Promise Me A Rainbow (15 page)

“The cook returneth!” Michael said in relief as Joe opened the gate. “Get your butt over here!”

Joe joined the gathering to a round of applause.

“Here, take this,” Michael said, shoving a spatula into his hand. “I don’t care if I never see raw meat again.”

“How many did you burn?”

The group had grown since he’d left, Della’s friends mostly, complete with a sudden burst of loud music. Della flashed him a grin of apology at the volume, but she didn’t turn it down.

“How long till we eat?” Charlie asked at his elbow.

“Ask your Uncle Michael,” Joe said, giving Michael back the spatula.

“Where the hell are you going!” Michael said in alarm. It never ceased to amaze Joe that a man who could run around on a strut fifteen stories up could worry about turning over a hamburger.

“I’m going to wash my hands, Michael,” he said pointedly. “Jeez!”

He went inside the house through the sliding glass doors on the patio. Mrs. Webber was busily heating baked beans in the kitchen.

“There you are,” she said, smiling. “Michael will be
so
relieved. I just met ‘Fritz’s friend.’ You didn’t tell me Catherine Holben was coming.”

“Didn’t I?” he said innocently. “Imagine that.”

“Oh, you,” she said, taking a swipe at him with a paper towel.

“Where are they?”

“Still upstairs. Fritzie has a
lot
of seashells.”

He smiled, because Mrs. Webber knew from experience.

“Let me know when they come down, will you? I don’t want Catherine to feel like she’s been abandoned in a sea of strangers.”

“I will do that,” Mrs. Webber said, and he could read the small smile she gave him without difficulty.

“I’m just being polite,” he said in answer to it.

“My dear Joseph, you are a lot of things, but you are never ‘just polite.’”

The sliding doors opened, and Charlie poked his head in.

“Father,” he said with mock formality. “I am urged to inform you that your cookout is on fire.”

“Great!” Joe said. “Another gourmet success.”

Charlie looked over his shoulder. “Hurry, Father,” he urged, his eyes a bit desperate.

Joe hurried, Catherine all but forgotten in the wake of saving the main course. He glanced up once to see her standing just at the edge of the patio. The sunlight was shining on her dark hair, and once again he noted the calm eyes, the serenity he found so intriguing.

Because they had both been hotheads, his disagreements with Lisa had always been loud and heated, filled with senseless recriminations from both sides. Even the exchange he’d witnessed when Jonathan had told Catherine he was remarrying had been tame by comparison. He’d had louder altercations with Lisa over who had left the cap off the toothpaste. He didn’t know how to fight with a buttoned-up woman like Catherine Holben. Totally unimpressed, she stood back and let him rant and rave all he liked. It annoyed the hell out of him. And it made him wonder.

What would it take, Catherine, to make you mad enough to throw things?

She looked in his direction, her eyes meeting his in that straightforward way she had. So pretty, he thought before his better judgment could censor it. He looked away, his growing awareness of her as a woman making him turn his attention to not burning the hamburgers.

“Should I stand by to call the fire department?” she asked when the last of the flames had died down.

“No, I’ve got it now—I hope. I forgot to tell you that you’d have a choice of well done or well done.”

She smiled and was about to walk away.

“Where’s Fritz?” he asked to keep her there, because she was a guest and he wanted her to feel at home, he told himself, not for any other reason.

“She’s coming. She’s getting a pencil and paper so she can count how many people are here for Mrs. Webber.”

“Have you met everyone?”

“Just Mrs. Webber.”

“Well, wait a minute, and I’ll take you around.”

Catherine wasn’t certain she wanted to be taken around, but she stood and waited, idly listening to the background of rock music that reminded her of lunchtime on the picnic table at school. The backyard was full of people, laughing or talking or dancing. She could feel their eyes on her, and the speculation, particularly from a young woman who lay on a lounge chair in the sun nearby. Catherine thought it was a bit too cool for shorts, but the woman was wearing them anyway. She kept crossing and uncrossing her shapely tanned legs, as if they were an asset she wanted to display regardless of the temperature.

Fritz came out to begin her counting, and it suddenly occurred to Catherine that the man this woman was displaying her legs for was likely Joe D’Amaro—and he wasn’t looking.

“Come here, Fritz,” the woman said, motioning Fritz to come closer. She had a number of diamond rings on her fingers, and long red fingernails that prohibited any kind of manual labor. Fritz hesitated, then walked closer to the lounge chair.

The woman didn’t bother to lower her voice, and Catherine could hear her easily.

“Couldn’t your little friend come?” the woman asked.

“What little friend?” Fritz said.

“I thought you and Joe were going to pick up your friend. It looks like you brought her mother.”

Fritz looked puzzled for a moment. “Catherine’s not anybody’s mother,” she said, clearly not understanding. “Can I go now? I have to count, then Joe needs me.”

“Oh, sure. You go help Joe, honey. He needs all the help he can get.”

I must be getting better,
Catherine thought. Fritz’s innocent remark about her not being anyone’s mother didn’t quite cut her off at the knees. She glanced at Joe D’Amaro. He was wearing that look again, the one most familiar to her, the one that meant he had heard Fritz’s and the woman’s conversation just as she had, and he was
not
pleased.

An old girlfriend? Catherine wondered, doing a little speculation of her own.

Fritz finished her head count, then came to stand at Catherine’s side, not touching her, but very near. Catherine reached out to put her hand on Fritz’s shoulder, and the child pressed herself against Catherine’s side.

“That was some pretty fast counting,” Catherine said.

“It was easy. I already did it once for Joe.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Webber how many are here?” Joe looked up to ask.

“Yeah. She said ‘Oh, pooh.’”

“‘Oh, pooh’? I’m going to have to speak to Mrs. Webber about that language of hers. Are you hungry, Fritz?”

“Yeah, boy,” Fritz answered, looking up at Catherine to smile.

“Michael!” Joe suddenly called to a man who was coming out of the kitchen with a bag of ice. “Come over here!”

“Aw, Joey, don’t make me watch those things again. You know I ain’t no damn cook.”

“Come here, come here—I want you to meet somebody.”

“Hi,” Michael said to Catherine as he walked up.

“Catherine Holben, my brother, Michael, the other half of D’Amaro Brothers Construction. He’s also a firebug.”

Michael D’Amaro was an older, heavier version of the D’Amaro men, looking like both Charlie and Joe. He was a bit shorter than the two, and his darker hair was beginning to gray. He shifted the bag of ice to his other arm and offered Catherine his decidedly cold hand. “Welcome, Catherine,” he said, shaking her hand vigorously. “Don’t listen to him. He’s been spreading rumors about me since he learned to talk.”

“No, I haven’t. The old man cured me of that when I was five. Spanked the both of us. Michael for doing whatever he was doing—and me for informing. I haven’t told on him since.”

“I don’t do anything for you to tell,” Michael said. “Do I, Sweetcakes?” he asked the woman in the lounge.

“I doubt it,” she said. She was smiling, but Catherine could feel the sharp edge in her words. Michael D’Amaro didn’t seem to mind, though.

“I got another case of soft drinks,” he said to Joe. “That teenage mob of Della’s is drinking us dry. Hope you don’t want beer, Catherine. Joseph doesn’t allow alcoholic beverages at this gathering.”

“No, a soft drink is fine,” Catherine said.

“This isn’t your normal gathering,” Joe said quietly. “We’ve got teenagers and a construction crew here. Some of the crew are alcoholics, and some are out on parole. A few are both. Besides that, they’re going to have to drive themselves home. The last thing we need here is free-flowing beer.”

Michael came up and clasped Joe on the shoulder. “Hey, Joey, I didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t thinking—”

“It’s okay,” Joe said, cutting him short. “Here, turn these so I can introduce Catherine to everybody.”

“I can do it, Joe,” Fritz chimed in. “I can turn the burgers, or I can help Catherine meet everybody.”

“No, I need you to go tell Mrs. Webber to speed up the beans. Tell her it won’t be long now—unless we have another fire.”

“I heard that,” Michael said. He took the loathed spatula out of Joe’s hand. “Give me that and go on, before I use it on you.”

So, Catherine thought. She was Catherine again. She stayed Catherine through the introductions. It surprised her that Joe D’Amaro knew everyone there by name, even Della’s numerous friends. Della was civil—barely—and Charlie was what Catherine suspected was his typical, insouciant self.

“Guess what, Pop?” he said to Joe.

“What? And don’t call me Pop,” the two of them added in unison.

“The kid thinks I’m Ozzie Nelson,” Joe said to Catherine and she smiled.

“No, I don’t.
You’ve
got a job,” Charlie said. “But guess what? Go on. Guess.”

“One hundred and fifty-six days until you get your driver’s license,” Joe said without hesitation.

“Aw, heck, Dad, you guessed. Have I mentioned this to you before or something?”

“Yeah. Every hour of my every waking moment.”

“You’re kidding! No wonder you can guess.”

“No wonder,” Joe said, catching him in a brief hammerlock around the neck. “Go play in the traffic,” he said, letting him go.

“Nah, I think I’ll help Uncle Michael start another fire.”

“You do and you’ll go hungry,” Joe called after him.

“Nice boy you’ve got there,” Catherine said as they continued their tour among the guests.

“Yes, he is. I just wish he knew what planet he was on.”

Joe saved the woman on the lounge until last.

“Catherine, this is Michael’s wife, Margaret. Margaret, this is Catherine Holben.”

“Margaret?” the woman said, one perfect eyebrow raised. “What happened to Maggie?”

Joe didn’t answer that, and she turned her attention to Catherine. “Don’t you just hate formal names? I’ll bet everybody calls you Cathy or Kate. Anything but Catherine.”

“No, actually, they don’t,” Catherine said. “Not if they want me to answer. Catherine was my grandmother’s name. She lived with us when I was growing up, and she always had a fit if anyone tried to shorten our names. Now I’m stuck with the whole thing.”

“You don’t look like a Catherine, though,” Margaret said, her eyes flicking over Catherine as if she didn’t look like much of anything else, either.

“Yes, but I feel like one,” Catherine said, wondering how they had gotten into this conversation in the first place. Ah, yes, she thought. Because Joe D’Amaro wouldn’t call her Maggie.