"Of course I eat here. What do you think?"
"I thought you probably ate out every night. Finished your show and then went to some fine restaurant. The high life. Like last night."
She shrugged. "Sometimes. But no. Most nights I'm here, alone, late, working. Ask Amy. She's got the same schedule. But you should know for the record that I'm not a bad cook. In fact, I may be a great cook. You can't be Italian and not be a good cook. It's illegal."
"What's your specialty?"
"Well, of course, my tomato sauce is incredible. And eggplant parmesan. What I was going to…no."
"What?" Hunt asked.
"Nothing."
"Not fair. You can't start and then stop."
"You're right. That would be wrong." She laid a light hand on his arm, then took it away. "I was going to say that as soon as you left, I was going to make my patented peasant spaghetti carbonara, which is really one of the best hangover remedies in the world, and then I was thinking I would see if you wanted to stay and have a bowl with me. But I've already taken up too much of your time."
"I know," Hunt said. "It's been awful."
"Don't you have to go to work?"
"As it happens, yesterday I closed a case that I thought would take at least two days but only took one. So lucky for you, as it turns out, I'd cleared my schedule for today, anyway."
"Lucky for me." Parisi glanced at the wall clock. "Well, despite my doctor's orders, I've got to go in later. I've got an appointment at three. But that still gives us plenty of time. If you want."
"To stay?"
"For lunch."
"You're going to have to twist my arm." Hunt held out his hand. And it worked, she took it again. "That's enough," he said before she'd even pretended to start.
While the bacon cooked and the water boiled, she showed him around. The rest of the house lived up to its billing-small. But like the kitchen-modern, efficient, warm. Parisi kept the house more neat than surgically clean. No clothes lying around, no dishes in the sink. Hunt did stand mesmerized for a minute, surprised by the contents of a locked glass case in the dining room; she had a collection of handguns-pistols and revolvers; a couple of tiny, derringer-style weapons; old-fashioned gunbelts with leather holsters; what looked like snuff boxes.
"You like guns?" he asked.
"Not so much nowadays."
"This looks like a pretty good collection."
"I know. When I was younger I went through a Wild West phase. But I never touch these anymore."
"But they work? They shoot?"
"Oh, yeah. All of them shoot. No point in having a gun that doesn't shoot, is there? But don't worry, they're all registered."
"I wasn't worried."
"I should probably just get rid of them, but…"
Hunt threw a look at her. "Richie?"
Nodding, she sighed and said, "Maybe a little. Come on." She took his hand and led him to the adjacent living room. "After your place, it seems a little cramped, doesn't it?"
"Cozy is more like it. Does the fireplace work?"
"Perfectly. It's the best part of the house."
"Although it might be a little dark."
She squeezed his hand and went to open the plantation shutters over the double-wide living room window. The light brought out a sense of life that had seemed missing before. The blond hardwood floors shone. The framed prints were bright with cheerful color, yellows and reds and greens. Turning, she said, "I don't really open the blinds too often, and I should, shouldn't I? It makes a difference, doesn't it?"
"It's beautiful," Hunt said. "I mean it. You were really getting ready to leave this place?"
She looked around. "I've kind of stopped seeing it, Wyatt." A sad smile. Then, abruptly, "The bacon!"
While the water boiled in the kitchen, she made a comment about how warm it was and took off Hunt's pullover, draping it over a chair. "Do not, I repeat, do not forget this," she said. She was braless under the T-shirt, which was sleeveless and tucked tight into his jeans. He sat at the table and watched her move from the utensil drawer to the table, the table to the stove, the refrigerator to the table. Putting out a bottle of Pellegrino and two glasses. Placing the cooked bacon on paper towels to drain. Some large pinches of salt went into the water pot. She put place mats down on the table, set out red-and-white checkered napkins. One fork and one large tablespoon each. A wedge of Parmesan and a metal grater, then a pepper grinder in the center of the table.
He watched her stir the spaghetti, a fetching frown of concentration on her face, her elbow up and the T-shirt shimmying with the movement. She pulled a strand from the water. "You know this?" and tossed it up against the wall, where it stuck. "That's the test, you know. It's al dente when it sticks to the wall." She turned the flame up under the bacon fat.
He watched her take the large pot of boiling water and pasta and pour some of the water into a huge glass bowl, then dump the remainder of the pot into the colander in the sink. He watched her lift the bowl filled with heated water and pour it off over the spaghetti in the colander. And then-so quickly he couldn't believe it wasn't burning her hands-she poured the drained spaghetti back into the heated bowl.
All of it was fluid, with no wasted motion. But fast. She crunched the bacon over the spaghetti. He sat entranced, and as she turned back to the stove, she stopped for just a second, grabbing the bacon pan, to smile at him. "Twenty more seconds," she said. "You're going to love it."
Next he watched her crack two raw eggs over the spaghetti in the large bowl, then pour all the hot bacon grease over it. Now finally using pot holders, she picked up the bowl and brought it over to the table where Hunt had his front row seat. She held a wooden fork in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other, and she began to toss the eggs and bacon and fat into the pasta until it was well mixed. Grabbing up the wedge of Parmesan, she grated furiously, again with that frown of deep concentration, until the cheese covered the spaghetti like a fresh dusting of snow.
He watched her now turn the pepper mill a dozen times over the dish. She brushed a rogue hair away from her forehead. She had the wooden fork and spoon in her hands again now and tossed the pasta one last time before lifting a perfect serving and placing it in the center of Hunt's plain white bowl. Then she did the same with her own and sat down across from him. "More Parmesan and pepper is okay. You can't have too much," she said. "How is it?"
Hunt was nearly swooning from the smells coming off the dish as well as from the simple and stunning beauty of the ballet he'd just witnessed. Twirling a few strands onto his fork with the spoon up under it to catch the strays, he brought the bite to his mouth. "It's the best thing I've ever eaten," he said.
They were in the middle of eating. "Okay, now what about you?" Parisi asked.
"Not much," Hunt said. "What don't you know?"
"Well, I know you weren't a cop before you became a private eye, and that's pretty unusual. You worked with kids, right?"
"Correct. CPS. But actually I was a cop first."
"How can that be, if Amy doesn't know about it?"
"I know. It can be our secret. I guess I don't talk about it too much. It wasn't in the city."
"You're going to make me guess, aren't you?"
He laughed, feeling good. "No. Here's the exciting story. I was CID during the first Gulf War. But when they sent me back stateside, I had another year or so on my hitch, and I got involved dealing with abusive home situations with service families. By the time I got out and came up here to the city, I'd had enough of the army and the police, both. But the kid thing…I don't know. That seemed to matter." He smiled at her. "And we've only got time for a few more questions."
"All right. Where did you grow up?"