Table for Two (32 page)

"Is there a problem with that?"

She sent him a warning glance. "You know how I feel."

He put the tomato slices on the cheese and toast. "Cassie, life involves risks."

"I already took that risk. I don't want to get married. I'm sorry, but you came too late."

"I'm not asking you to marry me. Just move in with me." He placed the breakfast on the table and sat.

"It will be the same and I'll lose my freedom."

"I have no desire to take your freedom."

She looked at him. "Then why do you want me to move in?"

He scratched his chin, feeling awkward. "I like having you around."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said lightly.

He sighed. "Cassie."

"Drake," she said, mimicking his tone.

He took a bite of his food. "You drive me crazy."

She laughed. "That's been my plan from the beginning. "

"At least give it a chance."

"No. Now let's not argue, it's bad for digestion."

They both happily changed the subject and ate heartily. When they were through, Cassie volunteered to wash up. "Where do you keep new sponges?" she asked, throwing the old one away.

Drake motioned to the counter. "In the drawer."

She opened a drawer and saw a pile of snack bars. "What is this?"

"Breakfast. It's what I eat when I'm by myself."

She lifted one and frowned, disgusted. "That's terrible."

"It's healthy."

She turned it over and read the label. "Aren't you worried that you can't even pronounce any of the ingredients?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I haven't dropped dead yet."

She tossed the bar back in the drawer and shut it. "The operative word being
yet
."

"If you stayed with me, I'd promise to eat better. We could have breakfast like this every day."

She pointed the faucet hose at him. "The answer is still no."

He held up his hands, admitting defeat, then grabbed a dishrag.

* * *

When Cassie returned to her apartment, she was surprised not to hear the familiar creak of Mr. Gianolo's door as she placed her key in the lock. Her surprise immediately turned to worry. It was uncharacteristic for him not to make an appearance. Perhaps he was sick. He couldn't have traveled, because he always asked her to watch over his place when he did. She went inside and checked her answering machine to make sure he hadn't left a message. He hadn't.

Maybe he had gone out or was taking a nap, she reasoned. But none of her thoughts could quell a sense of uneasiness. She would have to make sure everything was fine. She knocked on his door; there was no reply. She used the spare key he had given her and entered the apartment. She was greeted by an eerie stillness followed by a violent stench that assaulted her nose. She pinched her nose and went to the kitchen, wondering if something was rotting in the garbage. It was clean. A large pot sat on the stove and the remains of chopped vegetables lay on the counter. "Mr. Gianolo?" she called. "It's me, Cassie."

She headed into the bedroom, and saw the bed in violent disarray. The sheets and bedspread had been tossed about as if the occupant had struggled to free himself. Then she saw the light trail of vomit. She covered her mouth and followed the ominous path to Mr. Gianolo's body lying on the bathroom floor. She didn't remember screaming, didn't remember calling out Mr. Gianolo's name, checking his pulse, or wiping his mouth. She vaguely remembered a neighbor calling 911, the sounds of the ambulance and the police. Even when everything seemed to be over, the nightmare continued.

* * *

He had been poisoned. Poisoned. The police said he had accidentally poisoned himself by cooking a bulb of chrysanthemums thinking it was an onion.

She stared at the traffic below her balcony, disgusted that horrible changes happened in life. The day was warm, but all she felt was cold. A cold that pierced her bones and nothing—not sweaters or tea—could soothe it. She buried herself in her jacket as the autumn wind blew past. It wasn't real. He would live, he couldn't die. He would be okay. He had to be.

She watched the wind rip the brown dried leaves off a skinny tree and push them down the sidewalk where people trampled on them. A death that no one noticed. She turned away and headed for the kitchen. Mr. Gianolo wouldn't be like that. He couldn't be. She called Drake to tell him what had happened. She planned on being matter-of-fact, on sounding hopeful. But when he answered, she burst into tears.

She was later bombarded with visitors. Glen was the first to appear and read her poetry. He lifted her spirits with Emily Dickinson's "Hope," but dashed them with Christina Rossetti's "Remember." Adriana bought her a new blouse and CD, and Kevin offered to take her to his cottage in Maine. When Timothy arrived, she grudgingly invited him in and allowed him to offer his sympathies. But in this stream of people her rock and strength came from Drake and as time passed she felt at peace.

Good news arrived on a crisp autumn morning as a pigeon cooed on her balcony railing. Mr. Gianolo's daughter called and told her he would live. Cassie visited him in the hospital until he was released to his daughter's care. He was tired, and their time together was brief, but she was glad to know he would be okay.

She was so happy that the sight of three yellow roses that met her on the doorstep at first didn't bother her. They had the loveliness of velvet sunshine and a sweet fragrance, but slowly the sight of them filled her with trepidation. A shiver of fear swept through her. They didn't represent a man in love, but a man determined to reclaim a possession he had lost. She refused to let them frighten her. She tossed them in the trash bin as she had all the others.

* * *

Drake shifted awkwardly in front of 712, wondering what had urged him to visit a sick man. Atonement, maybe, for the times his father had lain sick in his bed and he'd avoided his room? He didn't belong here. Why would Mr. Gianolo want to see him anyway? He turned to go. The door opened and a woman around his age appeared with a knowing grin. "My father said you were standing out here. Come in."

"I brought soup." He held out the bowl, feeling uncomfortable.

"Thank you. He's in the bedroom waiting for you."

"Hmm." He walked to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Mr. Gianolo looked small and weak surrounded by huge pillows and layers of blankets. Fortunately, the smell of death didn't linger in the air. He would be okay.

"Good to see you," Mr. Gianolo said, his voice still strong.

"Same."

"Sit down."

Drake closed the door behind him and sat in a chair, placed near the corner. He glanced at the TV. "Good game?"

"Horrible. An old woman could play better."

"I brought you soup. I... gave it to your daughter."

"From the Blue Mango?"

"Of course."

"Thanks." Mr. Gianolo ran a restless hand across the bedsheet. "I didn't do it," he said urgently. "I didn't poison myself. I would remember."

"It was an accident."

He clenched his hand, grasping the bedsheet. "I don't make accidents like that."

"What do you think happened?"

He leaned forward. "I made one of them angry. One of Cassie's playboys and poets."

It sounded far-fetched, but Drake decided to listen. "Which one?"

"He's black, tall, with dark hair."

He frowned. "Hell, you just described me."

"Except for the gray."

"There's nothing that sticks out?"

"I think I'd know his footsteps." Mr. Gianolo rested his head back and sighed, looking suddenly worn. "I can't seem to focus somehow and I know I'm not good with descriptions, but I know he's not right."

"How do you think he did it?"

"I get my soups from Mrs. Hill next door. She leaves some in the hall for me. He could have put something in it. I know a chrysanthemum from an onion. I didn't do it."

"Hmm."

"You don't believe me. Nobody does and now they want to put me away like some useless old man." His voice crumbled and tears swam in the pale blue eyes.

Drake expected to be embarrassed by the tears, remembering the many times he'd turned away from his father's. But strangely all he wanted to do was comfort him. He dragged his chair closer and lowered his voice. "Maybe I could convince your daughter to get a caretaker."

His mouth became a straight line. "I don't need anyone."

"Just for a while," he urged. "Until you prove your independence. We always end up proving ourselves somehow in this world."

Mr. Gianolo shook his head. "A caretaker costs money."

Drake hesitated, wanting to phrase the offer in a manner that didn't sound like charity. Every man had his pride. "Taking care of Cassie is a lot of work. You've done a good job looking out for her and being a friend. Cassie is special to me and it's only fair I take care of those special to her."

He turned away. "It's too much money. I couldn't let you."

For a moment the room was quiet but for the sound of a crowd cheering on TV, the curtains swaying from the breeze blowing through a vent Drake absently reached for his cigarettes, then clasped his hands together. "When my dad died, I hated him," he said suddenly. "I thought it was because I believed him weak, believed that he had given up and left us. But that wasn't why." He took a deep breath. "It was because I couldn't do anything for him— there's a feeling of helplessness that can torture a man's soul. I know how you feel—the weakness, the lack of hope—but it doesn't have to be so. Think of it as a contract. You continue to look out for Cassie and I look out for you."

Mr. Gianolo kept his head turned, but reached out and seized Drake's hand in a surprisingly strong grip. "It's rare that people make an old man feel useful," he said in a rough voice. He looked at him. "You're a good son. Your father understood."

Drake tried to ease the tightening of his throat. "Hmm."

Both men were relieved when the door opened, easing the strain of emotions hanging in the air.

"Mr. Gianolo, how are you?" Cassie asked, entering the room. She halted when she saw Drake. "Isn't this a surprise?"

Mr. Gianolo grinned, his face a lot more animated than when Drake first entered. "My friend's visiting me."

"I see that." She put her gift near the window.

Mr. Gianolo pulled Drake's collar and whispered in his ear, "So have you asked her?"

"What?"

"The big question."

"No, I—"

He released his grip and sat back. "You're going to have to. She's no longer safe in this place."

"But I—"

Mr. Gianolo patted the bedsheets, in no mood to debate the issue. "Sit down, Cassie, Drake's got a proposal to give you."

She narrowed her eyes suspicious. "It's not—"

Drake nodded, resigned. Now was the time to ask the question he'd waited months to utter. "Yes, it is. Will you marry me?"

Chapter 13

"You asked her to marry you?" Eric asked as they walked to Drake's office the next day. "What did she say?"

"She said she would think about it," Drake said.

Eric cringed. "It's better than no."

His jaw tightened. "You try it sometime."

They entered his office and sat.

Drake's assistant peeked his head inside. "Hey, did you two pass her in the hallway?"

"Who?" Drake asked absently as he sorted through his messages.

"She said her name was Cassie."

His head shot up. He turned to Eric, then back to his assistant. He rose to his feet and came from behind the desk. "Did she leave a message? Did she say what she wanted? How long ago did she leave?"

"She didn't leave a message, but she did give me this." He handed Drake a large paper bag.

"Looks like the booby prize," Eric muttered.

His assistant held up his hands. "I'm just the delivery boy," he said and closed the door.

Drake set the large paper bag on his desk and stared at it.

"You have to open it at some point," Eric said.

He pushed it aside. "No, I don't."

Eric reached forward. "Then I will."

Drake snatched the bag away. "You won't either."

"You can't just stare at it," he argued, pushing up his glasses. "We already know what the answer is, why deny it?"

Drake scowled at the bag, then opened it. Inside he found a thermos marked
hot chocolate
, a can of whipped cream, and various containers: an omelet, a fruit salad, and a bagel: she had made him breakfast.

He stared at the containers of food with a mixture of emotions engulfing him: fear, pleasure, astonishment, and something he couldn't yet analyze. She had cooked him breakfast—no one except his mother and brother had ever cooked for him before. This gift meant more to him than any gold cufflinks or silk ties others had given him. To a man who in the past had to do without breakfast and lunch most of his life, it was almost sacrilege to eat it. He ran his hand over the containers as if they were sacred artifacts.

"She made you breakfast," Eric said in awe.

His voice sounded far away. "I know."

Eric picked up the fork. "Can I have a taste?"