And upstairs, Anthony jumped from his seat, came to the bedroom window, then left just as quickly, and Mary climbed out of the car, hurried to his front stoop, and reached it just as he threw open his door. She didn’t say anything because she was crying, and Anthony scooped her up in his arms and took her inside.
Finally, out of the rain.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
T he morning sun shone through the window, making a lemony parallelogram on the comforter over Mary’s feet, warming them like a curled-up tabby cat. The house was quieter than in Center City, and the bedroom was larger. The walls were a darker blue than hers, the bedroom had a neater dresser, and the air smelled of better coffee.
The other side of the bed was empty, with only a messy white comforter, a thin pillow, and an excellent instant replay to remind her that she had slept with Anthony. She squirmed, happily nude under the covers, and checked the clock on the night table. It said 9:20, in numbers big enough to read without her contacts, which must have gotten lost in the melee.
“You’re up, huh?” Anthony appeared in the doorway, holding a mug in one hand and with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He was barefoot but dressed, wearing a pair of jeans, his white shirt partway open. His dark hair glistened wetly from a shower, and he came into the room, smiling. “I let you sleep. You needed it.”
“Thanks.” Mary pulled up the covers, self-conscious. She didn’t know if her body was ready for daylight, though she’d shown the good sense last night not to worry about it. Anthony came over, set the coffee on the night table and the paper on the bed, then propped himself on one hand while he leaned over to give her a soft kiss. Mary clamped her lips shut. “No, stop. Save yourself. You’ll die on contact with my breath.”
“Aw, come on.”
“Let me have the coffee, then let’s try again.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Anthony handed her the mug, and Mary accepted the coffee and took a quick swig, which tasted hot, sweet, and delicious.
“Okay, now.”
“Done.” Anthony leaned over again and gave her a softer, slower kiss that tasted of Colgate, and Mary felt herself respond as naturally as she had last night. He smiled and stroked her hair from her eyes. “Nice.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I like the way you kiss.”
“Kissing is fun.”
Anthony kissed her again. “I’m so glad you came over last night.”
“Me, too.”
“I have a craving for peppers and eggs. How about you?”
Mary smiled. “Is this a dream?”
Anthony smiled back. “You have time before work?”
“Work is Tuesday, so yes. Is that a newspaper?”
“Yes, and it’s good news.” Anthony opened the paper and handed it to her, headline first: A MOTHER’S JUSTICE, it read, and Mary held her breath until she turned the page and skimmed the article, which reported that Mrs. Gambone had allegedly confessed to killing the mobster who had abused her daughter for years.
“They’re with her.” Mary gathered that Bennie had leaked the story already, before she’d had a chance. “If public opinion goes with Mrs. Gambone, the D.A. will be more likely to give her the deal.”
“I’m sure, and who’s gonna object? Ritchie and his father? Is the Mob gonna stand up for law and order?”
“Good point, but he does have a family.” Mary skimmed the article again, but there were no quotes from Rosaria. “On the other hand, Mrs. Gambone will do time.”
“The punishment will fit the crime. It’s fair.”
“I guess that’s right.” Mary’s eye caught the sidebar. “The neighborhood will be behind her.”
“They already are. My mother called this morning.”
“What’d she say?”
“You can imagine, they’re with Mrs. Gambone. Hell hath no fury like an Italian mother, and she took down a Mob guy.” Anthony hesitated, and Mary saw doubt flicker across his features.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Anthony paused, eyeing her frankly. “There’s talk about you.”
“Oh no,” Mary said, her heart sinking. She set down the paper. “What now?”
“It’s gossip.”
“Tell me.”
Anthony shifted over on the bed, touching her arm with a warm hand. “Rumor is that you turned Mrs. Gambone in.”
“I would have, but so what? What’s the point?”
“That it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. You know, you snitched on somebody from the neighborhood.”
“All over again?” Mary gulped her coffee. “I can’t take these people. They’re impossible to please. They hate me when I lose Trish, they love me when I find her, they hate me again when I take her mother in.” Mary felt the caffeine kick in, making her angrier. “They’re unprincipled.”
“Right.”
“Emotional.”
“Exactly.”
“They don’t have all the facts.”
“Not in the least.”
“And they’re laymen, on top of it. They’re not lawyers. They don’t know.”
“Of course they don’t.” Anthony cocked his head, his smile sympathetic. “So why let them bother you?”
“Who said I’m letting them bother me?” Mary almost wailed, then heard herself. “Okay, I am, but I can’t help it.”
“Of course you can. Why can’t you just consider the source?”
“Because the source is my client base.”
Anthony scoffed. “That’s not what’s bothering you. You’ll always get business from the neighborhood and you know it. You’re our girl.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
“The problem, if I may say, is that you want them to love you. You want them to approve.”
It struck a chord. “Okay, I do. Guilty.”
Anthony eyed her, his brown eyes soft. “You need to stop being guilty, and you need to understand that it’s your opinion that matters and not theirs. Not anybody else’s. Not even mine.”
Mary listened, and Anthony’s tone was tender enough that she didn’t hit him.
“Are you proud of what you did, babe?”
Babe? Mary couldn’t let herself be distracted by any instant replays. “Yes.”
“You think you’re in the right?”
“Yes.”
“Then let it go, let it all go. Some people will agree, some will disagree, and the ones who stay with you are the ones who count.”
Mary considered it, and Anthony leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“For what it’s worth, I agree with you and I’m staying. If you’ll let me. Will you?”
Mary looked at him, touched. He was staying. And she was happy about it, she could feel it inside. She didn’t hesitate before she kissed him back. Slower.
And after another kiss, Anthony slid the coffee from her hand and set it on the night table.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
M ary and Anthony dropped by her parents’ for a quiet dinner, but the first clue that something was different was the music playing when they opened the front door. They got inside and stood mystified by the sight: octogenarians packed the living room, their gray heads and bald pates bobbing as they fox-trotted or stood in groups, talking, laughing, and drinking beer. Mary was astounded. It was getting crazier and crazier at her parents, and she suspected AARP was behind it.
“What’s going on here?” Mary asked, but no one even noticed they were inside. The dining room was full, too, even though it was usually reserved for Christmas, Easter, or another occasion when something really good had happened to Jesus Christ.
“Ma?” Anthony asked, and from the middle of the crowd, Elvira Rotunno turned around, brightening behind her glasses. She had on a pretty blue dress, worn without an apron, and held a green bottle of Rolling Rock beer.
“Ant! What’re you doin’ here?”
“Maria!” Mary’s mother emerged with open arms. “Maria, I was so worry.”
“Honey!” Mary’s father materialized at her mother’s side, dressed in his Sunday best. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Both parents threw their arms around her, and when they broke up their clinch, everyone had turned to watch, their smiles a sea of dentures. Mary spotted the Elmo-red comb-over of Tony-From-Down-The-Block, the Mr. Potatohead glasses of Tony Two Feet Pensiera, and the tiny, tanned head of Pigeon Tony. But she was surprised to see Bernice Foglia, hoisting a bottle of beer. In the background, Frank Sinatra launched into “Just in Time.”