Blue Smoke (5 page)

He smiled again, and took a hand out of his pocket to take one of hers. “Not anymore.”

B
o Goodnight wasn't sure what he was doing in a strange house with a bunch of college types he didn't know. Still, a party was a party, and he'd let Brad rope him into it.

The music was okay, and there were plenty of girls. Tall ones, short ones, round ones, thin ones. It was like a smorgasbord of females.

Including the one Brad was currently crazy about, and the reason they were here.

She was a friend of a friend of one of the girls who lived in the house. And Bo liked her fine—in fact, he might have gone for her himself if Brad hadn't seen her first.

Rules of friendship meant he had to hang back there.

At least Brad had lost the toss and had to serve as designated driver.
Maybe neither of them should've been drinking as they were still shy of the legal age. But a party was a party, Bo thought again as he sipped his beer.

Besides, he was earning his own living, paying his own rent, cooking his own meals—such as they were. He was as much, hell more of an adult than a lot of the college boys knocking them back.

Considering his options, he scanned the room. He was a long, lanky boy of twenty with a wavy mop of black hair and eyes that were green and somewhat dreamy. His face was on the narrow side, like his build, but he thought he'd built up some pretty good biceps swinging a hammer and hauling lumber.

He felt a bit out of place with the snippets of conversation he made out—bitching about finals, comments about poli sci and female studies. College hadn't been for him. He'd never been happier than on the last day of high school. He'd been working summers up until then. First as a laborer, then an apprentice, and now, at twenty, he was a carpenter who made a decent wage.

He loved making things out of wood, and he was good at it. Maybe he was good at it because he loved it. He'd gotten his education on the job, with the smell of sawdust and sweat.

That's how he liked it.

And he made his own way. He didn't have Daddy paying the bills like most of the people here.

The kernel of resentment surprised him, even embarrassed him a little. Flicking it aside, he made a deliberate attempt to loosen his shoulders. And taking a long, slow sweep of the room, he homed in on a couple of girls huddled together on a couch, chattering at each other.

The redhead looked very promising and if not, the brunette was a strong backup.

He took a step toward them, and Brad blocked him. “Out of my way, I'm about to brighten a couple of female hearts.”

“Told you you'd have a good time. Listen, I'm about to have a better one. Cammie and I are heading out, to her place. And I believe it's not presumptuous to say, Score.”

Bo looked at his pal, noted the about-to-get-laid gleam behind the
lenses of Brad's glasses. “You're ditching me in a houseful of strangers so you can go get naked with a girl?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, that's reasonable. She kicks your ass out though, don't call me. Find your own way home.”

“Won't be a problem. She's just gone to get her purse, so—”

“Wait.” Bo's hand curled hard around Brad's arm as he saw the blonde—just a glimpse at first—through the crowd. A sexy tumble of wild curls the color of good, natural oak. She was laughing, and her skin—it looked like porcelain—was flushed along the high curve of her cheekbones.

He could see the shape of her lips and the little mole above them. It was as if his vision had sharpened, had telescoped, and he could see the details of her through the haze of smoke, the crowd of faces. Long eyes he thought were almost exactly the same shade of her hair, a long, slim nose. And that luscious curve of lips. Gold hoops at her ears. Two in the left, one in the right.

She was tall—maybe she was wearing heels, he couldn't see her feet. But he could see the chain around her neck holding some sort of stone or crystal, the outline of her breasts against a dark pink top.

For an instant, maybe two, the music stopped for him. The room went silent.

Then someone stepped into his line of vision and it all came roaring back.

“Who is that girl?”

“Which girl?” Absently Brad looked over his shoulder, then shrugged it. “Place is crawling with them. Hey, next time you take a side trip, take me along.”

“What?” Still dazzled, Bo looked down. He could barely remember his friend's name. “I gotta . . . here.” He pushed the beer into Brad's hand and started shoving his way through the crowd.

By the time he got to where she'd been, there was no sign of her. A kind of panic bubbled in his throat as he maneuvered his way into the kitchen, a dining room where people sat at, on and under the table.

“Did a girl come through here? Tall blonde, curly hair, pink shirt.”

“Nobody's come in but you.” A girl with a short wedge of black hair sent him a sultry smile. “But I can be blond.”

“Maybe some other time.”

He searched the house, all the way to the third floor, and all the way down again where he circled both the front and back yards.

He found blondes, he found curls. But he never found the one who'd made the music stop.

S
he was driving with her heart in her throat. She thought it was good that she was driving herself. It showed that she wasn't being swept along, that she was making a choice. She was in control of her actions, the consequences.

Making love the first time, every time, should be a choice.

She only wished she had thought ahead enough to have bought some sexy underwear.

Josh lived in an off-campus apartment, and his roommate was pulling an all-nighter with a study group. When he'd told her that—he'd been kissing her when he told her that—she'd been the one to say, Let's go there.

She was the one who'd made the move. And she was the one beginning a new phase of her life. But it didn't stop her hands from trembling a little.

She parked a few spaces down from where he pulled in, carefully turned off the engine, picked up her purse. She knew exactly what she was doing, she reminded herself, illustrating it by locking her car, placing her keys in the little inside pocket where she always kept them.

She smiled when she held her hand out to his. They crossed the lot, stepped through the front door of the building when another car pulled in. And parked.

“Place is a little messy,” Josh said as they started up the stairs to the second floor.

“At the moment, ours is about to be condemned by the health department.”

She waited until he'd unlocked the door, then stepped inside. He was right about the mess—clothes, shoes, an empty pizza box, books, magazines. The sofa looked like it had been salvaged from the dump, then haphazardly covered with a Terps blanket.

“Homey,” she said.

“Fairly disgusting, actually. I should've told you to give me ten minutes before coming up. I could've shoved stuff in closets.”

“It doesn't matter.” She turned and let herself go into his arms. He smelled like Irish Spring and tasted like cherry Life Savers. His hand skimmed over her hair, down her back.

“You want some music?”

She nodded. “Music's good.”

He ran his hands down her arms before he stepped back, walked over to a stereo. “I don't think we have any Mariah Carey.”

“Praise Jesus.” With a laugh, she pressed a hand to her racing heart. “I'm nervous. I've never done this before.”

His mouth opened and closed again as his eyes widened. “Never . . .”

“You're my first.”

“God.” He stared another moment, blue eyes serious. “Now I'm nervous. Are you sure about—?”

“I am. I really am.” She crossed to him, then looked down at the pile of CDs. “How about this?” She picked out Nine Inch Nails.

“Sin?”
He gave her that sweet smile. “Is this a Catholic girl thing coming out?”

“Maybe a little. Anyway, I like their cover of Queen's
Get Down, Make Love.
And, well, it seems appropriate.”

He put it in the changer, turned back just to look at her. “I've been hung up on you since the beginning of the semester.”

Warmth spread in her belly. “You didn't ask me out until after spring break.”

“Started to, dozens of times. I kept choking. And I thought you were with that guy, that psych major.”

“Kent?” At the moment, she couldn't even bring Kent's face into her
mind. “We went out a few times. Mostly we just study together now and then. I was never with him.”

“Now you're with me.”

“Now I'm with you.”

“If you change your mind—”

“I won't. I never do.” She laid her hands on his face, her lips on his lips. “I want this. I want you.”

He touched her hair, twining his fingers through the mass of it while he kissed her, long, slow. Bodies drew together, magnetized by lust.

Hers felt electric, and alive.

“We can go into the bedroom.”

This is it, she thought. Held her breath; let it go. “Okay.”

He held her hand. She wanted to remember that, remember every little detail. The way he smelled like Irish Spring and tasted like cherry Life Savers, and how his hair curtained over his temples when he dipped his head.

The room, his bedroom, with its messy twin bed—blue-striped sheets and a denim-colored spread, a single pillow that looked flat as a pancake. He had a bulky old metal desk, with a muscular computer and a jumble of books and floppies and papers. A corkboard with more notes, photographs, flyers.

The bottom drawer of his dresser—small enough to make her think it had been his through childhood—was open and crooked. There was a film of dust on it, more books, and a big clear jar half full of change. Mostly pennies.

He turned the lamp by the bed on low.

“Unless you'd rather have it off,” he said.

“No.” How could she see if it was dark? “Um. I don't have protection.”

“I've got that covered. I mean—” He actually flushed, then laughed. “I mean, it's not covered at the moment. But I have condoms.”

It was easier than she'd thought it would be. The way they turned to each other, into each other. The lips, the hands, the thrill that leapfrogged over nerves.

The kisses went deep and breath came quick as they sat on the bed. As they lay back. She had a moment to wish she'd thought to take her shoes off first—wouldn't it be awkward?—then there was so much heat and movement.

His mouth on her neck, his hands on her breast. Over her shirt, then under it. She'd been here before, but never with the knowledge that this was only the beginning.

His skin was so warm, so smooth, his body so slight it brought on a flood of tenderness. She'd imagined this, the rising excitement, the sensation of her skin sliding along another's, the sounds desire pushed out of her. Gasps and moans and hums of pleasure.

His eyes were so vivid and blue, his hair so silky. She loved the way he kissed her, wished he would simply kiss her forever.

When his hand moved between her legs, she tensed. This is where she'd always stopped in the past. This privacy she'd never allowed to be invaded. Then he stopped, this sweet boy, whose heart was hammering against hers, and pressed his lips to the side of her throat.

“It's okay, we can just—”

She took his hand, brought it back to her center, pressed. “Yes.” She said yes, then closed her eyes.

The shudder ran through her. Oh, this was new! This was beyond what she'd known before, or felt before, or understood. The body was a miracle and hers was quickening with heat and aches. She clutched at him, tried to find her balance. Then again, let it go.

He said her name, and she felt him shudder, too. Then his mouth was on her breast, all wet and hot, pulling racking sensations up from her belly. She reached for him, and he was so hard. Fascinated, she explored. When he sucked in his breath and reared up, she released him as if she'd been burned.

“I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No.” He gulped in another breath. “I, ah, I need to suit up.”

“Oh. Okay.” Everything in her was quivering, so she must be ready.

He got a condom out of the drawer by the bed. Her first instinct was
to look away, but she shook it off. He was going inside her, that part of him would be inside her. It was better to see, to know, to understand.

She braced, but when he'd put it on, he rolled back to her to kiss her once more. To kiss and stroke until the hard ball of nerves dissolved again.

“It's going to hurt a little. I think it's going to hurt for a minute. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.” It should hurt, a little, she thought. A change so big shouldn't come without some pain. Or else it didn't matter.

She felt him pushing at her, into her and struggled not to fight against it. He kept kissing her.

Soft on her lips, hard between her legs.

There was pain, a shock of it that took the dreamy edge off the moment. Then it eased into a kind of ache, and the ache—as he began to move inside her—into a confusing mix of excitement and discomfort.

Then he pressed his face into her hair, his slim, smooth body fused to hers. And it was only sweet.

It was strange moving back home for the summer, hauling her things from the dorm, knowing for the next three months she wouldn't have classes, or Gina moaning every morning when the alarm went off.

Still, once it was done, and she was back in her old room, it was as natural as breathing.

It wasn't the same. She was different now. She had taken several deliberate steps away from childhood. Maybe the girl who'd packed her things the previous summer was still inside her, but the one who'd come back knew more, had experienced more. And was ready, more ready than ever to see what was next.

Even the house had changed in her absence. She'd be sharing with Fran for the next few weeks. Bella needed her own room for all the wedding paraphernalia, and Fran, in her easygoing way, had turned over her own bedroom for the duration.

“Easier,” Fran said when Reena asked her. “Keeps the peace and it's only for a couple more weeks. She's all but moved into the house Vince's parents bought for them.”

“I can't believe they bought them a
house.
” Reena arranged tops in her second drawer the way she liked best. According to color.

The single thing she wouldn't miss about dorm life was the constant disorder.

“Well, they're rich. This is a great dress,” Fran added as she hung some of Reena's clothes in the closet. “Where'd you get it?”

“Hit the mall after finals. Shopping's a great stress reliever.” And she'd wanted some new things, for her new self. “It's sort of strange, Bella being the first of us to move out. I thought it would be you or me. She's always been the most needy.”

“Vince is giving her what she needs.” Fran turned, and though she knew her sister's face and form as intimately as her own, Reena was struck. In the streams of afternoon light, Fran looked like a painting. Gilded and gorgeous.

“I don't know him all that well, but he seems nice—steady. And God knows he's handsome.”

“Crazy about her. Treats her like a princess, which is what she's always wanted. Rich doesn't hurt either,” Fran added with a tiny smirk. “Once he finishes law school and passes the bar, he'll go straight onto the fast track at his father's firm. Rightfully so, from what I hear. He's brilliant. Mama and Dad like him a lot.”

“How about you?”

“I do. He's got style, which Bella likes, but he's easy around the family, and slips into the rhythm when we're here, or down at the shop.” Something wistful came into her face as she kept her hands busy unpacking Reena's things. “He looks at Bella like she's a work of art. I don't mean that in a bad way,” she added. “It's like he's stunned by his good fortune. Most of all, he rolls with her moods. Which are legion.”

“Then he has the seal of approval.” Reena walked over to the closet herself, drew out the mint green confection of a bridesmaid dress. “Could be uglier.”

“Sure.” Studying it, Fran leaned on the jamb, folded her arms. “She could've gone with the puce. We'll all look a bit sallow and silly next to her elegant radiance. Which is exactly the plan.”

With a grin, Reena let the dress fall back. “Better than the pumpkin orange with the million flounces and puff sleeves cousin Angela decked us out in last year.”

“Don't remind me. Even Bella's not that mean.”

“Let's make a pact. When our turns come around, we pick dresses for each other that don't make us look like homely runners-up.”

Fran put her arms around Reena, pressed cheek to cheek and swayed. “It's so good to have you home.”

S
he walked down to Sirico's at lunchtime, straight into the familiar scents and sounds.

They'd done more than clean up and repair after the fire. They'd kept traditions—the kitchen area open to the dining area, the bottles of Chianti serving as candleholders, the wide glass display holding the desserts still purchased from the Italian bakery every day.

But they'd made changes, too, as if to say they not only weren't leveled by adversity, but would use it to thrive.

The walls were a dusky Tuscan yellow now, and her mother had done dozens of new drawings. Not only of the family, but of the neighborhood itself, of Sirico's as it had been, as it was now. The booths were a defiant red, with the traditional red-and-white-checked cloths covering the tables.

New lighting kept the place cheerful even on gloomy days, or could be dimmed to add atmosphere for the private parties they'd begun booking over the last two years.

Her father was at the big work counter, ladling sauce on dough. There were touches of gray in his hair now that had started weaving in during those weeks after the fire. He also needed reading glasses, which annoyed the hell out of him. Especially if anyone told him they made him look distinguished.

Her mother was back at the stove, minding the sauces and pastas. Fran had already donned her bright red apron and was serving plates of lasagna that were today's lunch special.

On the way to the kitchen, Reena stopped by tables, greeted neighbors and regulars, laughed each time she was told she needed to
eat,
get some
meat
on her bones.

Gib was sliding one pizza into the oven, taking another out by the time she got to him.

“There's my girl.” He set the pie aside and gathered her in for a rib-crusher. He smelled of flour and sweat. “Fran said you were home, but we were swamped. Couldn't get away to come up.”

“Came by to pitch in. Bella in the back?”

“You just missed Bella. Wedding emergency.” He picked up the pizza cutter, divided the pie with quick, practiced strokes. “Something about rose petals. Or maybe it was bud vases.”

“Then you're short-handed. Who gets the sausage and green pepper?”

“Table six. Thanks, baby.”

She delivered the pizza, took two more orders. It was like she'd never been away, she thought.

Except she was different. There was not only a year of college under her belt, but everything she'd learned crowded in her head. Familiar faces, familiar smells, routines and movements that were automatic. Yet she was just a little more than she had been the last time she'd worked here.

She had a boyfriend. It was official now. She and Josh were a couple. A couple who slept together.

She liked sex, which was a relief to know. The first time had been sweet and adventurous, but she'd been so new at it, her mind and body scrambling to understand. She hadn't reached orgasm.

That
was something new and wonderful she'd discovered about the act, and herself, the second time they'd been together.

Now she could barely wait to be with him again, to learn the next new thing.

Not that sex was all they did together, she reminded herself as she grabbed the phone to take an order for delivery. They talked, often for hours. She loved listening to him talk about his writing, how he wanted to tell stories about small towns, like the one where he grew up in Ohio. Stories about people, and what they did to and for each other.

And he listened. He seemed equally interested when she told him that she wanted to study and train, to understand fire and why.

Now she didn't just have a date for Bella's wedding. She was bringing her boyfriend.

She was still grinning over the idea when she swung into the prep area for the first time. Her mother was taking vegetables out of one of the big, stainless steel refrigerators. Pete, now the father of three, stood at the prep counter cutting dough from holding bowls to weigh for pizza crust.

“Hey, college girl! Give us a smooch.”

Reena threw her arms around his neck, gave him a noisy kiss dead on the lips.

“When'd you get back?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. Walked in the door, they put me to work.”

“Slave drivers.”

“You don't get that dough weighed, I'm getting the whip. Now let go of my girl before I tell your wife.” Bianca threw open her arms. Reena went into them.

“How do you stay so beautiful?” Reena asked her.

“It's the steam in the kitchen. Keeps the pores clean. Oh, baby girl, let me look at you.”

“You saw me two weeks ago at Bella's Bridal Shower of the Century.”

“Two weeks, two days.” Bianca pulled back. Her smile faltered for a moment, and something came and went in her eyes.

“What? What?”

“Nothing.” But Bianca pressed a kiss to her brow, like a benediction. “I've got all my children home again. Pete, go switch with Catarina. She'll take over for you in here. We want to be girls.”

“More wedding talk. I'm already getting a headache.” Waving his hands, Pete scooted out.

“Am I in trouble?” Only half joking, Reena got a bottle of water out of the cooler. “Did the crack I made about the bridesmaid dress making me look like an anemic scallion get back to Bella?”

“No, and you'll look beautiful, even if the dress is . . . unfortunate.”

“Oooh, diplomacy.”

“Diplomacy is my last tool of survival in this wedding business. Otherwise, I'd have snapped Bella's neck like a twig by now.” She lifted a
hand, shook her head. “She can't help it. She's excited, terrified, wildly in love, and she wants Vince to be proud of her—all while impressing his parents, looking like a movie star and trying to furnish a big new house.”

“Sounds like she's in her element.”

“True enough. Your dad needs dough for two large and a medium,” she added, and watched as Reena competently cut and weighed. “You don't forget how.”

“I was born weighing dough.”

She put the extra dough back in the cooler, took out what her father needed. Then joined her mother at the work counter to pitch in with salad.

“Two house for table six. I'll take the Greek for station three. This wedding is the biggest dream of her life.” Bianca continued as they chopped. “I want her to have exactly what she wants. I want all my children to have exactly what they want.”

She loaded a tray, moved it to the pick-up area. “Order up,” she called out, then moved back to fill another.

“You've been with a boy.”

The water felt like a hard little ball when Reena managed to swallow. “What?”

“You think I can't look at you and see?” Bianca kept her voice low, gauging her husband's proximity and the noise element that would cover her words. “That I couldn't see with each of my children? You were the last.”

“Xander's been with a boy?”

To Reena's relief, Bianca laughed. “So far he prefers girls. Do I know the boy?”

“No. It just . . . We started seeing each other a while ago, and it just happened. Just last week. I wanted it to happen, Mama. I'm sorry if you're disappointed, but—”

“Did I say that? Did I ask you about your conscience, or your choice? You were careful?”

“Yes. Mama.” Reena put the knife down, turned to wrap her arms around her mother's waist. “We were careful. I like him so much. You will, too.”

“How do I know if I'll like him when you don't bring him home to meet your family? When you don't tell me anything about him.”

“He's a lit major. He's going to be a writer. He keeps a sloppy apartment and has the sweetest smile. His name is Josh Bolton, and he grew up in Ohio.”

“What about his family?”

“He doesn't talk much about them. His parents are divorced, and he's an only child.”

“He's not Catholic then?”

“I don't think so. I didn't ask. He's gentle, and he's very smart, and he listens when I talk.”

“All important things.” Bianca turned, took Reena's face in her hands. “You'll bring him to meet the family.”

“He's going to come to Bella's wedding.”

“Brave, too.” Bianca raised her eyebrows. “Well, if he lives through that, he may be worth keeping awhile.”

W
hen the lunch crowd thinned out, Reena sat—at her father's insistence—with an enormous plate of spaghetti. With Pete taking over for him, he started making the rounds. She'd seen him do it all her life, and knew her grandfather had done the same before him.

With a glass of wine, a bottle of water, a cup of coffee—depending on the time of day—he would go by each booth or table, have a word, sometimes a full conversation. If it was a regular, he would sometimes sit down for a few minutes. Talk ranged from sports, food, politics to neighborhood news, births, deaths. The subject didn't matter, she knew.

It was the intimacy.

Today it was water, and when he sat across from her he took a long pull. “It's good?” He nodded at her plate.

“The best.”

“Then put more of it in your stomach.”

“How's Mr. Alegrio's bursitis?”

“Acting up. He says it's going to rain. His grandson got a promotion, and his roses look good this year.” Gib grinned. “What did he have for his meal?”

“The special, with minestrone and the house salad, a glass of Peroni, a bottle of sparkling water, bread sticks and a cannoli.”

“You always remember. It's our loss you're taking those criminal justice courses, the chemistry, instead of restaurant management.”

“I'll always have time to help out here, Dad. Always.”

“I'm proud of you. Proud you know what you want and you're working for it.”

“Somebody raised me that way. How's the father of the bride?”

“I'm not thinking about it yet.” He shook his head, drank more water. “I'm not thinking about the moment when she comes toward me in her dress. When I walk her down the aisle and give her to Vince. Blubber like a baby if I do. It's easy to tuck that away while we're dealing with the insanity of preparing for that moment.”

He glanced over, smiled. “Somebody else must've heard you were home. Hey, John.”

“Gib.”

With a cry of pleasure, Reena scooted up, flung her arms around John Minger. “I missed you! Haven't seen you since Christmas. Sit down. Be right back.”