Thirteen

“The Mafia?” Lucy asked as she drank her Lagavulin on the rocks.

We sat on the couch after a dinner of ratatouille and a dessert of cannoli. My family room ran the width of my narrow condo, with windows facing the street. I had divided that space into a living room and dining room by placing a couch across the center. The space in front of the couch was the living room, the space behind the couch was the dining room. We had moved from the dining room to the living room.

Lucy had arrived a few minutes late and had brought a bottle of red wine. She was wearing a gray sweater dress with a high collar, black leggings, and black leather boots that reached almost to her knee. The sweater hugged her breasts and hips, and the boots exposed a small bit of leg. The outfit covered her body while showing it off. I managed to give her a peck on the cheek to say hello, take the bottle of wine, and get back into the kitchenette without drooling, tripping, or lighting myself on fire. It was a triumph of focus.

Lucy sat on a barstool at the kitchenette counter and looked at the terrarium.

“Who are these guys?” she asked.

“They’re my roommates, Click and Clack. They’re hermit crabs,” I said before I remembered that Lucy was a biology teacher. She obviously recognized hermit crabs. I expected Lucy to bust me for not giving her credit for her knowledge of crustaceans, but she let the remark go. A keeper?

I asked, “So, how was your day?”

Lucy told me about her school day. Apparently she had had a dustup with a parent over one of her kids’ grades. The kid had no interest in biology, no willingness to learn it, and no inclination to study. He failed his midterm test, and the parent came to complain …

I had learned years ago that if I asked a woman a simple open-ended question and listened to her answer, she would carry 95 percent of the communication load and consider me to be a sparkling conversationalist. The approach also kept me from having to answer such questions as whether I had a job (I didn’t), what I did for a living (very little), and why I was single (long story).

This approach didn’t work with Lucy. She finished her story about the helicopter parents, looked at me, and said, “So who is John Tucker? Is he your brother?”

This, too, was a long story, and I told it as I transferred the ratatouille to a serving plate, poured us some wine, and served the meal. Lucy was a probing conversationalist, and apparently she had learned the same trick as I had. Her blue eyes watched me intently. She asked compelling follow-up questions, kept me talking about myself.

Lucy ate some ratatouille. “This is delicious.”

“Thanks.” I ate some myself. She was right.

“So you still don’t know if the guy in front of your house was your brother?”

“Not for sure. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

I told Lucy about Cathy Byrd, John’s mother. I left out the part where Sal had called Cathy a whore. We made small talk about the drive to Pittsfield, which Zipcar I would take, what it would cost, the length of the drive.

For my part, I found myself thinking less about my “brother” and more about the curves under Lucy’s sweater dress. I got up from the table and brought out the cannoli I had bought at Maria’s. Lucy gave a happy moan as she tasted chocolate dusted on the creme filling. The sound transported me to the bedroom, where I imagined sliding my hands along Lucy’s black leggings, feeling the muscles of her thigh. Lucy suggested that we move to the couch. I thought things were moving in the right direction, then she brought up the topic of Sal again.

“Yes, apparently I’m connected,” I said, and kissed Lucy.

She closed her eyes and returned the soft kiss, her mouth tasting of Scotch and chocolate. My breath quickened and I brushed my thumb across Lucy’s breast. She arched her breast into my hand and pulled me closer for another kiss.

Then she opened her eyes and asked, “So why did you move to the South End?”

I blinked. “What?”

“The South End. You told me that you have relatives in the North End and that Sal was mad at you. So why did you move to the South End? Was there a schism in the family?”

My brain, jammed with lust, had lost all functionality. I said, “Ahh—well—err—I guess it never occurred to me. I moved here right after my wife died last year.”

Lucy sat back on the couch. She said, “You’re a widower?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re so young.”

“Yeah.”

“How did it happen?”

“She was murdered in a home invasion. I moved to Boston right after that. I didn’t want to stay in the house. Sal and my cousins weren’t even part of the equation. I was pretty wrapped up in myself.”

“It was shitty of Sal to give you a hard time about it.”

“No. He’s right. I should make more of an effort. Even if I don’t live there, I can at least visit.”

Lucy reached forward and leaned in on me, giving me a hug. She said into my ear, “I’m so sorry I brought it up.”

I settled into the hug and said, “That’s okay.” I could feel her making her next move. Her body tensed as she was about to stand.

Lucy said, “You know what, Tucker?”

“What?”

“You are a really good guy.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I like you.”

Uh oh.

Lucy stood and said, “I need to be getting home. It’s a school night.”

Naturally.