Blue Smoke

a picture of the dead guy in his head, standing in his suit with a sheepish smile on his face. “Yeah, it makes you think.”
    B usiness tended to be slow on Sunday afternoons. There were some who traditionally came in after Mass for a meal, but most went home to make their own Sunday dinners. Reena and Xander took the after-Mass shift with Pete’s young cousin Mia waiting tables and Nick Casto on delivery and dish duty.
    They had Tony Bennett on the little stereo because the Sunday regulars liked it, but Xander made the pizzas and calzones at the big worktable with Pearl Jam playing low in his headset.
    It was a treat for Reena to man the kitchen when the demand was light, and to wander into the dining area from time to time to work the tables as her father did.
    Fran would carry this on—that was understood—but Reena would always put time in here. If they weren’t having company for dinner, she and Xander might wander down after their shift and watch the latest boccie tournament, or hook up with some of their friends for a pickup game of ball.
    But since they were having company—and that company happened to be her boyfriend—she’d go home and give her mother a hand with dinner.
    In just a couple of hours, she’d walk home and set the table with the company dishes and linens. Her mother was making her special rosemary chicken with prosciutto, and there’d be tiramisu for dessert.
    There were flowers from Bella’s wedding.
    He’d be shy, she thought as she arranged risotto on a plate. But her family would bring him around. She’d coach Fran, have her ask Josh about his writing.
    Fran was great at bringing people out of themselves.
    Humming along with Tony, Reena carried the plates out to serve them herself.

    “So, your sister’s a married woman.”
    “That’s right, Mrs. Giambrisco.”
    The woman nodded, sent a look toward her husband, who was already digging into his risotto. “Caught a rich one, I hear. As easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.”
    “It might be.” Personally, Reena wondered what it felt like to fall in love with any kind of man. Maybe she was falling in love with Josh and didn’t know it.
    “Just you remember.” Mrs. Giambrisco wagged her fork. “Maybe the boys, they do their sniffing around your sisters, but your day will come. This husband of your sister’s, he’s got a brother?”
    “Yes. A married one, with a child and another on the way.”
    “Maybe a cousin then.”
    “Don’t worry, Mrs. Giambrisco.” Xander called out from his work counter. “Catarina’s got a boyfriend.” He kissed his fingers in her direction. “He’s coming to dinner tonight so Dad can give him a good grilling.”
    “As it should be. An Italian boy?”
    “No. And he’s coming to dinner to eat chicken,” she called back to Xander. “Not to be grilled. Enjoy your meal.”
    She shot Xander a dark look on her way back to the kitchen, but she was secretly pleased she was in a position to be teased about her boyfriend.
    She watched the clock, baked penne and was serving spaghetti puttanesca when Gina rushed in.
    “Reena.”
    “You need anything else?” She grabbed a water pitcher, refilled glasses. “We’ve got some of Mama’s zabaglione today, so save room.”
    “Catarina.” Gina grabbed her arm, pulled her away from the table.
    “Jeez, what’s the problem? I’m off in a half hour.”
    “You haven’t heard?”
    “Heard what?” The intensity of Gina’s grip, the teary eyes got through. “What happened? What’s wrong? Is it your grandmother?”
    “No. Oh God, no. It’s Josh. Oh, Reena, it’s Josh.”

    “What happened?” Her fingers went numb on the handle of the pitcher. “Did something happen?”
    “There was a fire, at his apartment. In his apartment. Reena . . . Let’s go in the back.”
    “Tell me.” She jerked away from Gina’s hold, and water slopped over the rim of the pitcher and splashed cold on her hand. “Is he hurt? Is he in the hospital?”
    “He . . . Oh, Blessed Mary. Reena, they didn’t get there in time, didn’t get to him in time. He’s dead.”
    “No, he’s not.” The room swam in front of her eyes. A slow, sick circle of Tuscan yellow walls, colorful sketches, red-and-white-checked cloths. Dean Martin was singing “Volare” in his creamy baritone.
    “No, he’s not. What’s wrong with you, saying that?”
    “It was an accident, some kind of horrible accident.” Tears rolled fat down Gina’s cheeks.