Blue Smoke

you go out to play, someone will be watching, and documenting. When I’m done, you won’t be welcome in my parents’ home any longer. Your children will wonder why.”
    “My children—”
    “Deserve better from their father. Why don’t you think about that? Honor your marriage, or dissolve it. Your choice.”

    She walked out. Not like poking a puppy with a stick this time, she thought as she strode to the elevator. No, the weight on her shoulders now was pure satisfaction.
    B o walked into Sirico’s carrying the briefcase he used when he wanted to impress potential clients. Or in this case, the parents of the woman he was sleeping with.
    It looked to him as if the dinner shift was well under way. He probably should’ve chosen a less chaotic time. Still could, he decided. But since he was here, he might as well order a pizza for takeout.
    Before he could turn toward the counter, Fran walked over to him, bussed both his cheeks. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
    “Hi, how are you? Let me get you a table.”
    “That’s okay, I was just going to—”
    “Sit, sit.” She took his arm, steered him toward a booth already occupied by a couple eating plates of pasta. “Bo, this is my aunt Grace and uncle Sal. This is Bo, Reena’s friend. Bo, you sit with the family until we get a table cleared.”
    “I don’t want to—”
    “Sit, sit,” he was ordered again, this time by Aunt Grace, who studied him with avid eyes. “We’ve been hearing all about you. Here, have some bread. Have some pasta. Fran! Bring Reena’s boyfriend a plate. Bring him a glass.”
    “I was just going to—”
    “So.” Grace gave his arm two light slaps. “You’re a carpenter.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Actually, I just stopped in to drop something off for Mr. Hale.”
    “Mr. Hale, so formal!” She batted at him again. “You’re going to design Bianca’s pergola.”
    Word did travel, he decided. “I’ve got some sketches for them to look over. In fact.”
    “In your case?” Sal spoke for the first time, jabbed his loaded fork toward Bo’s briefcase.

    “Yeah, I was going to—”
    “Let’s have a look.” Sal stuffed the pasta in his mouth, gave a come-ahead gesture with his free hand.
    Fran came back with a salad, set it in front of Bo. “Mama says you’ll eat a nice salad, then you’ll have the baked spaghetti with Italian sausage.” Fran smiled winningly as she set down a red wineglass. “And you’ll like it.”
    “Okay. Sure.”
    “Tell your papa to come over,” Sal ordered Fran as he poured wine from his bottle into Bo’s glass. “We’re looking at the pergola.”
    “Soon as he gets a minute. Do you need anything else, Bo?”
    “I seem to have it all.”
    When Sal cleared the center of the table, Bo took out his sketches. “You’ve got your straight-on, your side and your bird’s-eye views,” he began.
    “You’re an artist!” Grace exclaimed, and gestured to the charcoal sketch of Venice on the wall beside her. “Like Bianca.”
    “Not even close, but thanks.”
    “You got these columns on the ends.” Sal peered over his reading glasses. “Fancy.”
    “More Italian.”
    “More money.”
    Bo lifted a shoulder, decided to eat the salad. “He can always go with treated posts. Either way, I’d paint them. Strong colors. Festive.”
    “One thing to draw pictures, another to build. You got any samples of your work?”
    “I’ve got a portfolio.”
    “In the briefcase?”
    Bo nodded, kept eating, and Sal made another come-ahead gesture.
    “Gib’s busy, but he’ll be over in a minute.” Bianca slid into the booth beside her brother. “Oh, the sketches. These are wonderful, Bo. You’ve got a lovely hand.”
    “An artist,” Grace said with a firm nod. “Sal’s browbeating him.”
    “Of course he is,” Bianca agreed, and managed to elbow her brotherand pick up a sketch at the same time. “It’s more than I imagined, more than I planned.”
    “We can always adjust to—”
    “No, no.” She waved Bo’s words aside. “Better than I imagined. Do you see, Sal? You and Grace could be sitting out there tonight, the pretty little lights, the vines, the warm air.”
    “Sweating in August.”
    “We’ll sell more bottled water that way.”
    “A separate kitchen. More help, more expense, more trouble.”
    “More business.” There was challenge on her face as she swiveled full-on to her brother. “Who’s run this place for the last thirty-five years? You or me?”
    His