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Authors: Sally Goldenbaum
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said.
“We’re all proud of Bill,” Janna said, looking up from her book. She smiled over at Bill. “Both sets of parents know Bill has nowhere to go but up.”
Po watched affection color Janna’s face. Bill responded with a nod in her direction and a smile that Po couldn’t quite read. She suspected that the attention was making him slightly uncomfortable.
But Bill was good-natured about it. He simply shrugged, offered a half-smile, and joked, “She has me in the White House in five years.”
Max Elliott raised a wine glass. “Here, here, to Mayor McKay.”
A noisy toast followed, along with well wishes for Bill’s campaign and plans. “And now,” Po said, “before we propel Billy directly into the White House, I suggest we eat. Pick up a plate from the sideboard before P.J.’s fine steak turns cold.” Friendly laughter nudged the crowd around the table and in minutes plates were heaped full of hot rolls and sweet butter, mounds of basil and corn pasta, and P.J.’s juicy fillets and béarnaise sauce.
Po didn’t have a chance to talk to Max Elliott alone until the meal was almost over and empty plates began to stack up on the dining room table. Po walked toward the opposite end of the long room and opened the refrigerator. As she lifted the pies from the freezer, Max appeared at her side.
“Need help, Po?” He set his wine glass on the counter and took the pies from her hands.
“Thanks, Max. Just set those down on the counter.” Po pulled a stack of small plates from the counter. “It was nice of you to bring Billy and Janna, Max. I don’t think Janna knows many people.”
Max nodded. “And doesn’t make friends easily, as far as I can tell,” he said. “I was meeting with Bill about some company matters, and knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought them along.”
“Are you helping Bill with his political plans?” Po asked.
“Not so far. Though I’ll help him if I can. But I did legal and financial work for the realty company years ago, and Bill has asked me to help him out with a few things to get the company back on track.” Max picked up the knife and began slicing through layers of coffee ice cream, thick hot fudge, and a thin, crusty layer of crushed pralines. “Sinful, Po,” he moaned, lifting a wide slice and sliding it onto a plate.
“But good for the spirit every once in a while,” Po said. She placed a fork on each plate. “Max, I’ve been wanting to ask you about Picasso—have you spoken to him?”
Max took a drink of his wine, then shook his head.
Po saw the furrows on his brow deepen. He seemed to want to say something to her, but instead, he lifted his wine glass again and drained it.
“Max, what is it?”
Max picked up the tray of pie plates and looked at Po. “The truth is, I wanted to go over to Picasso’s as soon as I heard the news. I like Picasso very much. But frankly, Po, I’m not the right person to be with him right now. Make of that what you will.”
Before Po could question him further, he walked back to the other end of the room to a chorus of voices welcoming the ice cream pies. Po watched him as he handed out the plates of dessert, wondering what in the world could cause such uncharacteristic behavior in this gentle man she had come to respect and like very much. It wasn’t like Max at all. And she wondered briefly how many other relationships would become awkward because of the murder of a young woman none of them knew.
CHAPTER 9
Sunday night suppers usually ended early so everyone could get home in time to get ready for another week, and tonight’s was no exception. Max was the first to go, and Po regretted saying anything to him about Picasso. He seemed troubled when he left, and after a quick kiss on the cheek and thank you, was out the door without another word. The others followed soon after, though Eleanor lingered behind, helping Po put away the last of the dishes.
“Po, you’ve been distracted tonight. Out with it,” Eleanor
“We’re all proud of Bill,” Janna said, looking up from her book. She smiled over at Bill. “Both sets of parents know Bill has nowhere to go but up.”
Po watched affection color Janna’s face. Bill responded with a nod in her direction and a smile that Po couldn’t quite read. She suspected that the attention was making him slightly uncomfortable.
But Bill was good-natured about it. He simply shrugged, offered a half-smile, and joked, “She has me in the White House in five years.”
Max Elliott raised a wine glass. “Here, here, to Mayor McKay.”
A noisy toast followed, along with well wishes for Bill’s campaign and plans. “And now,” Po said, “before we propel Billy directly into the White House, I suggest we eat. Pick up a plate from the sideboard before P.J.’s fine steak turns cold.” Friendly laughter nudged the crowd around the table and in minutes plates were heaped full of hot rolls and sweet butter, mounds of basil and corn pasta, and P.J.’s juicy fillets and béarnaise sauce.
Po didn’t have a chance to talk to Max Elliott alone until the meal was almost over and empty plates began to stack up on the dining room table. Po walked toward the opposite end of the long room and opened the refrigerator. As she lifted the pies from the freezer, Max appeared at her side.
“Need help, Po?” He set his wine glass on the counter and took the pies from her hands.
“Thanks, Max. Just set those down on the counter.” Po pulled a stack of small plates from the counter. “It was nice of you to bring Billy and Janna, Max. I don’t think Janna knows many people.”
Max nodded. “And doesn’t make friends easily, as far as I can tell,” he said. “I was meeting with Bill about some company matters, and knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought them along.”
“Are you helping Bill with his political plans?” Po asked.
“Not so far. Though I’ll help him if I can. But I did legal and financial work for the realty company years ago, and Bill has asked me to help him out with a few things to get the company back on track.” Max picked up the knife and began slicing through layers of coffee ice cream, thick hot fudge, and a thin, crusty layer of crushed pralines. “Sinful, Po,” he moaned, lifting a wide slice and sliding it onto a plate.
“But good for the spirit every once in a while,” Po said. She placed a fork on each plate. “Max, I’ve been wanting to ask you about Picasso—have you spoken to him?”
Max took a drink of his wine, then shook his head.
Po saw the furrows on his brow deepen. He seemed to want to say something to her, but instead, he lifted his wine glass again and drained it.
“Max, what is it?”
Max picked up the tray of pie plates and looked at Po. “The truth is, I wanted to go over to Picasso’s as soon as I heard the news. I like Picasso very much. But frankly, Po, I’m not the right person to be with him right now. Make of that what you will.”
Before Po could question him further, he walked back to the other end of the room to a chorus of voices welcoming the ice cream pies. Po watched him as he handed out the plates of dessert, wondering what in the world could cause such uncharacteristic behavior in this gentle man she had come to respect and like very much. It wasn’t like Max at all. And she wondered briefly how many other relationships would become awkward because of the murder of a young woman none of them knew.
CHAPTER 9
Sunday night suppers usually ended early so everyone could get home in time to get ready for another week, and tonight’s was no exception. Max was the first to go, and Po regretted saying anything to him about Picasso. He seemed troubled when he left, and after a quick kiss on the cheek and thank you, was out the door without another word. The others followed soon after, though Eleanor lingered behind, helping Po put away the last of the dishes.
“Po, you’ve been distracted tonight. Out with it,” Eleanor
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