Chapter 3
Dante spotted her. Head down, Mallory sat on the filthy sidewalk with her feet in the gutter. Her business suit must be getting ruined, but she clearly didn’t care. It broke Dante’s heart to see her like this.
Pulling up beside her, he leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. He thought about parking and coming to escort her to the car like a gentleman, but he figured she’d just want to get out of there as soon as possible.
She looked up. Her makeup had run, and her eyes were red and puffy. Shit. They left her crying on the sidewalk. How humiliating!
Stoop-shouldered, she rose slowly and dropped into the bucket seat of his Camaro.
“Jesus, Mallory. What happened?”
She sighed. “You can probably guess…”
“Not really. Did it have something to do with seeing someone who wasn’t there?”
“I could have sworn he was real,” she said softly. “He even told me his name and that the little boy I was photographing was his son. Cute little kid. Until his mother freaked out, and then her son started crying too.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “Of course, it didn’t help that I thought I was talking to the boy’s grandfather. I guess some guys go prematurely gray.”
“Or the woman may have married a much older man.”
“True. Men don’t shoot blanks until they’re, what…fifty or sixty?”
Dante covered a smile by looking the other way as he pulled into the street, merging with traffic. “Where would you like to go?”
She shrugged. “Home, I guess.”
“It’s almost lunch time. Why don’t we get some takeout on the way? I don’t imagine you feel much like cooking.”
“You got that right.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“I don’t know. Strychnine? Arsenic?”
“Hey.” He reached over and rubbed the back of her neck. “Don’t talk like that. We’ll figure out what’s going on and fix this.”
“How? And why would you want to? I’m a total train wreck.”
“Oh, man… Let’s put off that conversation for a minute.” Dante speed-dialed his favorite pizza place. “Yeah, I’d like to order a large pizza. My lady friend will tell you what toppings to put on it.”
Mallory sighed. “Just veggies on half and whatever my man friend wants on the other half.” She gave him a weak smile.
“Pepperoni,” he said. “I’ll pick it up in a few minutes. It’s for Dante Fierro.”
As usual, the traffic took care of any wait time needed to make a fresh pizza.
He picked it up while Mallory stayed in the car.
He was glad she didn’t offer to pay for it.
He’d like to think of this as their first date.
Yeah, what a pathetic date. Hopefully, there would be others, and he could make those special.
He followed her directions and pulled into a short driveway in front of her two-story white vinyl-sided town house.
Nice but boring. The large development made him think of how easy it would be to walk into the wrong place after a few beers—provided anyone left their doors unlocked.
Nobody in South Boston would, of course.
A few steps led up to the front door. A far cry from the beautiful brownstone town house he’d grown up in.
He didn’t know where Mallory had lived in high school.
Her father was in real estate, but she could have been raised in a high-rise condo or low-rent apartment for all he knew.
There was a lot he didn’t know about Mallory Summers. He was anxious to learn more.
She led him up a short flight of carpeted stairs and into an open-concept kitchen, living, and dining room. He thought the house style was called a split-level.
“It’s basic, but it’s home, thanks to my father. It’s his development.”
“Nice. Do you own it?”
“Sort of.”
Carrying the pizza, he glanced around, taking in the neutral palette and the tasteful decor. She must have kept the place clean and decluttered, since she didn’t know he was coming over. That, or it was brand new. The place was pristine.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Not long at all. I still have a few things in boxes in the storage space downstairs.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Noah and I have lived in our apartment for two years, and we still have stuff in boxes.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she said, smiling. She seemed to be kidding. That was a good sign.
“Do you want this in the kitchen?” he said, lifting the pizza box.
“Just put it on the dining table. I’ll get some plates.” She paused on her way to the cabinets. “Wine?”
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Oh, I don’t think you want an entire bottle, since that’s what I’ll be having.”
He chuckled. Even with her life falling apart, she was able to maintain a sense of humor. At least he hoped that was an attempt at humor. “Yeah. A glass will do, since I’m driving, and I have to work tonight.”
“Oh. Am I keeping you from getting ready for work?”
“I’m as ready as I get. We have lockers, and I always keep a clean uniform there.”
She gave him a shy smile as she retrieved two plates and wine glasses, then placed them on the table. “I’d like to see you in action.”
He took that as another positive sign. “You can come by anytime. I work at the firehouse on Broadway.”
“I might. Lord knows I have nothing else to do.” She grabbed the Chianti from the small built-in wine rack above the fridge.
“That’s a handy use of the empty space above a refrigerator.” He wasn’t about to comment on how hard it was to reach anything in a cabinet up there, pointing out her less than dramatic height. She might be five feet six.
“Yup. My father thought of everything.”
“Oh yeah. You said he built this place. Is it just this building or the whole street? There are more town houses that look similar.”
“Three blocks.” She uncorked the wine and poured two glasses half full.
“Wow. Does he charge you rent?”
“Just enough to cover the property taxes and maintenance fees. It’s a condo. I get all the perks with none of the mortgage. That’s why I really can’t afford to move. Who else is going to ‘give me’ a condo?”
He thought about all the sugar daddies out there who’d probably love to keep her as a side piece. Again, he didn’t know her well, but he was fairly sure she wouldn’t resort to that.
They ate their pizza with their hands. Apparently, she wasn’t the fancy type, or Italian.
He had been assured by his parents that using silverware was the only way to consume pizza.
His fellow firefighters contradicted that notion, eating it right out of the box.
With them, he was lucky to get a paper plate.
“You said you were an artist. Do you have a studio in a spare bedroom or something?”
“Not in a bedroom. I would hate to damage the new carpeting. I asked my father to leave the basement unfinished. I have a washer and dryer down there, as well as my studio. Do you want to see it after lunch?”
“Sure. I’d like that. Your place is so nice and junk-free, if you’re not cramming the extra stuff in a spare room where it will all fall out when you open the door.”
She laughed. It was a welcome sound. “I have two walk-in closets. I use one for clothes, the other for cramming.”
They smiled at each other and swiftly went back to finishing their lunch.
Mallory had one piece of pizza, and Dante had two. He’d have finished his half of the pizza, except he wanted to leave some for her to have later. He imagined she might not want to make dinner either.
The wine seemed to relax her. She stopped at one glass, and he was glad to see she had changed her mind about drowning her sorrows.
Mallory wasn’t nearly the train wreck she thought she was.
At least he didn’t think so. Seeing dead people was certainly inconvenient.
Maybe he was foolishly giving his high school crush the benefit of every doubt.
She had asked him how he could help her.
He really didn’t think she was suffering from schizophrenia.
He’d read up on it, and she didn’t seem to fit the description.
It was largely an inherited illness, and she denied any knowledge of mental illness in her family.
That would be a hard diagnosis to hide without a relative in the attic.
“Take me to your studio. I’d like to see that artwork of yours.”
* * *
Dante reached over and covered her hand with his. “Mallory, can I make a weird suggestion? You can tell me to mind my own business if I’m way off base.”
Weird? What could he be talking about? Mallory didn’t know how much more weird her life could get. “Uh, sure. I’ll be honest and tell you if it’s too weird for me.”
“Okay. Hear me out. A hypnotherapist came to our firehouse to do a relaxation exercise with the guys. He said it was something we could continue to do on our own, and it would help us sleep, stay calm in stressful situations, and get back on an even keel faster after a rough shift. I have his card. Would you be willing to talk to him?”
“Hypnosis?”
“Yeah. Decreasing stress might help. I was even thinking that maybe he can do some kind of posthypnotic suggestion to help you block out the stuff that’s not really there.”
She felt like she was grasping at straws anyway, so why not entertain the idea? “I guess I could try it. The only thing is, therapy is expensive, isn’t it?”
“He didn’t make it sound like a ton of sessions were needed. We only had one, and it helped a lot. If it’s just the money, I’ll pay for a session.”
Dante was so sweet, but she didn’t want to take advantage of him.
They weren’t even dating. Not that she’d mind dating the handsome, brave firefighter, but her history with men was pretty abysmal.
He was probably just feeling sorry for her.
“I can probably afford a session or two. Maybe a quick chat with a therapist might help.”
“Okay. I’ll find his number when I get home and give you a call.”
“Dante, you probably have better places to be. I’m grateful for your help, but I’ll understand if you don’t call me after giving me the therapist’s number.”
He frowned. “Why on earth would you say that?”