He’d been gentle that first night, more lover than madman. Either the other women had lied or Jack had assumed she was fragile. Maybe both were true. Mirabelle never asked.
She approached Emory’s car across the lot. Her duty was simple—mind Amelia. The ease of the task depended on the mood he’d left the girl in. The journey was long and their misunderstandings plenty, but Emory climbed from his car and strode to the passenger side with a lightness uncommon in him. When he opened her door and offered his hand, Amelia took it without reservation.
Men weren’t observant of these things, so the others didn’t notice the break in the clouds. They’d say Emory was only being polite, but Mirabelle saw the sleight of hand; Emory’s fingers that lingered, Amelia’s soft little touch.
The group headed for the front of the building. Pete, the captain of Los Angeles post, occupied Amelia a few steps ahead. In the sunlight, her hair gleamed like peaches and gold, and she glanced over her shoulder at Emory who smiled in response.
“I see the Cold War is over,” Mirabelle said and kept pace with him. “How’d you manage that?”
“Maybe I was sweet.”
“For the right ones, you can be.”
“And the wrong ones?”
Mirabelle laughed. “They come crying to me.”
Yes, with giant tears and mascara staining their cheeks. God, how they blubbered. To hear them tell it, Emory was cold to the touch and out of reach. They said he was unknowable, but most enigmas weren’t one thing, so Emory was, at times, witty with dry humor then guarded and aloof. With him, it was either keys to his kingdom or quickly shown the door.
To be fair, Emory was his own contradiction. Their mother raised him to love and cherish women; not just the treasure between their thighs, but their feminine mystique. From theirfather, Emory inherited not just handsome looks, but also his brooding and blustery self-reliance.
The odd amalgamation meant Emory revered the women he loved as if they hung the moon. The women he took home were different. They were his queen for the night, but by morning, the cold came in again. Less than a handful ever reaped the benefits of his absolute love and devotion, but those women had bailed when his world became too much.
The group gathered in a store marked M.L. Berneski and Sons Prescriptions. Liam secured the spot decades ago and assigned a retired captain, Giovanni, to handle the front-facing business.
An outsider would rightfully wonder how a place like that still existed. Its checkered floors were well-worn but kept free of dust. Red-topped soda stools lined a laminate counter that ended in a pie case offering slim pickings. Only a few shelves with basic medical supplies gave the place any legitimacy as a drugstore.
A tenor bellowed from a record player behind the counter, and Gio beamed as the crowd filled in. A broom tumbled from his age-spotted hands and he approached Mirabelle first.
“My girl,” he said and embraced her with strong arms despite his old age. “You waited too long to visit. You got taller, yeah?”
“Doubtful, but I’ll take it.”
Gio’s fingers—nearly as crooked as his back and the knuckles swollen into knobs—slipped from Mirabelle’s shoulders. He stared at Amelia doing her damnedest to go forgotten in the corner.
“Who is this girl?” Gio hollered at Emory propped against the soda counter.
“This is Amelia,” Emory said as Gio approached her.
“Ahh-Melia. Your name sounds like music. You like music?”
With all eyes on her, a blush painted Amelia’s cheeks. She ought to get used to it. Girls like her never went unnoticed for long.
She nodded and cleared her throat. “Very much.”
A buffeting fan swallowed up her voice, so soft and sweet, music in its own right.
“Roberto Murolo. You know him?” Gio asked, but Amelia shook her head. Like pledging blind allegiance, he closed his eyes with a hand over his heart. “Oh, he’s wonderful. He sings ‘Malafemmena.’ It’s about a beautiful woman, a heartbreaker. You’re too sweet to break a man’s heart, yeah?”
Amelia’s lips curled in a playful smile. “Can’t say I’ve tried, so I guess we’ll see.”
Gio roared with laughter and turned to Emory, who looked on with a swell of pride. The others would call it amusement. Mirabelle knew his subtleties, though, and the shades of emotion that bridged stoic restraint and fevered passion.
“She’s funny,” Gio said and pointed at Emory. “She’s your girl?”
Mirabelle buried a smile and averted her eyes. Jack did the same. He wouldn’t dare look at Emory in a time like that. The room was divided as the oblivious gawked and the wise looked away.
Even Amelia stared at the tips of her shoes. She wasn’t a damsel, though, and delicate fire like hers burned with slow heat. No wonder it tempted Emory. He had a taste for her kind and surprisingly soft finesse that’d dote endlessly on a woman like her. Rattled, Emory crossed his arms and shook his head. Gio ambled over and clapped him on the back.
