Read Online Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) by Lawrence Kelter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lawrence Kelter
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motion.
"Hello, Mrs. Chalice. A pleasure as always."
" Chal-e-say , " Ma cooed as she gently swayed her shoulders. "Don't you love the way Dr. Twain pronounces our name, Stephanie?"
Amen. "Ah, it's alright," I said, giving Twain a playful wink. I wondered if he had the same effect on Ma that he had on me—God, how could he not?
"Did my daughter invite you for dinner? I'm making spedini ."
"Yes, actually—she did. Thank you for the invitation. I don't think I've ever tried that before—what exactly is spedini ?
There was a note of apprehension in Twain's voice. Can you imagine him concerned over the taste of homemade Italian food? Him, a citizen of the country whose most notable culinary contributions to the world were haggis and shepherd's pie? Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable.
"I take the thinnest veal cutlets and roll them up with bread crumbs, butter, garlic, parsley, and Pecorino Romano." She kissed her fingertips. "You'll love it."
"I'm sure I will." He closed with a charming smile. "Is Ricky ready for our session?"
"I just heard the TV go off," Ma replied.
"Then I'll go straight to it." Twain squeezed past me in order to get to Ricky's room. He brushed up against my backside in the process. I'll be damned if it didn't feel like he was packing heat. "Pardon," Twain apologized. He looked a tad embarrassed as he hurried by. No complaints from me.
Twain knocked on Ricky's door and then entered, closing the door behind him.
"Madonna," Ma whispered. "May God forgive me, that man—"
"Ma.” I exaggerated my surprise.
"And that voice—ah."
My eyes widened.
She slapped herself playfully on the cheek. "It's like a romance novel come to life...and he makes house calls. It's like a visit from Sidney Poitier."
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Ma's analogy was a bit dated—nonetheless the message was loud and clear. I certainly knew what she was talking about. She had been spiritually dead since my dad's death. I was glad to see she was still alive, even if she needed God's forgiveness after every tiny transgression.
In the next instance, she was crossing herself, "God forgive me."
See what I mean?
"It's alright, Ma," I explained. "He's a handsome, sophisticated man—no one blames you for looking."
"It's blasphemous."
"Having a pulse is not blasphemy. How sad would it be if you spent the rest of your life ignoring works of art like that? It's not as if you jumped on top of him in the middle of Fifth Avenue. For God's sake, Ma, you're still á young woman. You've still got a few good years left."
"It's not right. I shouldn't have these thoughts."
"Live a little, Ma. Take a good hard look at his fanny and then go to church and say a dozen Hail Mary's. It won't kill you. We're Catholic, remember? We believe in the forgiveness of sin."
Ma glared at me and then turned and headed toward the kitchen. "No more, Stephanie. Your father, God rest his soul—"
"Was the most wonderful man that ever lived," I said, completing her sentence. "All the same, Ma, life should be lived to the fullest. None of us knows how much time we have." I wasn't advocating that she abandon decency and run naked through the streets fornicating with every available man she could get a hold of, but I had almost lost her a few months back. She's still a young woman and I don't want to see her spend the rest of her life denying herself of...well...everything.
"Help me get dinner ready," she said as she tied an apron around her waist. She was building to a frenzy, becoming absorbed in her work. "The spedini's ready to go into the oven—help me with the potatoes and the melanzana ." Her hand flew up to her mouth. She crossed herself again. "I didn't mean to say that."
I searched the counter. "All I see is cauliflower. Madonna, Ma, melanzana? You can't get him off of your mind." For those of you who don't know, melanzana is the Italian word for eggplant. It's also slang, a reference to a black person. It's akin to calling an Italian a
"Hello, Mrs. Chalice. A pleasure as always."
" Chal-e-say , " Ma cooed as she gently swayed her shoulders. "Don't you love the way Dr. Twain pronounces our name, Stephanie?"
Amen. "Ah, it's alright," I said, giving Twain a playful wink. I wondered if he had the same effect on Ma that he had on me—God, how could he not?
"Did my daughter invite you for dinner? I'm making spedini ."
"Yes, actually—she did. Thank you for the invitation. I don't think I've ever tried that before—what exactly is spedini ?
There was a note of apprehension in Twain's voice. Can you imagine him concerned over the taste of homemade Italian food? Him, a citizen of the country whose most notable culinary contributions to the world were haggis and shepherd's pie? Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable.
"I take the thinnest veal cutlets and roll them up with bread crumbs, butter, garlic, parsley, and Pecorino Romano." She kissed her fingertips. "You'll love it."
"I'm sure I will." He closed with a charming smile. "Is Ricky ready for our session?"
"I just heard the TV go off," Ma replied.
"Then I'll go straight to it." Twain squeezed past me in order to get to Ricky's room. He brushed up against my backside in the process. I'll be damned if it didn't feel like he was packing heat. "Pardon," Twain apologized. He looked a tad embarrassed as he hurried by. No complaints from me.
Twain knocked on Ricky's door and then entered, closing the door behind him.
"Madonna," Ma whispered. "May God forgive me, that man—"
"Ma.” I exaggerated my surprise.
"And that voice—ah."
My eyes widened.
She slapped herself playfully on the cheek. "It's like a romance novel come to life...and he makes house calls. It's like a visit from Sidney Poitier."
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Ma's analogy was a bit dated—nonetheless the message was loud and clear. I certainly knew what she was talking about. She had been spiritually dead since my dad's death. I was glad to see she was still alive, even if she needed God's forgiveness after every tiny transgression.
In the next instance, she was crossing herself, "God forgive me."
See what I mean?
"It's alright, Ma," I explained. "He's a handsome, sophisticated man—no one blames you for looking."
"It's blasphemous."
"Having a pulse is not blasphemy. How sad would it be if you spent the rest of your life ignoring works of art like that? It's not as if you jumped on top of him in the middle of Fifth Avenue. For God's sake, Ma, you're still á young woman. You've still got a few good years left."
"It's not right. I shouldn't have these thoughts."
"Live a little, Ma. Take a good hard look at his fanny and then go to church and say a dozen Hail Mary's. It won't kill you. We're Catholic, remember? We believe in the forgiveness of sin."
Ma glared at me and then turned and headed toward the kitchen. "No more, Stephanie. Your father, God rest his soul—"
"Was the most wonderful man that ever lived," I said, completing her sentence. "All the same, Ma, life should be lived to the fullest. None of us knows how much time we have." I wasn't advocating that she abandon decency and run naked through the streets fornicating with every available man she could get a hold of, but I had almost lost her a few months back. She's still a young woman and I don't want to see her spend the rest of her life denying herself of...well...everything.
"Help me get dinner ready," she said as she tied an apron around her waist. She was building to a frenzy, becoming absorbed in her work. "The spedini's ready to go into the oven—help me with the potatoes and the melanzana ." Her hand flew up to her mouth. She crossed herself again. "I didn't mean to say that."
I searched the counter. "All I see is cauliflower. Madonna, Ma, melanzana? You can't get him off of your mind." For those of you who don't know, melanzana is the Italian word for eggplant. It's also slang, a reference to a black person. It's akin to calling an Italian a
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