collapsing half the structure, narrowly missing the security guard, and cursing out the owner, who helped extract him from his vehicle before it might burst into flames.
Preston in tow, the Nashes left California and returned to their roots, hoping that by dedicating a year to their son’s rehabilitation, they could restore him to a life of sobriety and self-sufficiency. Instead, he became the thing that lived in their basement apartment, sullen and reclusive, occupying himself with video games, smut, and drug-induced stupors. For weeks and even months at a time, Preston remained as elusive as the Phantom of the Opera—until one too many chemical cocktails gave him the screaming whimwhams so bad that he saw evil clowns climbing out of his toilet, or the equivalent.
Even in his silent and reclusive periods, Preston took a toll from his parents. Expectation of his next collapse was almost as emotionally draining as the event itself.
Estate managers usually were required to live on site, but no employer wanted the Nashes to bring along their pale and stubbled basement dweller. Instead of managing a major property and its staff, they were reduced to cleaning house and cooking for the Calvinos, a position they’d held for more than four years. Overqualified, they never acted as though the job might be beneath them; they worked hard and were cheerful, perhaps because work provided escape from worry.
When John entered the kitchen, Walter was plating salads at the center island. Five eight, trim, with steel-rod posture, he might have passed for a jockey if he had been a few inches shorter and ten pounds lighter. His small, strong hands and his economy of movement suggested he would be able to control half a ton of horseflesh with the subtlest pressure of a knee or the slightest tug of the reins.
“There’s no need to serve us dinner when we haven’t any guests,” John said. “You’ve had a long day.”
“You’ve had a long day, as well, Mr. C,” Walter said. “Besides, there’s nothing like some extra work to ensure against a sleepless night.”
“Well, don’t think you’re staying all the way through cleanup. The terrible trio can help Nicky and me. We’re nearly three-quarters through the year, and they haven’t yet broken twenty dishes. We don’t want to deny them every chance to exceed their personal best score.”
He drew a deep breath, savoring the aromas of onions, garlic, juniper berries, and well-cooked beef. “Ah, carbonata.”
Laying aside her ladle and setting the lid ajar on the stew pot, Imogene said, “You’re a regular bloodhound, Mr. C. No wonder you close so many cases.”
In youth, Imogene must have been a pocket Venus. Her features were still delicate and her skin as clear as morning light. In spite of her petite stature, she was not now—and likely never had been—fragile either in body or spirit. She had the air of one who could readily assume Atlas’s burden if he could not carry it any longer.
“But I don’t detect even a hint of polenta,” John worried.
“How could you smell polenta through such a cloud of stew? But it’s here, of course. We’d never serve carbonata without it.”
After another deep breath, he said, “ Piselli alle noci, ” which was an Italian dish of buttered peas and carrots garnished with walnut halves.
To her husband, Imogene said, “He’s got a better nose than you do, Wally.”
“Of course he does,” Walter agreed as he shaved fresh Parmesan on the salads. “After all those years of navy cooking, I’ve ruined mynose for nuance. Which reminds me, sir, leave the laundry-room door closed, we’ve got an ugly stink in there. I only discovered it ten minutes ago. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“What’s wrong?” John asked.
“I’m not sure. But my best guess is a sick rodent found a way into the dryer exhaust duct and met his fate just on the farther side of the lint trap.”
“Wally,” Imogene said with some
Preston in tow, the Nashes left California and returned to their roots, hoping that by dedicating a year to their son’s rehabilitation, they could restore him to a life of sobriety and self-sufficiency. Instead, he became the thing that lived in their basement apartment, sullen and reclusive, occupying himself with video games, smut, and drug-induced stupors. For weeks and even months at a time, Preston remained as elusive as the Phantom of the Opera—until one too many chemical cocktails gave him the screaming whimwhams so bad that he saw evil clowns climbing out of his toilet, or the equivalent.
Even in his silent and reclusive periods, Preston took a toll from his parents. Expectation of his next collapse was almost as emotionally draining as the event itself.
Estate managers usually were required to live on site, but no employer wanted the Nashes to bring along their pale and stubbled basement dweller. Instead of managing a major property and its staff, they were reduced to cleaning house and cooking for the Calvinos, a position they’d held for more than four years. Overqualified, they never acted as though the job might be beneath them; they worked hard and were cheerful, perhaps because work provided escape from worry.
When John entered the kitchen, Walter was plating salads at the center island. Five eight, trim, with steel-rod posture, he might have passed for a jockey if he had been a few inches shorter and ten pounds lighter. His small, strong hands and his economy of movement suggested he would be able to control half a ton of horseflesh with the subtlest pressure of a knee or the slightest tug of the reins.
“There’s no need to serve us dinner when we haven’t any guests,” John said. “You’ve had a long day.”
“You’ve had a long day, as well, Mr. C,” Walter said. “Besides, there’s nothing like some extra work to ensure against a sleepless night.”
“Well, don’t think you’re staying all the way through cleanup. The terrible trio can help Nicky and me. We’re nearly three-quarters through the year, and they haven’t yet broken twenty dishes. We don’t want to deny them every chance to exceed their personal best score.”
He drew a deep breath, savoring the aromas of onions, garlic, juniper berries, and well-cooked beef. “Ah, carbonata.”
Laying aside her ladle and setting the lid ajar on the stew pot, Imogene said, “You’re a regular bloodhound, Mr. C. No wonder you close so many cases.”
In youth, Imogene must have been a pocket Venus. Her features were still delicate and her skin as clear as morning light. In spite of her petite stature, she was not now—and likely never had been—fragile either in body or spirit. She had the air of one who could readily assume Atlas’s burden if he could not carry it any longer.
“But I don’t detect even a hint of polenta,” John worried.
“How could you smell polenta through such a cloud of stew? But it’s here, of course. We’d never serve carbonata without it.”
After another deep breath, he said, “ Piselli alle noci, ” which was an Italian dish of buttered peas and carrots garnished with walnut halves.
To her husband, Imogene said, “He’s got a better nose than you do, Wally.”
“Of course he does,” Walter agreed as he shaved fresh Parmesan on the salads. “After all those years of navy cooking, I’ve ruined mynose for nuance. Which reminds me, sir, leave the laundry-room door closed, we’ve got an ugly stink in there. I only discovered it ten minutes ago. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“What’s wrong?” John asked.
“I’m not sure. But my best guess is a sick rodent found a way into the dryer exhaust duct and met his fate just on the farther side of the lint trap.”
“Wally,” Imogene said with some
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