CHAPTER TWO
Mandatory Sunday dinners at the Rizzoli's house were boisterous and often hazardous to Jane's peace of mind. The walls nearly shook whenever Angela bellowed at her husband from the kitchen or when she strongly ordered Frankie to remove his "...damn dirty shoes off my clean coffee table!" As a not so subtle exclamation point, it was Jane's pleasure and responsibility to smack him across the back of the head. She and her mother had developed quite a synchronization over the years, very impressive to visitors.
The aroma of red sauce simmering on the stove, the comforting smell of baking Italian bread, and the lingering scent of cooked pork sausage permeated the walls and furniture. Add lemon-scented furniture polish to the hodgepodge of aroma therapy and guests were privy to the backdrop of the Rizzoli childhood. The wooden furniture was marred with a multitude of horseplay scars disguised as 'accidents' involving Jane and her brothers from years ago. The large mirror hanging behind the couch was framed by faux gilded wood with its ornate vine-linked leaves, missing nothing and reflecting everything. It was a typical northeast Italian home from its dried palm fronds behind a framed picture of the Pope to the sheer volume and gregarious personalities of its inhabitants.
Jane, apron wrapped around her waist, stirred the sauce, inhaling the fragrant vapor of spices and tomatoes before returning the lid to the large steel pot. She hitched her shoulders upwards at her mother's questioning grunt.
"Almost ready, Ma. A few minutes."
"Your mouth to God's ears, Janie! Here, " her mother instructed, handing Jane a plate of cooked sausage links, "put these in, will ya? And for the love of God, turn down the heat or you'll burn the bottom of my favorite pan!"
Without so much as batting an eye, Jane dumped the meat in, careful not to create a molten splash back. She moved to the sink and unplugged the stopper, intending to refill it.
"Whaaaaat are you doin'? There's nothin' wrong with that dishwater!"
Jane inhaled and held the breath a few seconds before responding. "Well, since I'm doin' the dishes, I prefer clean water! It's all oily and cold, Ma!"
Angela guffawed. "What, now, you're the expert in the kitchen all of the sudden? How did ya get so wasteful, Janie? You know how hard your father had to work-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're singing my childhood song, Ma. If it will make you feel any better, " Jane grinned, leaning her hip against the counter as she waited for the sink to fill up, "I'll leave a twenty in the donation plate at St. Michael's next Sunday!"
Laughing, Angela grabbed her daughter's face in her hands, and rocked her from side to side. "Oh, my little smarty-pants is all grown up! Maybe you should think about lighting a candle and praying to meet a nice Italian plumber, eh?"
Jane rolled her eyes as she turned off the faucet then slung a worn dish towel over her shoulder.
"You're gonna make some mug such a good wife, you! C'mere, you! Give your old momma a kiss."
Jane, if nothing else, was a typical progeny of Italian parents. Dutifully she placed a small peck on her mother's cheek. Her chest suddenly tight with dread, she turned away from the rabid hope in her mother's voice.
Odds were Angela's entreaty would not unfold in any unconventional sense or, for that matter, unfold at all. Being a homicide detective was a hurdle onto itself when attempting to live within the common strictures of a relationship. General mistrust, continuous stress, the odd hours, and the horrific circumstances of murder coagulated into a recipe prohibiting long-term liaisons in most law enforcement. If fortunate enough to overcome such daunting challenges, Jane was still saddled with yet another, less obvious and more personal, obstacle: her proclivity for sexual partners of the female persuasion. It was inconceivable for Jane to entertain any version of her life save the one her family had nurtured and stoked since her first breath in this world. Over time, she convinced herself that fleeting romances with women were vacations until she found the 'right man' and settled down. The thought always depressed her.
Presently, Jane slipped off the stained apron and left it on the countertop in a wadded loose ball. She was successful in evading her mother's sharp eyes as she exited the kitchen and gently let herself out the back door. Once safely away from prying stares, Jane settled down on the metal glider under the crab apple tree. The sun was high above the horizon still but on the cusp of making its descent. She dug her heel into the dirt and pushed, maintaining an imperfect motion. Off in the distance someone was mowing their yard. She heard the shrieks and laughter of the next door neighbor's children raucously playing Wiffle-Ball over the wooden fence. A heavy sigh escaped her. She felt like an outsider.
Before the track of her thoughts lead her to murky destinations, Jane, with great care, fished out the cardboard cup warmer tucked into the front pocket of her jeans. Carefully she smoothed it along the top of her thigh, biting her upper lip. It was Maura's phone number. The tight skirted, honey-blonde, green-eyed, hip swaying woman from the coffee shop. Jane smiled, she couldn't help it. Something, at once fragile and strong, took root in her chest, a seed of hope. She tried to shake it off but the sense of wonder was more powerful than her incredulity. Without permission, Maura's face arrived in her thoughts like a sweet melody, causing Jane to rerun the memory of when they met. The details curled around her heart, caught in her lungs, from the quirky way Maura spoke to the unintentional graze of her shoe against Jane's shin. Her heart started to quicken as she recalled how the sunlight bathed Maura while she stood in line, burnishing off those honey tresses and triggering a desire to run her fingers through it.
Jane imagined calling Maura and her heartbeat ramped up. Whether it was from anticipation or fear, she couldn't guess. The more she pondered her visceral response to the chance encounter with the attractive woman, however, the louder Jane's anxiety protested. She wasn't a hormone infused teenager. She was an experienced detective with layers of armor and survival instincts. There was no room in her life for giddy, fanciful suppositions, despite the heady memory of Maura's farewell caress along the entire length of Jane's forearm. Guiltily she looked at the phone number. Next to the lump of apprehension, wedged between the boulders of fear and disbelief, the unmistakable seedling of attraction grew within the cracks. Before she could think twice about it, the piece of cardboard was shoved back into her front pocket. The smile that lit her face was both pensive and reckless.
"Jane! Jesus-Marion-Joseph! Where'd the hell ya go for cryin' out loud?" Not waiting for a response, Angela unceremoniously shoved a stack of plates into her daughter's stomach. " Get these on the table. Tell your father and your brothers it's time to wash up. And for God's sake, don't forget the silverware-"
The remainder of her mother's tirade fell on absent ears as Jane, carrying the plates along with clinking metal eating utensils on top of it, retreated to the other room. Within minutes everyone was assembled, heads were bent and Frank Sr. was mumbling the meal's blessing. In typical Rizzoli fashion, dinner was filled with broad gesticulations, shameless teasing and insanely audible tirades ranging in subject from the Patriots Superbowl chances to Tommy's latest misadventure. Before long Jane kissed her dad on the forehead, punched her brothers' arms, and hugged her mother good bye. Through it all, the piece of cardboard in her front pocket created a slow burn that trailed down her spine.
She managed to refrain from immediately calling Maura upon entering her apartment. Although, they hadn't agreed on a prearranged time, nor a particular day, glancing at her watch she deemed that it was still too early. What the hell is wrong with me, she thought, plopping down on the sofa. Immediately she jumped up and stalked towards the kitchen, intent upon retrieving a beer from the refrigerator. With a practiced motion, Jane twisted off the bottle cap and flicked it into the copper bowl on the table. If the number of bent bottle caps was any indication, she was either a seasoned drinker, an accurate shooter, or a combination thereof. The restlessness that inhabited her body wasn't exactly novel. Prior to an arrest or interrogation, she experienced a similar reaction. It was an endorphin surge that heightened the awareness in her limbs, vibrating under her skin like an idling V8 engine.
The cold beer sluiced down her parched throat. What do I have to be nervous about, goddamnit, she wondered as she paced the length of carpet between her kitchen and living room. Another glimpse of her watch and Jane groaned. It was a little after five o'clock, about eight hours since they parted company. This is total bullshit! I don't know this woman...but, damn, I really wouldn't mind...those legs...Jesus, not to mention those green eyes. What the fuck am I doing?! Beer finished, she halted the internal, one-sided conversation she was having and grabbed another bottle. Nestled in a back pocket, her cell phone seemed to deride her with its heat. What's it matter, she mentally picked up the debate. It's not like we're gonna have sex...or make babies. What the hell?! Whatever, this is stupid. Either shit or get off the pot, Jane.
As if to prove a point, she hurriedly extracted her phone and the piece of cardboard. She squared her shoulders and psychologically pushed away any confusing doubt. She tapped in the number and held her breath. Maura said hello between the third and fourth ring.