’s nothing seriously wrong with your daughter.” Chris doused the pasta with Parmesan.
“To a parent, everything is serious,” Pepe retorted.
“All right, I accept, with thanks. But just this once.” Chris preferred to pay his own way. He didn’t want to feel obligated to restrain his appetite to avoid bankrupting his landlord.
He was just finishing when a mild draft from the front door whispered across his neck. A slim, familiar figure in a white sweater and blue slacks hurried past him to the cash register.
Karen’s cheeks were pink from exertion. Specks of white glitter clung to the hair she’d tucked behind her ears.
Perfect timing, Chris mused. He’d landed in town a little over an hour ago and already they were bumping into each other. Either fate intended them to be together or the cosmos enjoyed provoking quarrels.
“I’m here to pick up some pastries,” she told the hostess, a young woman whose name tag read Nola. “One of our residents ordered them for our Winter Theme party.”
“I’ll go check.” Nola disappeared into the back.
Catching Karen’s eye, Chris gave her a friendly nod.
“Just get into town?” Judging by her conversational tone, she’d decided to try to get along with him, at least in public.
“Yup.” To keep the conversation going, he added, “Did I hear you say you’re having a party?”
“We’re in the middle of it!” She gestured in frustration. “I thought I had everything under control. Then Junior Ferguson—he’s our social butterfly—announces that he ordered pastries from Pepe’s and forgot to tell anyone. I decided the simplest thing was to trot over here and pick them up.”
Pleased that she was willing to chat with him, Chris pursued the subject. “What’s a Winter Theme party and why are you having one in March?”
“Some of our residents were sad that it barely snowed this year, so we’re making up for it. Also, it’s an excuse for games, crafts and refreshments,” was the frank response. “Folks get depressed and many lose their appetites as they age. I like to keep them active and tempt them to eat. However, I try to stick to healthier foods than—what on earth is that?”
Chris followed her gaze as Nola emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large rectangular box. Behind her, Pepe brought a second one.
“I’m glad you’re picking these up,” remarked the owner. “We need the space in the refrigerators.”
Karen’s mouth hung open for a few seconds before she found her voice. “What exactly are those?”
“Ice-cream sheet cakes.” Pepe set his burden on the counter. “Mr. Ferguson paid for them by credit card.”
“What’s in them?” Although Chris had felt full a few moments before, he always had room for dessert.
“Pistachio ice cream between layers of vanilla cake, with strawberry icing,” Pepe explained. “It’s my own invention.”
It sounded weird but delicious, Chris decided.
Karen