Cruel and Unusual - Cornwell Patricia (книги онлайн полные версии .txt) 📗

“I don't believe it. You broke down and got a tree? Bet it's an ugly little sucker.”

“The envy of the neighborhood, thank you very much,” I said.”

Wish your friend a Merry Christmas for me.”

7

I woke up the next morning to church bells chiming and draperies glowing with the sun. Though I'd had very little to drink the night before, I felt hung over. Lingering in bed, I fell back to sleep and saw Mark in my dreams.

When I finally got up, the kitchen was fragrant with vanilla and oranges. Lucy was grinding coffee beans.

“You're going to spoil me, and then what will I do? Merry Christmas.”

I kissed the top of her head, noticing an unusual bag of cereal on the counter. “What's this?”

“Cheshire muesli. A special treat. I brought my own supply. It's best with plain yogurt if you've got it, which you don't. So we'll have to settle for skim milk and bananas. Plus, we have fresh orange juice and decaffeinated French vanilla coffee. I guess we should call Mom and Grans.”

While I dialed my mother's number from the kitchen, Lucy went into my study to use that extension. My sister was already at my mother's, and soon the four of us were on the line, my mother complaining at great length about the weather. It was storming fiercely in Miami, she said. Torrential rains accompanied by punishing winds had begun late Christmas Eve, the morning celebrated by a grand illumination of lightning.

“You shouldn't be on the phone during an electrical storm,” I said to them. “We'll call back later.”

“You're so paranoid, Kay,” Dorothy chided. “You look at everything in terms of how it might kill somebody.”

“Lucy, tell me about your presents,” my mother interjected.

“Grans, we haven't opened them yet.”

“Wow. That was really close,” Dorothy exclaimed above crackling static. “The lights just flickered.”

“Mom, I hope you don't have a file open on your computer,” Lucy said. “Because if you do, you probably just lost whatever you were working on.”

“Dorothy, did you remember to bring butter?” my mother asked.

“Damn. I knew there was something…”

“I must have reminded you three times last night.”

“I've told you I can't remember things when you call me while I'm writing, Mother.”

“Can you imagine? Christmas Eve and would you go to mass with me? No. You stay home working on that book and then forget to bring the butter.”

“Well go out and get some.”

“And just what do you think will be open on Christmas morning?”

“Something will be.”

I looked up as Lucy walked into the kitchen.

“I don't believe it,” she whispered to me as my mother and sister continued to argue with each other.

After I hung up, Lucy and I went into my living room, where we were returned to a quiet winter morning in Virginia, bare trees still and patches of snow pristine in the shade. I did not think I could ever live in Miami again. The change of seasons was like the phases of the moon, a force that pulled me and shifted my point of view. I needed the full with the new and the nuances in between, days to be short and cold in order to appreciate spring mornings.

Lucy's present from her grandmother was a check for fifty dollars. Dorothy gave money as well, and I felt rather ashamed when Lucy opened the envelope from me and added my check to the others.

“Money seems so impersonal,” I apologized.

“It's not impersonal to me because it's what I want. You just bought another meg of memory for my computer.”

She handed me a small, heavy gift wrapped in red-and-silver paper, and could not suppress her joy when she saw the look on my face as I opened the box and parted layers of tissue paper.

“I thought you could keep your court schedule in it,” she said. “It matches your motorcycle jacket.”

“Lucy, it's gorgeous.”

I touched the black lambskin binding of the appointment book and smoothed open its creamy pages. I thought of the Sunday she had come to town, of how late she had stayed out when I'd let her take my car to the club. I bet the sneak had gone shopping.

“And this other present here is just refills for the address section and the next calendar year.”

She set a smaller gift in my lap as the telephone rang.

Marino wished me a Merry Christmas and said he wanted to drop by with my present.”

“Tell Lucy she'd better dress warmly and not to wear anything tight,” he said irritably.

“What are you talking about?”

I puzzled.

“No tight jeans or she won't be able to get cartridges in and out of her pockets. You said she wanted to learn how to shoot. Lesson one is this morning before lunch. If she misses class, it's her damn problem. What time are we eating?”

“Between one-thirty and two. I thought you were tied up”

“Yeah, well, I untied myself. I'll be over in about twenty minutes. Tell the brat it's cold as hell outside. You want to come with us?”

“Not this time. I'll stay here and cook.”

Marino's disposition was no more pleasant when he arrived at my door, and he made a great production of checking my spare revolver, a Ruger.38 with rubber grips. Depressing the thumb latch, he pushed open the cylinder and slowly spun it around, peering into each chamber. He pulled back the hammer, looked down the barrel, and then tried the trigger. While Lucy watched him in curious silence, he pontificated on the residue buildup left by the solvent I used and informed me that my Ruger probably had “spurs” that needed filing. Then he drove Lucy away in his Ford.

When they returned several hours later, their faces were rosy from the cold and Lucy proudly sported a blood blister on her trigger finger.

“How did she do?”

I asked, drying my hands on my apron.

“Not bad,” Marino said, looking past me. “I smell fried chicken.”

“No, you don't.”

I took their coats. “You smell cotoletta di tacchino alla bolognese.”

“I did better than 'not bad,'“ Lucy said. “I only missed the target twice.”

“Just keep dry firing until you stop slapping the trigger. Remember, crawl the hammer back.”

“I've got more soot on me than Santa after he's come down the chimney,” Lucy said cheerfully. “I'm going to take a shower.”

In the kitchen I poured coffee as Marino inspected a counter crowded with Marsala, fresh-grated Parmesan, prosciutto, white truffles, sauteed turkey fillets, and other assorted ingredients that were going into our meal. We went into the living room, where the fire was blazing.

“What you did was very kind,” I said. “I appreciate it more than you'll ever know.”

“One lesson's not enough. Maybe I can work with her a couple more times before she goes back to Florida.”

“Thank you, Marino. I hope you didn't go to a lot of bother and sacrifice to change your plans.”

“It was no big deal,” he said curtly.

“Apparently, you decided against dinner at the Sheraton,” I probed. “Your friend could have joined us.”

“Something came up.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Tanda.”

“That's an interesting name.”

Marino's face was turning crimson.

“What's Tanda like?”

I asked.

“You want to know the truth, she ain't worth talking about.”

Abruptly, he got up and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

I'd always been careful not to quiz Marino about his personal life unless he invited me to do so. But I could not resist this time.

“How did you and Tanda meet?”

I asked when he returned.

“The FOP dance.”

“I think it's terrific that you're getting out and meeting new people.”

“It sucks, if you really want to know. I haven't dated nobody in more than thirty years. It's like Rip Van Wrinkle waking up in another century. Women are different from what they used to be.”

“How so?”

I tried not to smile. Clearly, Marino did not think any of this was amusing.