24. Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Four
Donna
A couple of weeks later, I pull into Lorenzo’s driveway with Mocha in the passenger seat and a folder of notes on the seat behind us.
I came here to talk about the case.
That is what I remind myself as I grab the folder and climb out of the car.
There have been a few developments over the past several days, enough that I want to go through them with Lorenzo in person instead of over the phone. I have names, dates, a couple of connections I am still trying to sort through, and one lead I think may actually take me somewhere.
Work.
Very straightforward.
Mocha hops out after me and waits while I shut the door.
“You’re here to work too,” I tell him.
He looks toward the house.
“Try to remember that.”
He does not appear particularly concerned.
I walk up the steps and barely get my hand raised before the front door opens.
Lorenzo stands on the other side in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
My carefully assembled professional mindset suffers an immediate setback.
His gaze drops to the folder tucked beneath my arm, then returns to my face.
“Donatella.”
“Conti.”
He steps forward, puts one hand against my waist, and kisses me.
His mouth brushes mine in greeting, warm and familiar, before he takes the folder from beneath my arm with one hand.
“Dinner is ready.”
I blink.
“Hello to you too.”
“I kissed you.”
“That apparently counts as hello now?”
“I believe so, yes,” he says, amused.
He steps back to let me inside.
Mocha moves past him without waiting for an invitation.
“Were you standing there waiting for me?”
“I saw your car.”
“That makes it a little less creepy.”
“Dinner is ready,” he says, ignoring me.
I stop, eyebrow lifted. “Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“I came over to talk about the investigation.”
“Are they mutually exclusive events?”
Now it's my turn to ignore him. “What are we having?”
“Chicken piccata.”
I look at him.
“With extra capers,” he adds.
My favorite. He knows it's my favorite.
His lips curve slightly. “You like capers.”
“I know I like capers.”
“Then I fail to see the problem.”
“There isn’t one.”
And there really isn’t.
I don't really know why I'm annoyed.
I follow him farther into the house while Mocha disappears ahead of us without bothering to check where I am.
He disappears through the open doorway into the family room. By the time I reach it, he has crossed to the far side of the room and is turning two slow circles on a large dog bed tucked near one of the chairs.
Then he lies down.
I barely register it at first.
Then I stop.
Mocha settles his chin on his paws.
I look at the bed.
Then at him.
Then around the room.
I have seen the bed before. And the water bowl beside it.
I remember Mocha sleeping on it the last time we were here. And the time before that. And I don't know how many other times before that.
It's a big, thick, oversized dog bed. More than large enough for a German Shepherd to stretch out on.
I just never really thought about why there is a dog bed in Lorenzo Conti’s house when Lorenzo does not own a dog.
Mocha lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, apparently not the least bit concerned.
He does not sniff around first.
He does not check the room.
He does not look back to make sure I am staying.
He walks in here and goes to bed.
Like he lives here.
That bothers me.
I am not sure why.
Lorenzo keeps walking toward the dining room.
I follow.
The table is set for two.
There is a bottle of sparkling water sitting on the table.
My brand of sparkling water.
I sit and look at it for a second.
Lorenzo takes the chair across from me and sets my folder beside him.
“I need that,” I say.
“You can have it after we eat.”
“I can eat and read at the same time.”
“I'm sure you're quite capable of it.”
“Then give it back.”
“No.”
I look at him.
He starts serving dinner.
I decide I am too hungry to argue over a folder.
A woman who works in the house, Marie, comes in long enough to set down a basket of warm bread.
“Thank you, Marie,” I say.
“You’re welcome, Miss Costa.”
She turns to leave, then pauses.
“Would you prefer a Coke, or are you all right with the sparkling water?”
I glance at the bottle in front of me.
“This is fine. Thanks.”
She leaves.
I stare after her for a second.
Then I look at Lorenzo.
“What?”
“She asked if I would prefer a Coke.”
“I heard,” he says, still a little amused at me. “You sometimes drink them, don't you?”
“Yes, I guess I do,” I say.
But what bothers me is that she knows that. That she also knows what brand of sparkling water I prefer.
I pick up my fork.
The chicken is good.
I take another bite.
Extra capers, which is how I like to eat it.
I reach for the bread and notice there is olive oil on the table.
I prefer olive oil over butter.
I look toward the kitchen.
There are crackers in one of those cabinets that I like. I know because I ate half a box of them here three nights ago. There's also a box of the brand of treats I buy for Mocha in another cabinet.
When I stayed over. At his house.
I pause with the bread in my hand.
Lorenzo looks up from his plate.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I tear off a piece.
It is not nothing.
I just do not know what it is.
A couple of weeks ago, Lorenzo was spending most of his time at my place.
Then his sons went home, and somewhere along the way, I started coming here more often.
At first it was dinner.
Then I stayed over.
Then I stayed over again.
Then I started keeping a toothbrush in the bathroom because carrying one back and forth was stupid.
I have clothes upstairs too.
Only a few things.
Because, again, carrying them back and forth was stupid.
There is shampoo in his shower that he definitely does not use.
My face wash sits beside his sink.
I have a preferred coffee cup in the morning, and his staff apparently know my preferred drinks and snacks.
And my dog has a bed. Two, actually, because there's one in his bedroom, now that I think about it.
I glance toward the other room.
Mocha is still asleep, quite comfortably.
I look back down at my plate.
This has all happened without me deciding it was happening.
That is what irritates me.
Maybe.
I am still not entirely sure.
Lorenzo reaches for the bread.
“You are very quiet.”
“I’m eating.”
“You usually manage both.”
“I’m talented.”
“That you are.”
I point my fork at him. “Don't start.”
His eyebrows rise. “Start what?”
“I don't know.”
“All right.”
And then he keeps eating.
Which is somehow irritating too.
I take another bite of chicken.
I came here to discuss the case.
Instead, I am sitting at his dining table eating my favorite meal while my dog naps in his designated spot in the next room.
Lorenzo slides the bread basket closer to me.
I take a piece mostly because refusing it would turn this into a conversation, and I do not want a conversation.
Especially because I have no idea what I would say.
There is nothing to accuse him of.
He did not ask me to leave things here.
He did not tell me I should come over more often.
He did not make some big announcement about us.
He just made room.
And somewhere along the way, I started using it.
I drink my water.
Lorenzo looks at me again.
“What?”
“You are still staring at the bottle.”
“I am thinking.”
“About water?”
“No.”
He waits.
I hate when he does that.
“What?” I ask.
“I did not say anything.”
“I know.”
He sets his fork down and looks at me. “Is there something the matter? Is it not to your liking?”
“It's fine,” I say. “It's delicious.”
“Then something else.”
“No, nothing else,” I say, feeling a little stupid. He hasn't done anything wrong. Picking a fight with him now would be petty and mean.
But I still really want to.
I shrug my shoulders to relieve the itch between my shoulder blades.
“All right.”
He goes back to his dinner.
I look at him for several seconds.
Then toward the family room.
Mocha has rolled onto his side now, one back leg stretched out over the edge of the bed.
“When did Mocha get a bed here?”
Lorenzo glances toward the other room.
“I don't remember. A few days, I suppose.”
I have apparently been looking at it for days without really seeing it.
“Does that bother you?” he asks.
“I don't know.”
“All right.”
I frown. “All right?”
“You don't seem to want to elaborate,” he says.
I stare at him.
He takes another bite of chicken.
I almost laugh despite myself.
Instead, I shake my head and reach for my water again.
“I think my dog thinks he lives here now.”
“He has good taste.”
I narrow my eyes. “You're being smug.”
“I am simply eating dinner.”
“Smugly.”
He smiles then.
I point my fork at him.
“That.”
His smile only gets wider.
I take another bite before I say something stupid.
The irritation is still there, but it is softer now, mixed up with something I would rather leave alone.
Because I know what all these little things mean.
Maybe that is why they are bothering me.
The dog bed.
The drinks.
The snacks.
The toothbrush upstairs.
The fact that I walked through his front door without feeling like a guest.
None of it happened all at once.
It just happened.
And apparently, I was fine with it until I noticed.
***
After dinner, we move into the family room with coffee and dessert.
Mocha has not moved from his bed except to lift his head when we come in. He watches Lorenzo set a tray on the low table in front of the sofa, apparently decides there is nothing for him, and puts his head back down.
The fire is already burning.
I sit at one end of the sofa with my coffee while Lorenzo takes the other. There are two small plates on the table between us, but I barely look at mine.
My folder is finally back in my possession.
I set my coffee down and open it.
“All right,” I say. “Now we can work.”
Lorenzo settles back against the sofa.
“I was beginning to think you had forgotten why you came.”
“I was being held hostage by chicken.”
“You ate quite willingly.”
“Under protest.”
“You had seconds.”
I ignore that and pull out the first group of papers.
“I went back through everything connected to Rachel. It took a while. She isn’t very organized.”
His expression changes immediately.
The easy amusement disappears.
“What did you find?”