Read Online A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) by Rosie Genova - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosie Genova
Ads: Link
door, but just as I reached out my hand, Cal swung open the door of the smaller bedroom.
“Oh, hey,” I said, my heart pounding, “you all done?”
“Yup.” His smile looked strained; he had a bag tucked under one arm and seemed in a hurry to take it across the hall. “You go ahead and put your things in there. Let me just get this stuff out of the way.”
The room was small but cozy, its yellow walls trimmed in white. A patchwork quilt done in bright primary colors covered the narrow bed. There was even a white throw pillow propped against the wooden headboard. Then a thought pricked itself under my skin and lodged there like a splinter:
This room looks feminine.
Just how many guests did Cal entertain here?
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, by the way. I left towels for you.” Cal stood in the doorway but made no move to come into the room. The mood between us had shifted from a friendly warmth to a polite coolness. “So, y’all set?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks. And I appreciate this, Cal.”
“Not at all. Good night, Victoria.” He backed out, closing the door with a soft click.
“Good night,” I said to the closed door. “And what was that about?”
After washing up and brushing my teeth, I crept back down the hallway, stopping at Cal’s door. A sliver of light shone from underneath it; he was still awake. I lifted my hand to knock and then let it fall. What would I say?
Why do you have a yellow guest room tricked out with a homey quilt and curtains in the middle of this white refrigerator you call an apartment?
We didn’t know each other well enough for that.
Back in “my” room, I settled under the covers and grabbed a paperback I kept in my bag for emergencies—my favorite Agatha Christie,
Sleeping Murder.
But I had trouble concentrating on the plight of the heroine, as my eyes were drawn to that closet door. I threw off the blanket and tiptoed across the room. I turned the knob as slowly as I could and pulled open the door to reveal . . . an empty closet with a deep shelf that was bare.
Turn off your writer’s imagination, Vic, and go to sleep.
I looked around again. There was no dresser; there was no anything. Certainly no evidence of someone using this room on a permanent basis.
But there
was
one more place to look. I dropped to my knees to peek under the bed and spied a small, shadowy mass. Flat on my belly, I reached out my hand, straining to reach the object. My fingertips brushed something soft; I pinched the fabric with two fingers and pulled out a stuffed animal, a replica of the Velveteen Rabbit. I sat up and stroked its tiny head and stared into its button eyes.
“I wonder who it is you belong to,” I said softly. “You look well used.”
Real
, as the horse in the story explained.
I dropped the toy back under the bed, leaned back against the small white pillow, took in the yellow walls and white curtains. Despite its bare walls and empty closet, Cal hadn’t succeeded in wiping every trace from this room. And this was not a room decorated for a woman, but for a little girl.
There was really only one logical conclusion: Cal Lockhart had a child.
Chapter Seven
C al and I were both quiet on the ride back to Oceanside Park the next morning. Did he regret inviting me to his home? The yellow room rose in my memory—a nearly empty yellow room with little in it but a child’s toy. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed his serious expression. His hair was still wet from the shower, tucked behind his ears. He wore it a little long, giving him a youthful air, in pleasing contrast to the lines around his eyes. What could I learn from his face that I couldn’t from Cal? There was humor there, and warmth. Loyalty to those he cared about. A trace of loss and sadness. But something else, too. A wariness that said
don’t get too close
. Unthinking, I shook my head.
“What?” Cal asked.
“Oh,” I said. “Just going over everything I have to do today. Wondering if I’ve
“Oh, hey,” I said, my heart pounding, “you all done?”
“Yup.” His smile looked strained; he had a bag tucked under one arm and seemed in a hurry to take it across the hall. “You go ahead and put your things in there. Let me just get this stuff out of the way.”
The room was small but cozy, its yellow walls trimmed in white. A patchwork quilt done in bright primary colors covered the narrow bed. There was even a white throw pillow propped against the wooden headboard. Then a thought pricked itself under my skin and lodged there like a splinter:
This room looks feminine.
Just how many guests did Cal entertain here?
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, by the way. I left towels for you.” Cal stood in the doorway but made no move to come into the room. The mood between us had shifted from a friendly warmth to a polite coolness. “So, y’all set?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks. And I appreciate this, Cal.”
“Not at all. Good night, Victoria.” He backed out, closing the door with a soft click.
“Good night,” I said to the closed door. “And what was that about?”
After washing up and brushing my teeth, I crept back down the hallway, stopping at Cal’s door. A sliver of light shone from underneath it; he was still awake. I lifted my hand to knock and then let it fall. What would I say?
Why do you have a yellow guest room tricked out with a homey quilt and curtains in the middle of this white refrigerator you call an apartment?
We didn’t know each other well enough for that.
Back in “my” room, I settled under the covers and grabbed a paperback I kept in my bag for emergencies—my favorite Agatha Christie,
Sleeping Murder.
But I had trouble concentrating on the plight of the heroine, as my eyes were drawn to that closet door. I threw off the blanket and tiptoed across the room. I turned the knob as slowly as I could and pulled open the door to reveal . . . an empty closet with a deep shelf that was bare.
Turn off your writer’s imagination, Vic, and go to sleep.
I looked around again. There was no dresser; there was no anything. Certainly no evidence of someone using this room on a permanent basis.
But there
was
one more place to look. I dropped to my knees to peek under the bed and spied a small, shadowy mass. Flat on my belly, I reached out my hand, straining to reach the object. My fingertips brushed something soft; I pinched the fabric with two fingers and pulled out a stuffed animal, a replica of the Velveteen Rabbit. I sat up and stroked its tiny head and stared into its button eyes.
“I wonder who it is you belong to,” I said softly. “You look well used.”
Real
, as the horse in the story explained.
I dropped the toy back under the bed, leaned back against the small white pillow, took in the yellow walls and white curtains. Despite its bare walls and empty closet, Cal hadn’t succeeded in wiping every trace from this room. And this was not a room decorated for a woman, but for a little girl.
There was really only one logical conclusion: Cal Lockhart had a child.
Chapter Seven
C al and I were both quiet on the ride back to Oceanside Park the next morning. Did he regret inviting me to his home? The yellow room rose in my memory—a nearly empty yellow room with little in it but a child’s toy. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed his serious expression. His hair was still wet from the shower, tucked behind his ears. He wore it a little long, giving him a youthful air, in pleasing contrast to the lines around his eyes. What could I learn from his face that I couldn’t from Cal? There was humor there, and warmth. Loyalty to those he cared about. A trace of loss and sadness. But something else, too. A wariness that said
don’t get too close
. Unthinking, I shook my head.
“What?” Cal asked.
“Oh,” I said. “Just going over everything I have to do today. Wondering if I’ve
Similar Books
