end.”
She opened her mouth. “Oh.”
“Oh, is right,” Press said with enthusiasm. “What a hit! And what a fine. If I remember correctly, it was a League-leading record at that time.” He seemed very ebullient, practically bouncing on the white soles of his beat-up boat shoes.
“Not one of my finer hours. How about we just drop it?” Vic said, his voice eerily soft.
Press closed his mouth and opened his eyes wide. “Sure, no problem.”
“A chicken cheesesteak, meatball with hot sauce, Arnold Palmer, another meatball with hot sauce and water,” Carlos shouted out.
“I’ll meet you guys outside with the orders,” Press offered. He clearly knew a way out when he saw one and lunged back to the counter.
“Shall we?” Vic offered, holding his hand out for her to lead the way.
She nodded, and she could sense the crowd part not so much for her as for the large set of shoulders sheltering her to one side.
They stepped out of the door. Mimi stretched out a tight-lipped smile. Vic made a similar face. She looked down where the sidewalk was heaving from the encroachment of a large tree root.
“So do you come back often?” “You live around here?” they asked at the same time.
“You first.” She nodded.
“No, you.” He held out his hand.
She smiled nervously. “No, I don’t get back much. But when I do it’s always great to get a hoagie first thing back. Kind of like Grantham’s version of madeleines, don’t you think?” She sounded pretentious, even to her ears, but here among the throng of people on the street she wasn’t relaxed. Not fearful, as she would have expected, but nervous—giddy nervous. Which was…well…unexpected.
Vic frowned.
“You know, Proust? How he smelled madeleines —the little French butter cookies—which evoked all the memories of his past?” She stared up at Vic. Why the hell was she talking about some nineteenth-century author, who truthfully, she’d never read more than a few pages of, when what she really wanted to ask him was, “So you do remember me? In a really bad way? Or maybe just a bad way?” Or maybe not at all.
Press forced himself through the doorway, leading with two large bags. “Here you go.” He peered in the bags and handed one to Vic. “Yours, I believe.” Then he slipped out a waxed paper covered hoagie for Mimi and a paper pouch of fries. “If you want ketchup for the French fries, I can muscle my way back in. Sorry, I forgot, but I’m happy to…” He cocked his head over his shoulder.
“No, I’m fine,” Vic said.
“Me, too. I don’t want anything to get in the way of the mounds of salt.”
Press stuffed the bag with his food under his arm. “Listen, you guys, I just got this text about meeting some friends. They’re free shortly. So, I don’t want to cut your personal reunion short, but I’d like to get a move on if possible.” He motioned with his car keys to where they’d parked across the street.
Mimi stood there, hugging her hoagie to her side. “I’ll need to get my wallet out to pay Vic.”
“No, don’t bother. It’ll be my treat,” Vic offered. “Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up,” he said to Press.
“Don’t worry about me, Press. I’ll find my own way home,” Mimi blurted out. “Whenever you get a chance, just leave my suitcase and stuff in the foyer. It’s not like there’s anything I need right away.”
“If you’re sure?” Press asked.
Mimi wasn’t sure of anything—especially where Vic Golinski was concerned. Why had she told her brother to take off without her? More to the point, why wasn’t she quite ready to say goodbye to Vic? Was it guilt for what she’d done the last time they’d crossed paths? Or maybe her hormones were sputtering to the fore after a long, bleak period? Or maybe she just needed to set the record straight before their next public showdown. Yes…that was it. She just needed to set the record straight—not that she intended to back down from her principles, but just to
She opened her mouth. “Oh.”
“Oh, is right,” Press said with enthusiasm. “What a hit! And what a fine. If I remember correctly, it was a League-leading record at that time.” He seemed very ebullient, practically bouncing on the white soles of his beat-up boat shoes.
“Not one of my finer hours. How about we just drop it?” Vic said, his voice eerily soft.
Press closed his mouth and opened his eyes wide. “Sure, no problem.”
“A chicken cheesesteak, meatball with hot sauce, Arnold Palmer, another meatball with hot sauce and water,” Carlos shouted out.
“I’ll meet you guys outside with the orders,” Press offered. He clearly knew a way out when he saw one and lunged back to the counter.
“Shall we?” Vic offered, holding his hand out for her to lead the way.
She nodded, and she could sense the crowd part not so much for her as for the large set of shoulders sheltering her to one side.
They stepped out of the door. Mimi stretched out a tight-lipped smile. Vic made a similar face. She looked down where the sidewalk was heaving from the encroachment of a large tree root.
“So do you come back often?” “You live around here?” they asked at the same time.
“You first.” She nodded.
“No, you.” He held out his hand.
She smiled nervously. “No, I don’t get back much. But when I do it’s always great to get a hoagie first thing back. Kind of like Grantham’s version of madeleines, don’t you think?” She sounded pretentious, even to her ears, but here among the throng of people on the street she wasn’t relaxed. Not fearful, as she would have expected, but nervous—giddy nervous. Which was…well…unexpected.
Vic frowned.
“You know, Proust? How he smelled madeleines —the little French butter cookies—which evoked all the memories of his past?” She stared up at Vic. Why the hell was she talking about some nineteenth-century author, who truthfully, she’d never read more than a few pages of, when what she really wanted to ask him was, “So you do remember me? In a really bad way? Or maybe just a bad way?” Or maybe not at all.
Press forced himself through the doorway, leading with two large bags. “Here you go.” He peered in the bags and handed one to Vic. “Yours, I believe.” Then he slipped out a waxed paper covered hoagie for Mimi and a paper pouch of fries. “If you want ketchup for the French fries, I can muscle my way back in. Sorry, I forgot, but I’m happy to…” He cocked his head over his shoulder.
“No, I’m fine,” Vic said.
“Me, too. I don’t want anything to get in the way of the mounds of salt.”
Press stuffed the bag with his food under his arm. “Listen, you guys, I just got this text about meeting some friends. They’re free shortly. So, I don’t want to cut your personal reunion short, but I’d like to get a move on if possible.” He motioned with his car keys to where they’d parked across the street.
Mimi stood there, hugging her hoagie to her side. “I’ll need to get my wallet out to pay Vic.”
“No, don’t bother. It’ll be my treat,” Vic offered. “Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up,” he said to Press.
“Don’t worry about me, Press. I’ll find my own way home,” Mimi blurted out. “Whenever you get a chance, just leave my suitcase and stuff in the foyer. It’s not like there’s anything I need right away.”
“If you’re sure?” Press asked.
Mimi wasn’t sure of anything—especially where Vic Golinski was concerned. Why had she told her brother to take off without her? More to the point, why wasn’t she quite ready to say goodbye to Vic? Was it guilt for what she’d done the last time they’d crossed paths? Or maybe her hormones were sputtering to the fore after a long, bleak period? Or maybe she just needed to set the record straight before their next public showdown. Yes…that was it. She just needed to set the record straight—not that she intended to back down from her principles, but just to
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