Страница 18 из 76
“I was only going fifty.”
“In a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, Vee.” He nudges his toes lightly into her stomach, turns back to me, more serious now but still smiling. “She’s wigging out because we’re late and she doesn’t want Al to get all over her—but I can hear the chowder sloshing and if my little felon here racks up any more tickets she’ll be answering to the law, never mind Al.”
Viv wrinkles her nose, sticks her tongue out at him. “You totally exaggerate how bad my driving is.”
“Uh, no, I don’t. You’re a maniac. And I like having you in one piece. So she’s barreling along and then we get to this stoplight and the light turns green and the truck in front of us isn’t moving. So Vee leans out the window and says, ‘What are you waiting for, asshole?’ and flips the driver off.”
“God, Viv,” I interrupt. “Don’t do that. We’ve told you like a billion times. You never know when you might run into some psychopath.”
“Exactly. ’Cause this guy gets out of the car and he’s like eight feet tall, three hundred pounds, tattoos, leather vest, chains, and he is effing furious. He comes over to the window and gets in Viv’s face and says, ‘Go
“And I, like, burst into tears,” Viv says. “I’m picturing him killing Nic and then God knows what he’d do to me. My life is flashing before my eyes.”
“So I know I need to talk this guy down because I sure as hell can’t take him down.”
“But it’s the way you did it, Nic. He gets all chummy and buddy-buddy with this jerk.” Viv’s voice deepens. “‘So sorry, man. My honey here is a little touchy today. Normally she’s sweet as pie but she gets kinda high-strung at that time of the month, you know what I’m saying?’ And then this Neanderthal is clapping Nico on the back all-man-to-man and saying yeah, he has a wife and four daughters and he’s thinking of getting an RV that he can park in the driveway because their cycles are all the same and on and on and on—”
I’m laughing now, and so is Nic again. “Well, he did save you,” I point out.
“Yeah, but then they spent ten minutes telling women-are-cray-zee stories, which, I’ll have you know, Nic completely made up. He’s telling the guy that I once threw a pizza at him because he got the wrong toppings. That I threw his ball cap in a wood chipper because I was jealous of the time he was spending watching Sox games.”
“But again, I did save you,” Nic says, reaching for her hand.
“By making me sound like an out-of-control crazy hormonal bitch,” Viv says. “So having to get a pedicure is his penance for being Captain Macho. And so is wearing flip-flops next week so Hooper and Marco and Tony can admire his pretty tootsies.”
“They do look dreamy, Nico,” I say. “And anyway, if she were really mad at you, she would’ve gone for pink.”
Vivie winks at me—and then pulls a bottle of Day-Glo fuchsia polish out of her purse. “That was just the undercoat,” she says.
“Aw.” Nic ruffles her hair. “You’re so cute when you’re all riled up, honeybun.”
“Watch it, or you’ll get a manicure too.”
He leans over and kisses her . . . and kisses her . . . and kisses her. On and on and on. I might as well be in the next county.
Still, it’s good to know that this exists—true love—in my world. And not just in Mom’s books.
Al Almeida is telling us what he expects of his catering crew tonight in a hushed, urgent tone, shifting his eyes to each of us in turn. The group of us is in a respectful circle outside the turreted canvas tent set up for the rehearsal di
“Showtime is in ten minutes. Seven o’clock. We’ve got a ton of littlenecks. Sorta skimpy on the oysters and the jumbo shrimp, but we’ve got extra-large for backup. You”—he points at me, Vivien, Melissa Rodriguez, and Pam D’Ofrio—“keep that raw bar stocked and ready. Empty spaces look cheap, and they don’t want cheap.” He pauses, lowers his voice further, and adds, “The bride’s family’s loaded, groom’s is ru
“You”—Al points to Nic—“keep the water glasses stocked and the ashtrays empty. Dominic—keep the wineglasses full. Two-thirds. Not completely. Don’t trade places.” He glares at Nic and Dom, who is Pam’s older brother. “You’re twenty-two, Dominic; you’re underage, Nic. We don’t need any legal hassles.”
He turns back to Vivien, Pam, and me. “Keep those apps coming. We want them to fill up on the passed hors d’oeuvres before we bring out the lobster. Got it?”
We nod.
Al jerks his chin in satisfaction. “Go get ’em, team.”
He always adds this at the end, as though he’s suddenly morphed into Coach Reilly.
I’ve helped cater for Almeida’s for years and in all that time, I’ve never seen anybody I knew well at any of their events. Stony Bay is a small town, but the people I know don’t have events catered. Unless you count takeout from Castle’s.
Tonight my luck runs out.
I’ve finished passing out the garlic toast with Boursin and sundried tomatoes—only one lone straggler left—and am going back for another trayful, looking around for Vivien so I can complain about the man who just spent ten minutes staring down my shirt while demolishing the tray, when, for the second time today, I bump right into someone. “Shoot, oops,” the guy says, at the exact moment I say, “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was—”
Then I stop dead. Because it’s Alex Robinson, tall, dark, and elegant as he was last summer. Despite how things ended, I get goose bumps. But Alex . . . he’s looking at me with absolutely no acknowledgment on his face, like I’m some random side dish he didn’t order and is wondering how to send back. Is it possible he doesn’t recognize me? How many half-Portuguese girls did he hook up with last summer?
“Oh. Uh. Hi.” Alex wipes at the slosh of ice water I’ve spilled on his blue-and-white striped seersucker jacket. “It’s, uh, Gwen, right?”
That’s a bit much. I debate saying “No, Suza
Alex blinks at me, a preppie owl. “Er . . .”
I school my face to look patient and baffled.
His eyes dart around, finally settling back on me. He clears his throat. “Look, I know it’s Gwen. Your . . . your mother was cleaning our house today. I thought maybe you’d come along with her.”
I open my eyes still wider. “Really? You missed me? Aw, that’s so sweet! I would have come, honest, but I had to stay home with Alex, Jr. He can walk now, and he’s just getting into everything, the little rascal!” I cha
He pales. “Now . . . wait . . . I—”
I’m enjoying this, because I am a mean and spiteful person. “Were you like that too, Alex? What a chip off the old block our little cutie is.” I let one hand drift to my stomach and smile, Mado
Alex blinks, then shakes his head. “Ha-ha. I’d forgotten your sense of humor. If—er—that had happened, it would have just, uh, been born.” His eyes flick to my cleavage. Two guesses what he does remember. “How, uh, have you been, really?”