The Playing Fields

Chapter 37

"Your father didn't say anything, but you were quite late coming home last night, Carlos." Carmela handed her son his lunch and helped him on with his jacket.

"Sorry mom, it wasn't that late, I was hangin' with some of they guys from school... you know." He kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

"Hanging, Carlos. Not, hangin', you must speak properly, a college boy now."

He nodded a weary smile and left the house, watched by his doting mother until his car was out of sight.

Carmela removed the dirty dishes, placing them in the dishwasher, and reset the table for her husband, keeping a cautious eye on his simmering omelet, and another on the clock.

"Good morning dear, " she said cheerily, precisely timing his arrival at the table with the omelet and a plate of warm buttered toast, "would you like juice and coffee this morning, or just coffee?"

"What's the weather?" Gruff.

"Warm with partial sun and a chance of showers this evening." She set the morning paper by his elbow and stood awaiting his decision.

"Both." Antonio dug a forkful of omelet from his plate and flipped the paper over, reading the headlines.

"Will your day be busy?" The juice appeared along with the coffee, and she sat down across from him, hands in her lap.

"Busy enough with having to spend half my time at the theatre." He chewed and read the paper as he spoke.

"Will you have time to come home for lunch then?" she asked calmly.

"No." Then, "Why?"

"Well if you don't need a lunch then I think I'll spend the day working in your vineyard."

"His eyes drifted up from the paper locking on hers. "Good."

*****

Tiffany sailed into Hardware Heaven in a blaze of orange Capri pants, fluffy white blouse with matching sandals, and a loosely clipped, silver chain belt about her waist. Two hoops dangled like gymnasts rings from her ears, bouncing jauntily with each strutting step.

"Hi Ross. " She waved brightly. "How's it hangin'?"

"Higher than it was." He gave her a broad leering wink.

"Naughty boy, where's Allen, I need to see him."

"Upstairs in the stockroom, I think. Go on up." His joking leer changed to a private, knowing smile.

"Thanks," she glided down the aisle to the back of the store and up the stairs, with arrogant confidence.

"Allen, you up here?" She picked her way past piles of boxes and crates, gingerly avoiding splinters and dust on her pants. "Allen?"

"Shhhh! I'm over here, by the window." Tiffany rounded a ceiling high rack of steel shelving and came up behind Allen, standing crouched in front of the window peering through a pair of large binoculars.

"What on earth..."

"Shhhh!"

"Don't shush me, Allen." She reached out and snatched the binoculars from his hands and copied his crouch, looking across the street, her broad bottom strenuously testing the tensile strength of her pants.

"What are you looking - is that Daryl! Are you spying on my husband? On Daryl?" She stood up, thrusting the binoculars back at him, folding her arms tightly and tapping one foot.

"I wasn't spying- I wasn't- I was trying to see what he was looking at."

"What do you mean, what he was looking at?" Her eyes swiveled to the store across the street. "What was he looking at?"