Kitabı oku: «Summer By The Sea»

Praise for the novels of
SUSAN WIGGS

“This is the perfect beach read.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber on Summer by the Sea

“[Wiggs’s] keen awareness of sensory detail ensures that the scents and sounds of Rosa’s kitchen are just as palpable as the heady attraction between the protagonists.”

—Publishers Weekly on Summer by the Sea

“Wiggs is one of our best observers of stories of the heart. Maybe that is because she knows how to capture emotion on virtually every page of every book.”

—Salem Statesman-Journal

“Wiggs explores many aspects of grief, from guilt to anger to regret, imbuing her book with the classic would’ve/could’ve/ should’ve emotions, and presenting realistic and sympathetic characters…. Another excellent title [for] her already outstanding body of work.”

—Booklist on Table for Five

“With the ease of a master, Wiggs introduces complicated, flesh-and-blood characters into her idyllic but identifiable small-town setting, sets in motion a refreshingly honest romance, resolves old issues and even finds room for a little mystery.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Winter Lodge

“Empathetic protagonists, interesting secondary characters, well-written flashbacks, and delicious recipes add depth to this touching, complex romance.”

—Library Journal on The Winter Lodge

“Wiggs’s uncomplicated stories are rich with life lessons, nod-along moments and characters with whom readers can easily relate. Delightful and wise, Wiggs’s latest shines.”

—Publishers Weekly on Dockside

“A wonderfully written, beautiful love story with a few sharp edges and a bunch of marvelously imperfect characters, this is one of Wiggs’s finest efforts to date. It’s sure to leave an indelible impression on even the most jaded reader.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Dockside

“Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance, humor and compassion about sisters, children and the sweet and heartbreaking trials of life—about how much better it is to go through them together.”

—New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice

“A bold, humorous and poignant romance that fulfills every woman’s dreams.”

—Christina Dodd on Enchanted Afternoon

“[A] delightful romp…With its lively prose, well-developed conflict and passionate characters, this enjoyable, poignant tale is certain to enchant.”

—Publishers Weekly on Halfway to Heaven

“The Charm School draws readers in with delightful characters, engaging dialogue, humor, emotion and sizzling sensuality.”

—Costa Mesa Sunday Times

“A rare treat.”

—Amazon.com on The Firebrand

“A human and multilayered story exploring duty to both country and family.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts on The Ocean Between Us

Summerby theSea

Susan Wiggs
Summerby theSea

In memory of Trixie,

beloved companion, faithful friend.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Part One Antipasto

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Two Insalata

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Three Minestra

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Part Four Pasta

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Part Five Entrata

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Part Six Dolci

Chapter Forty-Three

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I’d like to acknowledge my ever-patient critique group: Rose Marie, Anjali, Kate, Lois, P.J., Susan, Krysteen and Sheila, for their talent, wisdom and courage to sample a number of culinary experiments. I’m deeply grateful to my agent, friend and champion Meg Ruley, and to Martha Keenan and Dianne Moggy of MIRA Books. Molto grazie to Mike Sharpe of Four Swallows Restaurant on Bainbridge Island, Washington, for patiently answering my many questions. And finally, a very special thank-you to my Uncle Tommy, who has no idea why I’m thanking him: you’ve never heard the sound of my voice, but you’ve always had my love, admiration and respect.

PART ONE
Antipasto

Antipasto: The Italian word for a snack served before a meal. These are dishes to pique the appetite, not quench it. Antipasto literally means “before the meal.” Mamma used to say it was the anti-noise course because my brothers, Robert and Sal, would be so busy stuffing their faces that they’d forget to complain about being hungry.

Caponata

This has an excellent flavor and makes a very nice presentation on a perfect leaf of lettuce, not that Robert and Sal ever gave a hoot about presentation. And it’s even quite low in calories, not that guys care about that, either. Serve this as a traditional antipasto with a good crusty Italian bread and a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio.

Peel and dice an eggplant, toss with salt, put in a colander and drain for at least a half hour. Then heat up a heavy skillet and add ¼ cup olive oil, a small onion, chopped, and a stick of celery, also chopped. Add the eggplant and sauté. Finally, add three chopped tomatoes, three minced anchovies, a pinch of sugar, ¼ cup wine vinegar and a spoonful of capers (the best ones come from Pantelleria Island). If your family likes olives, add some of those, too, along with a pinch of red pepper flakes. Simmer for ten minutes. Cool, then store overnight in a glass container. For a smoother spreading consistency, you can whirl the mixture in the food processor, but don’t overdo it. Things that are too smooth lose their character.

One

Rosa Capoletti knew that tonight was the night. Jason Aspoll was going to pop the question. The setting was perfect—a starlit summer evening, an elegant seaside restaurant, the sounds of crystal and silver gently clinking over quiet murmurs of conversation. At Jason’s request, the Friday night trio was playing “Lovetown,” and a few dreamy couples swayed to the nostalgic melody.

Candlelight flickered over their half-empty champagne flutes, illuminating Jason’s endearingly nervous face. He was sweating a little, and his eyes darted with barely suppressed trepidation. Rosa could tell he wanted to get this right.

She knew he was wondering, Should I reach across the table? Go down on one knee, or is that too hokey?

Go for it, Jason, she wanted to urge him. Nothing’s too hokey when it’s true love.

She also knew the ring lay nestled in a black velvet box, concealed in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket, right next to his racing heart.

Come on, Jason, she thought. Don’t be afraid.

And then, just as she was starting to worry that he’d chickened out, he did it. He went down on one knee.

A few nearby diners shifted in their chairs to look on fondly. Rosa held her breath while his hand stole inside his jacket.

The music swelled. He took the box from his pocket and she saw his mouth form the words: Will you marry me?

He held out the ring box, opening the hinged lid to reveal the precious offering. His hand shook a little. He still didn’t know for sure if she would have him.

Silly man, thought Rosa. Didn’t he know the answer would be—

“Table seven sent back the risotto,” said Leo, the headwaiter, holding a thick china bowl in front of Rosa.

“Leo, for crying out loud,” she said, craning her neck to see past him. “Can’t you tell I’m busy here?” She pushed him aside in time to watch her best friend, Linda Lipschitz, stand up from the table and fling her arms around Jason.

“Yes,” Linda said, although from across the dining room Rosa had to read her lips. “Yes, absolutely.”

Atta girl, thought Rosa, her eyes misting.

Leo followed her gaze to the embracing couple. “Sweet,” he said. “Now what about my risotto?”

“Take it back to the kitchen,” Rosa said. “I knew the mango chutney was a bad idea, anyway, and you can tell Butch I said so.” She let Leo deal with it as she walked across the dining room. Linda was wreathed in smiles and tears. Jason looked positively blissful and, perhaps, weak with relief.

“Rosa, you won’t believe what just happened,” Linda said.

Rosa dabbed at her eyes. “I think I can guess.”

Linda held out her hand, showing off a glittering marquise-cut diamond in a gold cathedral setting.

“Oh, honey.” Rosa hugged Linda and gave Jason a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, you two,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”

She’d helped Jason pick out the ring, told him Linda’s size, selected the music and menu, ordered Linda’s favorite flowers for the table. They’d set the scene in every possible way. Rosa was good at things like this—creating events around the most special moments in people’s lives.

Other people’s lives.

Linda was babbling, already making plans. “We’ll drive over to see Jason’s folks on Sunday, and then get everyone together to set a date—”

“Slow down, my friend,” Rosa said with a laugh. “How about you dance with your fiancé?”

Linda turned to Jason, her eyes shining. “My fiancé. God, I love the sound of that.”

Rosa gave the couple a gentle shove toward the dance floor. As he pulled Linda into his arms, Jason looked over her shoulder and mouthed a thank-you to Rosa. She waved, dabbed at her eyes again and headed for the kitchen. Back to work.

She was smiling as she crossed the nonskid mat and entered the kitchen through the swinging doors. Quiet elegance gave way to controlled chaos. Glaring lights and flaming grills illuminated the crush of prep workers, line cooks and the sous-chef hurrying back and forth between stainless steel counters. Waiters tapped their feet, checking orders before stepping through the soundproofed doors that protected the serenity of the dining room from male shouts and clattering dishes.

The revved-up energy of the kitchen was fueled by testosterone, but Rosa knew how to hold her own here. She walked through a gauntlet of aproned men with huge knives or vats of boiling water, pivoting around each other in their nightly ballet. A stream from a hose roared against the dishwashing sink, and hot drafts from the Imperial grill licked like dragon’s breath at precisely 1010°F.

“Wait,” she said as a prep worker passed by with a plated steak that had been liberally sprinkled with tripepper confetti.

“What?” The worker, a recent hire from Newport, paused at the counter.

“We don’t garnish the steaks here.”

“Come again?”

“This is premium meat, our signature cut. Serve it without the garnish.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said, and set the plate on the counter for a server to pick up.

She planted herself in front of him. “Go back and replate the steak, please. No garnish.”

“But—”

Rosa glared at him with fire in her eyes. Don’t back down, she cautioned herself. Don’t blink.

“You got it,” he said, scowling as he returned to the prep area.

“Well?” asked Lorenzo “Butch” Buchello, whose fresh Italian cuisine was drawing in patrons from as far away as New York and Boston.

“Yep.” Rosa grinned and selected a serrated knife from the array affixed to a steel grid on the wall. “Went down on one knee and everything.”

Neither of them stopped working as they chatted. He was coordinating dessert while she arranged fluffy white peasant bread in a basket.

“Good for them,” said Butch.

“They’re really in love,” Rosa said. “I got all choked up, watching them.”

“Ever the incurable romantic,” Butch said, piping chocolate ganache around the profiteroles.

“Ha, there’s a cure for it,” Shelly Warren cut in, whisking behind them to pick up her order.

“It’s called marriage,” Rosa said.

Shelly gave her a high-five. She had been married for ten years and claimed that her night job waiting tables was an escape from endless hours of watching the Golf Channel until her eyes glazed over.

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Rosa,” said Butch. “In fact, what about that guy you were dating—Dean what’s his name?”

“Oh, actually, he did want to get married,” she explained.

Butch’s eyes lit up. “Hey! Well, there you go—”

“Just not to me.”

His face fell. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right. He joins a long and venerable line of suitors who didn’t suit.”

“I’m starting to see a pattern here,” Butch said. He took a wire whisk to a bowl of custard and Marsala, creating an order of his famous zabaglione. “You run them off and then say they didn’t suit.”

She finished up with the bread baskets. “Not tonight, Butch. This is Linda’s moment. Send them a tiramisu and your congratulations, okay?”

She headed back to the dining room and went over to the podium, which faced the main entrance. It was a perfect Friday night at Celesta’s-by-the-Sea. All the tables in the multilevel dining room were oriented toward the view of the endless sea, and were set with fresh flowers, crisp linens, good china and flatware.

This was the sort of scene she used to dream about back when the place was a run-down pizza joint. Couples danced to the smooth beat of a soft blues number, the drummer’s muted cymbals shimmering with a sensual resonance. Out on the deck, people stood listening to the waves and looking at the stars. For the past three years running, Celesta’s had been voted “Best Place to Propose” by Coast magazine, and tonight was a perfect example of the reason for its charm—sea breezes, sand and surf, a natural backdrop for the award-winning dining room.

“Did you cry?” asked Vince, the host, stepping up beside her. They’d known each other since childhood—she, Vince and Linda. They’d gone through school together, inseparable. Now he was the best-looking maître d’ in South County. He was tall and slender, flawlessly groomed in an Armani suit and Gucci shoes. Rimless glasses highlighted his darkly-lashed eyes.

“Of course I cried,” Rosa said. “Didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he admitted with a fond smile in Linda’s direction. “A little. I love seeing her so happy.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“So that’s two of us down, one to go,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Not you, too.”

“Butch has already been at you?”

“What do you two do, lie awake at night discussing my love life?”

“No, sweetie. Your lack of one.”

“Give me a break, okay?” She spoke through a smile as a party of four left the restaurant. She and Vince had perfected the art of bickering while appearing utterly congenial.

“Please come again,” Vince said, his expression so warm that the two women did a double-take. Glancing down at the computer screen discreetly set beneath the surface of the podium, he checked the status of their tab. “Three bottles of Antinori.”

Rosa gave a blissful sigh. “Sometimes I love this job.”

“You always love this job. Too much, if you ask me.”

“You’re not my analyst, Vince.”

“Ringrazi il cielo,” he muttered. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”

“Hey.”

“Kidding,” he assured her. “Good night, folks,” he said to a departing threesome. “Thanks so much for coming.”

Rosa surveyed her domain with a powerful but weary pride. Celesta’s-by-the-Sea was the place people came to fall in love. It was also Rosa’s own emotional landscape; it structured her days and weeks and years. She had poured all her energy into the restaurant, creating a place where people marked the most important events of their lives—engagements, graduations, bar mitzvahs, anniversaries, promotions. They came to escape the rush and rigors of everyday life, never knowing that each subtle detail of the place, from the custom alabaster lampshades to the imported chenille chair covers, had been contrived to create an air of luxury and comfort, just for them.

Rosa knew such attention to detail, along with Butch’s incomparable cuisine, had elevated her restaurant to one of the best in the county, perhaps in the entire state. The focal point of the place was a hammered steel bar, its edges fluted like waves. The bar, which she’d commissioned from a local artisan, was backed by a sheet of blue glass lit from below. At its center was a nautilus seashell, the light flickering over and through the whorls and chambers. People seemed drawn to its mysterious iridescence, and often asked where it came from, and if it was real. Rosa knew the answer, but she never told.

She checked the time on the screen without being obvious. None of the servers wore watches and there was no clock in sight. People relaxing here shouldn’t notice the passing of time. But the small computer screen indicated 10:00 p.m. She didn’t expect too much more business, except perhaps in the bar.

She could tell, with a sweep of her gaze, that tonight’s till would be sky-high. “I’m so glad summer’s here,” she said to Vince.

“You know, for normal people, summer means vacation time. For us, it means our lives belong to Celesta’s.”

“This is normal.” Hard work had never bothered Rosa. Outside the restaurant there was not much to her life, and she had convinced herself that she liked it that way. She had Pop, of course, who at sixty-five was as independent as ever, accusing her of fussing over him. Her brother Robert was in the navy, currently stationed with his family overseas. Her other brother, Sal, was also in the navy, a Catholic priest serving as chaplain. Her father and brothers, nieces and nephews, were her family.

But Celesta’s was her life.

She stole a glance at Jason and Linda, and fancied she could actually see stars in their eyes. Sometimes, when Rosa looked at the happy couples holding hands across the tables in her restaurant, she felt a bittersweet ache. And then she always pretended, even to herself, that it didn’t matter.

“I give you two months off every year,” she pointed out to Vince.

“Yeah, January and February.”

“Best time of year in Miami,” she reminded him. “Or are you and Butch ready to give up your condo there?”

“All right, all right. I get your point. I wouldn’t have it any other—”

The sound of car doors slamming interrupted them. Rosa sent another discreet look at the slanted computer screen under the podium. Ten-fifteen.

She stepped back while Vince put on his trademark smile. “So much for making an early night of it.” The comment slipped between his teeth, while his expression indicated he’d been waiting all his life for the next group of patrons.

Rosa recognized them instantly. Not by name, of course. The summer crowds at the shore were too huge for that. No, she recognized them because they were a “type.” Summer people. The women exuded patrician poise and beauty. The tallest one wore her perfectly straight golden-blond hair caught, seemingly without artifice, in a thin band. Her couture clothes—a slim black skirt, silk blouse and narrow kid leather flats—had a subtle elegance. Her two friends were stylish clones of her, with uniformly sleek hair, pale makeup, sleeves artfully rolled back just so. They pulled off the look as only those to the manor born could.

Rosa and Vince had grown up sharing their summers with people like this. To the seasonal visitors, the locals existed for the sole purpose of serving those who belonged to the venerable old houses along the pristine, unspoiled shore just as their forebears had done a century before. They were the ones whose charity galas were covered by Town & Country magazine, whose weddings were announced in the New York Times. They were the ones who never thought about what life was like for the maid who changed their sheets, the fisherman who brought in the day’s catch, the cleaners who ironed their Sea Isle cotton shirts.

Vince nudged her behind the podium. “Yachty. They practically scream Bailey’s Beach.”

Rosa had to admit, the women would not look out of place at the exclusive private beach at the end of Newport’s cliff walk. “Be nice,” she cautioned him.

“I was born nice.”

The door opened and three men joined the women. Rosa offered the usual smile of greeting. Then her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell upon a tall, sandy-haired man. No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. She hoped—prayed—it was a trick of the light. But it wasn’t, and her expression froze as recognition chilled her to the bone.

Big deal, she thought, trying not to hyperventilate. She was bound to run into him sooner or later.

“Uh-oh,” Vince muttered, assuming a stance that was now more protective than welcoming. “Here come the Montagues.”

Rosa struggled against panic, but she was losing the battle. You’re a grown woman, she reminded herself. You’re totally in control.

That was a lie. In the blink of an eye, she was eighteen again, aching and desperate over the boy who’d broken her heart.

“I’ll tell them we’re closed,” Vince said.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Rosa hissed at him.

“I’ll beat the crap out of him.”

“You’ll offer them a table, and make it a good one.” Straightening her shoulders, Rosa looked across the room and locked eyes with a man she hadn’t seen in ten years, a man she hoped she would never see again.

Two

“You asked for it.” As though flipping a switch, Vince turned on the charm, stepping forward to greet the latest arrivals. “Welcome to Celesta’s,” he said. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No, we just want to drink,” said one of the men, and the women snickered at his devastating wit.

“Of course,” said Vince, stepping back to gesture them toward the bar. “Please seat yourself.”

The men and their dates headed to the bar. Rosa thought about the nautilus shell, displayed like a museum artifact. Would he recognize it? Did she care?

Just when she thought she’d survived the moment, she realized one man held back from the group. He was just standing there, watching her intently, with a look that made her shiver.

Her task, of course, was simple. She had to pretend he had no effect on her. This was easier said than done, though, because she had trouble keeping her feelings in. Long ago, she’d resigned herself to the fact that she was a walking cliché—a curly-haired, big-breasted, emotional Italian American.

However, cool disregard was the only message she wanted to send at the moment. She knew with painful certainty that the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference.

“Hello, Alex,” she said.

“Rosa.” He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile.

He’d been drinking. She wasn’t sure how she knew. But her practiced eye took in the tousled sandy hair, the boyish face now etched with character, the sea-blue eyes settling a gaze on her that, even now, made her shiver. He looked fashionably rumpled in an Oxford shirt, chinos and Top-Siders.

She couldn’t bear to see him again. And oh, she hated that about herself. She wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be the indomitable Rosa Capoletti, named last year’s Restaurateur of the Year by Condé Nast. Self-made Rosa Capoletti, the woman who had it all—a successful business, wonderful friends, a loving family. She was strong and independent, liked and admired. Influential, even. She headed the merchants’ committee for the Winslow Chamber of Commerce.

But Rosa had a secret, a terrible secret she prayed no one would discover. She had never gotten over Alexander Montgomery.

“‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine,’” she said. She pulled it off, too, with jaunty good humor.

“You know each other?” The woman with the Marcia Brady hair had come back to claim him.

He didn’t take his eyes off Rosa. She refused to allow herself to look away.

“We did,” he said. “A long time ago.”

Rosa couldn’t stand the tension, although she struggled to appear perfectly relaxed as she offered an impersonal smile. “Enjoy your evening,” she said, every bit the hostess.

He looked at her a moment longer. Then he said, “Thanks. I will,” and he stepped into the bar.

She held her smile in place as he and the others settled into an upholstered banquette. The women looked around the bar with surprised appreciation. The norm in these parts consisted of beach shacks, fried food, dated seaside kitsch. Celesta’s one-of-a-kind bar, the understated handsomeness of the furnishings and the unparalleled view created an ambience of rare luxury.

Alex took a seat at the end of the table. The tall woman flirted hard with him, leaning toward him and tossing her hair.

Over the years, Rosa had kept up with his life without really meaning to. It was hard to ignore him when she spotted his face smiling out from the pages of a newspaper or magazine. “The thinking woman’s hunk,” one society columnist dubbed him. “Drives Formula One race cars and speaks fluent Japanese….” He kept company with billionaires and politicians. He did good works—funding a children’s hospital, underwriting loan programs for low-income people. Getting engaged.

Pharmaceutical heiress Portia van Deusen was the perfect match for him, according to the people-watchers. With a slight feeling of voyeuristic shame, Rosa had read the breathless raves of society columnists. Portia was always described as “stunning” and Alex as “impeccable.” Both of them had the social equivalent of champion bloodlines. Their wedding, of course, was going to be the event of the season.

Except that it never happened. The papers ceased to mention them as a couple. The engagement was “off.” Ordinary people were left to speculate about what had happened. There was a whisper that she had left him. And she appeared so quickly on the arm of a different man—older, perhaps even wealthier—that rumor had it she’d found greener pastures.

“Vince said he offered to beat the crap out of him,” said Shelly, holding aloft a tray of desserts and espresso.

So much for privacy. In a place like Celesta’s, rumors zinged around like rubber bullets.

“As if he could stand to have one hair out of place.” In spite of herself, Rosa smiled, picturing Vince in a fight. The sentiment was touching, though. Like everyone who had seen the wreckage Alex had left in his wake, Vince was protective of Rosa.

“Are you all right?” Shelly asked.

“I’m fine. You can tell that to anyone who’s wondering.”

“That would be everybody,” Shelly said.

“For Pete’s sake, we broke up eons ago,” Rosa said. “I’m a big girl now. I can handle seeing a former boyfriend.”

“Good,” Shelly said, “because he just ordered a bottle of Cristal.”

From the corner of her eye, Rosa saw the sommelier pop the cork of the bottle, listed at $300 on the menu. One of the women at Alex’s table—the flirt—giggled and leaned against him as he took a taste and nodded to Felix to pour. The six of them lifted their glasses, clinking them together.

Rosa turned away to say good-night to a departing couple. “I hope you enjoyed your evening,” she said.

“We did,” the woman assured her. “I read about this place in the New York Times ‘Escape’ section, and have always wanted to come here. It’s even nicer than I expected.”

“Thank you,” Rosa said, silently blessing the Times. Travel writers and food critics were a picky lot, as a whole. But her kitchen had proven itself, again and again.

“Are you Celesta, then?” the woman asked as she drew on a light cotton wrap.

“No,” Rosa said, her heart stumbling almost imperceptibly as she gestured at the lighted portrait that hung behind the podium next to the numerous awards. Celesta, in all her soft, hand-tinted beauty, gazed benevolently from the gilt frame. “She was my mother.”

The woman smiled gently. “It’s a wonderful place. I’m sure we’ll be back.”

“We’d love to have you.”

When Rosa turned from the door, she used every bit of her willpower to keep from spying on Alex Montgomery. She knew he was watching her. She just knew it. She could feel his gaze like a phantom touch, finding her most vulnerable places.

They had said goodbye many years ago, and it was the sort of goodbye that was supposed to be permanent. She wondered what he was thinking, barging in on her like this.

“May I have this dance?” Jason Aspoll held out his hand to Rosa.

She smiled at him. It was a well-known fact that on most nights, near closing time, Rosa enjoyed getting out on the dance floor. It was good marketing. Show the public you like your place just as much as they do. Besides, Rosa did love dancing.

And she didn’t like going home. There was nothing wrong with her place, except that it simply wasn’t…lived in enough.

“I’d love to,” she said to Jason, and slipped easily into his arms. The ensemble played “La Danza,” and they swayed, grinning at each other like idiots.

“So you finally did it, you big goof,” she said.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I know,” she said breezily, then patted his arm. “Seriously, Jason, I’m honored that you asked for my help. It was fun.”

“Well, I’m in awe. You managed everything perfectly, down to the last detail. Her favorite food was tonight’s special, the ensemble kept playing songs she loves…You even had special flowers on all the tables. I didn’t know Lily of the Valley was her favorite.”

“In the future, knowing her favorites is your job.” Rosa was always mystified that people simply didn’t notice things about other people. She had once dated an airline pilot for five months, and he never learned how she took her coffee. Come to think of it, no man had ever bothered to learn that about her, except—

“How does Linda take her coffee?” she asked Jason suddenly.

“Hot?”

“Very funny. How does she like her coffee?”

“Linda drinks tea. She takes it with honey and lemon.”

Rosa collapsed against him in exaggerated relief. “Thank God. You passed the test.” She didn’t mean to dart one tiny glance at Alex. It just happened. He was looking straight at her. Fine, then, she thought. Let him look.

“I didn’t know there was a test,” Jason whispered to her.

“There’s always a test,” she said. “Remember that.”

The music wound down and then stopped. During the polite patter of applause, Linda joined them.

“I’ve come to claim my man,” she said, slipping her hand into his.

“He’s all yours.” Rosa gave her a quick hug. “And that’s for you. Congratulations, my friends. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

Linda jerked her head in the direction of Alex’s table. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Drinking a $300 bottle of champagne.” Rosa held up a hand. “And that’s all I have to say on the subject. Tonight is your night. You and Jason.”

“You’re meeting me for coffee tomorrow, though,” Linda insisted. “And then you’ll spill.”

“Fine. I’ll see you at Pegasus tomorrow. Now, take your man and go home.”

“All right. Rosa, I know how much you did to make this night special,” said Linda. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

Rosa beamed. The look on Linda’s face was reward enough, but she said, “You can name your first child after me.”

“Only if it’s a girl.”

She and Linda hugged one more time, and the happy couple left. The music started up again, Rosa went back to work and pretended not to see Alex ask the tall woman at his table to dance.

This was absurd, she thought. She was an adult now, not a wide-eyed kid fresh out of high school. She had every right to go over to him this minute and demand to know what he was doing here. Or for that matter, what he’d been doing since he’d said, “Have a nice life” and strolled off into the sunset.

Did he have a nice life? she wondered.

He certainly looked as though he did. He seemed relaxed with his friends—or maybe that was the champagne kicking in. He had an air of casual elegance that was not in the least affected. Even when she first met him, as a little boy, he’d had a certain aura about him. That in-born poise was a family trait, one she’d observed not just in Alex, but in his parents and sister, as well.

The quality was nothing so uncomplicated as mere snobbery. Rosa had encountered her share of that. No, the Montgomerys simply had an innate sense of their place in the world, and that place was at the top of the heap.

Except when it came to loving someone. He pretty much sucked at that.

Maybe he’d changed. His date certainly appeared hopeful as she undulated her “Sex and the City” body against his on the dance floor.

“You want I should break his kneecaps?” inquired a deep voice behind her.

Rosa smiled. “Not tonight, Teddy.”

Teddy was in charge of security at the restaurant. In another sort of establishment, he’d be called a bouncer. The job required a thorough knowledge of digital alarms and surveillance, but he lived for the day he could wield those ham-sized fists on her behalf. “I got lots of footage of him on the security cameras,” he informed her. “You can watch that if you want.”

“No, I don’t want,” Rosa snapped, yet she could picture herself obsessively playing the tape, over and over again. “So does everybody in the place know the guy who once dumped me is here tonight?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said unapologetically. “We had a meeting about it. We don’t care how long ago it happened. He was harsh, Rosa. Damned harsh. What a dickwad.”

“We were just kids—”

“Headed to college. That’s pretty grown-up.”

She’d never made it to college. Her staff probably had a meeting about that, too.

“He’s a paying customer,” she said. “That’s all he is, so I wish everyone would quit trying to make such a big deal out of it. I don’t like people discussing my personal affairs.”

Teddy gently touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, Rosa. We’re talking about this because we care about you. Nobody wants to see you hurt.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.”

It became her mantra for the remainder of the evening, which was nearly over at last. The bartender’s final call circulated, and the ensemble bade everyone good-night by playing their signature farewell number, a sweet and wistful arrangement of “As Time Goes By.”

The last few customers circled the dance floor and then dispersed, heading off into the night, couples lost in each other and oblivious to the world. Rosa couldn’t keep count of the times she had stood in the shadows and watched people fall in love right here on the premises. Celesta’s was just that kind of place.

How’m I doing, Mamma?

Celesta, twenty years gone, would undoubtedly approve. The restaurant smelled like the kitchen of Rosa’s childhood; the menu featured many of the dishes Celesta had once prepared with warmth, intense flavors and a certain uncomplicated contentment Rosa constantly tried to recapture. She wanted the restaurant to serve Italian comfort food, the kind that fed hidden hungers and left people full of fond remembrances.

She pretended to be busy as Alex and his friends left. Finally she let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. When the last patron departed, so did the magic. The lights came up, revealing crumbs and smudges on the floors and tables, soot on the candle chimneys, dropped napkins and flatware. In the absence of music and with the kitchen doors propped open, the clank and crash of dishes rang through the building.

“Ka-ching,” Vince said as he printed out a spreadsheet summarizing the night’s receipts. “Biggest till of the year so far.” He hesitated, then added, “Your dumbshit ex-boyfriend left a whopper tip.”

“He’s not my ex-anything,” she insisted. “He’s ancient history.”

“Yeah, but I bet he’s still a dumbshit.”

“I wouldn’t know. He’s a complete stranger to me. I wish everyone would get that through their heads.”

“We won’t,” he assured her. “Can’t you see we’re dying here, Rosa? We’re starved for gossip.”

“Find someone else to gossip about.”

“We were all watching him with the new security cameras,” Vince said.

“I can’t believe you guys.”

“Teddy can zoom in on anything.”

“Good for him.” Her head pounded, and she rubbed her temples.

“I got this, honey,” Vince said. “I’ll close tonight.”

She offered a thin smile. “Thanks.” She started to remind him about the seal on the walk-in fridge, the raccoons in the Dumpster, but stopped herself. She’d been working on her control-freak impulses.

As she left through the back entrance, she wished she’d thought to grab a sweater before rushing out today. The afternoon had been hot; now the chill air raised goose bumps on her bare arms.

Debris from last week’s windstorm had been cleared away, but broken trees and fallen branches still lay along the periphery of the parking lot. The power had been knocked out for hours, but the cameras had come through unscathed.

Her heels rang on the pavement as she headed for her car, a red Alfa Romeo Spider equipped with an extravagant stereo system. As she used the remote on her key chain to unlock the driver’s side door, a shadow overtook her.

She stopped walking and looked up to see Alex, somehow not surprised to find him standing in the dull glow of the parking lot lights. “What, you’re stalking me now?”

“Do you feel stalked?”

“Yeah, I generally do when a man approaches me in a deserted parking lot at midnight. Creeps me out.”

“I can see how that could happen.”

“You should hear what they’re saying about you inside.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, all sorts of things. Dumbshit, dickwad. Stuff like that. Two different guys offered to break your kneecaps. They liked your tip, though.”

He offered that crooked smile again, the one that used to practically stop her heart. “It’s good to know you surrounded yourself with quality people.”

She gestured at the security camera mounted on a light pole.

“What are you doing?” Alex asked.

“Trying to let my quality people know I don’t need rescuing.” It was late. She couldn’t keep batting this pointless conversation back and forth. She just wanted to go home. Besides, it was taking every bit of energy she possessed to pretend he had no effect on her. “What are you doing here, Alex?” she asked.

He showed her his hand, which held a palm-sized cell phone. “I was calling a taxi. Is the local service as bad now as it used to be?”

“A taxi? You’d be better off hitchhiking.”

“That’s supposed to be dangerous. And I know you wouldn’t want to put a customer in danger.”

“Where are your friends, anyway?”

“Went back to Newport.”

“And you’re headed…?”

“To the house on Ocean Road.”

No one in his family had visited the place in twelve years. It was like a haunted mansion, perched there at the edge of the ocean, an abandoned, empty shell. Wondering what had brought him back after all this time, she shivered. Before she realized what he was doing, he slipped his jacket around her shoulders. She pulled away. “I don’t—”

“Just take it.”

She tried not to be aware of his body heat, clinging to the lining of the jacket. “Your friends couldn’t give you a ride?”

“I didn’t want one. I was waiting for you…Rosa.”

“What, so I can give you a lift?” Her voice rose with incredulity.

“Thanks,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do.” He headed for the Alfa Spider.

Rosa stood in the amber glow of the floodlights, trying to figure out what to do. She was tempted to peel out without another word to him, but that seemed a bit juvenile and petty. She could always get someone from the restaurant to give him a ride, but they weren’t feeling too friendly toward him. Besides, in spite of herself, she was curious.

She didn’t say another word as she released the lock on the passenger side door. She waved goodbye to the security camera; then they got in and took off.

“Thanks, Rosa,” he said.

Like he’d given her a choice. She exceeded the speed limit, but she didn’t care. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not even a possum or a deer. This area was lightly patrolled by the sheriff’s department, and given her association with Sean Costello, sheriff of South County, she didn’t have much concern that she’d get a ticket.

At the roadside, beach rose hedges fanned out toward the dunes and black water. On the other side lay marshes and protected land, an area mercifully untouched for generations.

“So I guess you’re wondering why I’m back,” Alex said.

She was dying to know. “Not at all,” she said.

“I knew Celesta’s was your place,” he explained. “I wanted to see you.”

His directness took her aback. But then, he used to be the most honest person she knew. Right up until he left, never looking back.

“What for?” she asked.

“I still think about you, Rosa.”

“Ancient history,” she assured him, reminding herself he’d been drinking.

“It doesn’t feel that way. Feels like only yesterday.”

“Not to me,” she lied.

“You were dating that deputy. Costa,” Alex said, referring to the day he’d briefly returned, about ten years ago, and she’d sent him away. He would remember that, along with the fact that she didn’t need or want him.

“Costello,” she corrected him. “Sean Costello. He’s the sheriff now.”

“And you’re still single.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

Rosa drove even faster. “It was awkward, you showing up like that.”

“I figured it would be. At least we’re talking. That’s a start.”

“I don’t want to start anything with you, Alex.”

“Have I asked you to?”

She pulled into the crushed gravel and oyster shell drive of the Montgomery house. Over the years, the grounds had been kept neat, the place painted every five years. It was a handsome Victorian masterpiece in the Carpenter Gothic style, complete with engraved brass plaque from the South County Historical Preservation Society.

“No,” she admitted, throwing the gear in Neutral. “You haven’t asked me for anything but a ride. So here’s your ride. Good night, Alex.” She thought about tossing off a remark—Say hi to your mother from me—but couldn’t bring herself to do that.

He turned to her on the seat. “Rosa, I have a lot to say to you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then you won’t. Not right now. See, I’m drunk. And when I say what I want to say to you, I need to be stone-cold sober.”