179
Aligned Design
Ch 33
Bobby tipped the large pot of steaming water and the pasta poured into the colander. He rinsed it under the tap, shook the colander and set it to drain. Gleason watched him cook. This felt so right. She needed to make this work.
"Come and get your spaghetti," he said, "I don't know how much you want."
Gleason rose and crossed to his side. She watched him use a pasta dipper to scoop strands from the colander onto her plate. "Do you want more?" he asked.
"Heavens, no! That is more than enough. You take that one and I'll get my own." She took a plate and lifted a third of what Bobby had piled on his plate.
He took the lid from the simmering pot and a cloud of spicy steam drifted upward. He inhaled and said, "How's that? Smell good?"
Gleason did not respond and he turned to look at her. Her left hand clamped over her mouth and she gagged once. She set the plate of pasta on the table and dashed down the hall.
"Gleason --?" he said. What just happened? "Honey!" Bobby set down the lid and hurried after her. "Gleason, are you all right? Honey?" He heard her retching in the bathroom. He opened the door and stepped beside her. He wrapped his left arm around her and pulled back her hair with his right. "Sweetheart, what happened? Are you ok?" He spoke softly. Gleason leaned against him and nodded. "Let me brush my teeth," she whispered. She flushed the toilet and lowered the seat and lid.
Bobby stood in the doorway watching her. Gleason held back her hair with her right hand behind her head and brushed with her left. She finished, he stood aside, and followed her down the hall. She sat on the sofa and he sat beside her, wrapping his right arm around her.
"What happened?" he asked.
She did not respond right away. Then, softly, "I don't know. I was hungry. The bread was so good. The tomatoes and mozzarella, too. Then, then the smell of the tomato sauce just hit me wrong."
Bobby thought about this. A germ of an idea began to take shape in the wee, back corner of his mind. Oh, oh no. He pushed it away to consider later. "Are you ok now?" he asked her softly.
"Yes, I'm fine." She leaned away and looked up at him, "It wasn't your cooking, Bobby, I, I just got sick."
He hugged her close and said, "I know, sweetheart, I know." They sat for another minute and he said, "Do you want to eat anything?"
"I am hungry. I'd like more bread. And tomatoes and cheese. Do we have more tomatoes and cheese?"
He smiled and said, "Stay here while I get you something. I don't want you to smell the sauce again." He returned to the kitchen and then brought her the breadbasket, butter tub, knife and plate. She dug in. His mind raced while he sliced the other tomato and more mozzarella. He didn't want to think about it. No, couldn't be. "Here you are, eat this," he said, setting down a plate.
"You go ahead and eat some spaghetti, Bobby. I'll just stay here."
"No, I've put it away. We have other things." He sat beside her, ate his tomatoes, and watched her eat a third slice of bread.
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It was nearly six-forty-five and Deakins was still in his office, one thing after another, it seemed. He spoke to Ms Peng Wah, northeast regional manager of Westmark Equities, the insurance company holding the policies on the lost pieces of art.
"Yes, yes I understand. . . . It appears they've hit a dead end. . . . I'm sorry, but not every case is resolved as expeditiously as we might hope. . . . I understand that this means a substantial payout if we cannot prove fraud. Let's not give up yet. . . . Yes, I will let you know. . . . Yes, goodnight." He hung up and said to himself, this has been the longest week.
He lifted the phone again and hit the button for home. He wanted to tell Angie that he would probably be late and to go on to the Sutton's without him, he would meet her there. The line was busy – Julie was online again. We have to get some kind of high-speed connection, he thought.
This case would be finished if Goren were himself, he thought. He and Eames are off this weekend. Good. Maybe he'll rest. Deakins seriously considered handing the art heist case to Sledge and Bishop. Bobby was so distracted, unreliable right now. He couldn't interview, couldn't go to a scene. It was as if the whole case jammed up because the whole Bobby wasn't available to work it.
Deakins thought about putting Bobby back on interviews and maybe scenes sometime next week. Let's see how he does Monday and Tuesday, he thought. He dialed Angie's cell.
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"I'm telling you, we need to get back to canvases, Dom. This ceramic stuff is too fragile." Jenese and Tillman were having dinner at a nice little place around the corner from the gallery. Alphonse, a sweet young man attending the opening, had suggested it. Jenese was intrigued with the way Tilley and Alphonse had gotten on. He did not mind a bit. The more the merrier, he always said. Hope this guy knows what he's doing, though. Jenese was still ticked off about the kid at the truck stop, all that going and going and no coming. Jesus.
"Ok, so who do we snatch instead? Anyone looking worthwhile? You're the broker, who's hot? Besides me?" he said with a sly smile.
"Well, Alphonse was looking pretty hot, don't you think?" Tilley smiled back.
"Actually, he was. Did you get his number?" Tilley nodded, pulled out a business card from an inside pocket and slid it across the table. Jenese took it and flipped open his cell.
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Eames was alone in her flat. It was quiet. Peaceful. She had taken a shower and gotten into bed. She wanted to finish this book. The first one had been so good; she had finished it in a week. This was the sequel, but it just didn't have the same zing the first one did. It seemed as though the author had lost his rhythm, gotten bogged down. Maybe it was Eames who had gotten bogged down.
She put down the book and thought about Edward. Was it her imagination, or did Edward seem different these past weeks? He seemed to be less of an idiot. He seemed steadier, less goofy. He seemed more . . . what, serious, mature? Something is different about him, she thought.
On the other hand, she thought, maybe she was finally seeing what had been there all along. Maybe he was serious and mature. Maybe she just never saw it because she had had this silly schoolgirl crush on her partner all this time.
She thought about Bobby. He was so screwed up right now, although, today he had not been too bad. He actually seemed like his old self. I wonder what happened between him and Gleason. Boy, I bet whatever it was is what set off this temper thing with him. She wondered if it was over between Bobby and Gleason. What would that mean?
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Bobby and Gleason finished the tomatoes, mozzarella, peaches, and Gleason finished the bread. "You're still hungry, aren't you?" She asked him. "You didn't eat much. I ate most of the bread. Why don't you get a plate of spaghetti? Love, get a plate. I won't be bothered, I promise."
Bobby was hungry. That spaghetti would be good. "Why don't you put your things away in the bedroom, and I'll get a quick plate?" He looked at her lovingly.
"Excellent," Gleason stood and picked up their plates, cutlery, and napkins – new cloth ones that matched the tablecloth, she had mentioned. Bobby picked up the butter tub, empty breadbasket, and their glasses. He followed her into the kitchen.
"Just set those on the counter," he said. "I want to show you something in the bedroom," he said with a smile, taking her hand.
"See, this whole chest is yours." He opened then shut each drawer, showing her its emptiness. He turned and smiled at her. "Is this ok?"
She didn't say anything at first. She was touched. It was such a simple thing, but it spoke volumes. He had planned for her to return, he had made space for her to stay. "Bobby, thank you." She hugged him around the waist and he bent and gave her a kiss. "Now, go eat some good spaghetti."
Bobby headed to the kitchen while she emptied her carpetbag. Nearly everything went into the dirty clothesbasket in the closet. She set her toiletries in the bathroom, where they had been before Chicago.
The book of poetry sat at the bottom. She held it, thinking how she just went ahead and bought it, even when she was sure she was not coming back to him. This slim, signed, first-edition copy of erotic German poetry by his favorite author was a taproot that proved they were meant to be together. It anchored all that they had between them. She set it in the bottom drawer of the chest. She would give it to him in the morning. The empty carpetbag went in the closet, opposite the basket.
Gleason spotted the necklace Bobby had given her, right where she had left it, on the dresser top. It hadn't been touched. It looked like someone had dusted around it. Bobby. He didn't want to touch it. Oh, how cruel she had been to leave him like that. Sneaking away, making him worry. He loves me.
The gold and onyx chain represented the same thing as the book. In her heart, she knew they would never exchange another gift. Nothing would ever match these two items. She didn't want anything else. She picked up the chain and returned it to her neck. She would never take it off again.
She looked around. Everything was so clean. She noticed the vacuum lines in the carpet. The tops of the dresser, chest, even his night table had been dusted. The bed had fresh sheets. Estella came on Saturday; Bobby did all of this. Gleason had noticed how tidy the living room was, it didn't show any of the 'day-before-Estella-comes' clutter or muss. The bathroom, too, she'd noticed. Bobby had cleaned for her.
She sat on her side of the bed, facing the wall. She slid her hands on the coverlet, this is where we first made love, she thought. He is a wonderful lover. This afternoon, on the sofa, oh my! She had never been like that. She smiled, remembering. She liked what had happened. Watching Bobby's hand on himself, oh, that was nice. Very sexy. They would do more, tonight. She loved him and his body and what he did with it.
Gleason looked up at the mar in the plaster. He threw something, she thought. He was angry and he threw something against the wall. I made him angry. I am the cause of his temper. I need to make him well. I'll do whatever I need to do to make him well. I love him.
As if beckoned, Bobby entered the bedroom. "Everything ok?" he asked. Gleason stood and went to him and wrapped her arms around him.
"Aye, love, aye. It's all good." They held each other.
"Do you want to do anything? Go out? Take a nap? Go to bed?" he asked.
Gleason pulled away and looked up at him with a shy smile, "What would we do if we went to bed?"
He looked at her and wondered, why is she so horny? Some women get that way when they're – no. Her breasts seemed so – no. The smell of the tomato sauce made her – no No.
"Bobby?"
"We will sleep. It's after nine and you are exhausted. So am I. Come on, sweetheart, let's go to bed." He kissed her forehead and she went into the bathroom. Bobby pulled back the coverlet and top sheet. Her green throw was at the foot of the bed, right where it belonged.