His Chosen Wife. Anne McAllister
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quickly, out of kissing range. Definitely out of kissing range!
“It was hot in the subway. The air-conditioning wasn’t working on the train. Where are we going? Is it far? I need to splash some water on my face.”
“Not far.” He still had his arm around her as he steered her along Flatbush Avenue and into a grocery store.
She frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Just have to get a few things. Come on.” He came back and snagged her wrist to take her with him. She pulled out of his grasp, but followed as he picked some steaks, salad vegetables, a loaf of country bread and fresh olives. Then he hesitated a moment, as if weighing his options, and grabbed a couple of ears of corn on the cob.
Suspicion began to dawn. “Why are you shopping now?”
“Because until an hour ago, I didn’t know I was having company for dinner.”
“We’re not … I mean … you’re cooking?”
“No end to my talents.” He slanted her a grin as he grabbed a fresh pineapple off the display and tossed it to her.
Instinctively Ally caught it but protested as she did so. “You don’t have to cook for me,” she said quickly. “Let’s go out. I’ll buy dinner.”
“No. You won’t. Come on. No trouble at all. I like to cook.”
“But—”
But he was already leading the way toward the checkout. “Hey, Manny. How’s it going?” he said to the teenager who began to ring up the groceries.
“Ain’t. Too hot,” the boy said. “Dyin’ in here. Better outside. Don’t forget. Softball tonight.”
“Not me. Other plans.”
The boy’s gaze lit on Ally and he looked her up and down assessingly. “Nice,” he said with an approving grin.
“My wife,” PJ said.
Ally stiffened beside him. He didn’t have to keep telling everyone.
The boy was clearly surprised. His eyes widened. “No joke?”
“Yep.”
“No,” Ally said at the same instant.
Manny blinked. PJ’s scowl was disapproving.
“Only officially,” she muttered.
PJ’s jaw tightened. “Officially counts.” He pulled out his wallet and paid for the groceries. “Hit a homer for me.”
Manny grinned and winked. “Hit one yourself.”
Ally’s cheeks burned as she followed PJ out of the store. “Why do you keep telling people I’m your wife?”
“Because it’s the truth?” he suggested.
“But not for long.” She practically had to lope to keep up with him.
“You’re here now.”
“Just for the night. I’m leaving Friday.”
“Stop thinking so damn far ahead, Al.” PJ shifted the grocery bag into his other arm and took her by the elbow as they turned the corner onto one of the side streets. His touch through the thin fabric of her jacket made her far too aware of him. And she jumped when his lips came close to her ear and said, “Interesting things can happen in a night if you let them.”
“Nothing’s going to happen tonight,” she said firmly, “or any other,” in case he had any more ideas.
PJ didn’t reply. He led the way with long strides. And keeping up with them reminded her of those bright mornings on the beach when he’d been determined to teach her how to surf and she’d practically had to run to match his strides across the sand.
Just when she was about to say, Slow down, he veered over midblock and steered her up the stairs to a very elegant-looking town house.
“Here?” Ally didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
One in a row of late nineteenth-century four-story brownstone-and-brick homes, all of which were as attractive and appealing now as she was sure they had been then. The building PJ was leading her into was a far cry from the grim studio apartment over the garage of Mrs. Chang’s old stucco house.
“My brother Elias lived upstairs from the office where you were today,” he told her. “Antonides Marine owns the building and he fixed up the top floor for himself. It’s pretty spectacular—great view—and when he left he said I could have it. But I didn’t want to. I like being away from the office. I wanted a place I felt comfortable. So I found this.”
He pushed open the ornate oak-and-glass double front door. “I’ve got the garden floor-through—that’s the ground floor front to back—not exactly wide-open spaces, but I’ve got a garden. There’s a hint of green.” He was unlocking the door to his apartment as he spoke. “And, of course, the park is just over there.” He jerked his head to the west. “Coney Island Beach is at the end of the subway line. And, as you can see,” he said as he turned the knob and ushered her in, “I brought a little of Hawaii back with me.”
She stood, stunned, at the sight of a floor-to-ceiling mural that covered one entire wall of PJ’s living room. Even more stunning was that she recognized the scene at once.
It was the beach where she’d met him viewed from above on the highway. There was Benny’s Place where she had worked behind the counter. There was the surfboard shop. There were the rocks, the swimmers and sunbathers, the runners in motion at the water’s edge, the surfers catching the wave of the day.
She was pulled straight across the room to look at it more closely.
“How did you— Did you paint it? It’s amazing.”
“Not me. Not an artistic bone in my body. But my sisters are. Martha, the younger one, did this. It’s what she does. Paints murals.”
Ally was enchanted. “It’s … captivating. I can almost feel the breeze off the sea, smell the surf and the board wax and—”
“—and Benny’s plate lunch,” PJ finished with a grin.
Ally laughed because it was true. “And Benny’s plate lunch,” she agreed, shaking her head. “It’s fantastic.”
PJ nodded. “I think so. It’s a good reminder. Sometimes.”
Ally cocked her head. “Sometimes?”
He shrugged. “Things were simpler then. Hopes, dreams. That sort of thing.” His mouth twisted wryly for a moment, but then he shrugged. “But the memories are worth it, I guess. At least, most of them.”
There was a moment’s silence as Ally stared at the mural and reflected on her own memories of those days.
Abruptly PJ said, “I’ll get started on dinner.”
He vanished before she could say another word, not that she could think of anything to say. She was too captivated by the mural—and by his house.
The furniture here was all spare dark wood and leather. Bold geometric-designed rugs dotted polished wooden floors. The walls, except for the one his sister had painted, were either exposed brick or floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
When she’d known PJ his bookshelf had been four boards and two stacks of milk crates. And the titles, as she recalled, had run to mechanical engineering texts and the latest thrillers.
His library now was much more eclectic. The texts and thrillers were still there. But there were books on woodworking and history, some art tomes and thick historical biographies. She would have liked to explore more, but the mural drew her back. She crossed the room and studied it more closely, noticing that there were people she recognized.
“That’s Tuba,”