Homeport

pig, but a shallow, superficial asshole on top of it.”
    “I’m trying to hear the news, here. Take it outside until the sports are over, for sweet Christ’s sake.”
    “This,” Miranda said in prim and precise tones, “is obviously a bad time.”
    “No, this is normal,” Ryan assured her, and dragged her into the spacious, cluttered, and noisy living room.
    “Hey, Ry!”
    The man—boy really, Miranda noted as he turned with a grin nearly as lethal as Ryan’s—took a few gangly strides and punched Ryan in the shoulder. A sign, Miranda assumed, of affection.
    His dark hair was curly, his eyes a glinting golden brown in a face that Miranda supposed had caused the girls in his high school to sigh into their pillows at night.
    “Pat.” With equal affection, Ryan caught him in a headlock for the introduction. “My baby brother Patrick, Miranda Jones. Behave,” he warned Patrick.
    “Sure. Hey, Miranda, how’s it going?”
    Before she could answer, the young woman Patrick had been arguing with stepped up. She gave Miranda a long measuring look as she slipped her arms around Ryan and rubbed cheeks. “Missed you. Hello, Miranda, I’m Colleen.” She didn’t offer a hand, but kept her arms proprietarily around her brother.
    She had the onyx and gold good looks of the Boldaris, and a sharp, assessing gleam in her eyes.
    “It’s nice to meet you, both.” Miranda offered Colleen a cool smile, and let it warm a little for Patrick.
    “You gonna leave the girl at the door all day, or you bringing her in so I can get a look at her?” This boomed out of the living room and had all three Boldaris grinning.
    “I’m bringing her in, Papa. Let’s have your coat.”
    She gave it up with some reluctance, heard the door close at her back with the enthusiasm of a woman hearing a cell snap shut.
    Giorgio Boldari rose out of his easy chair and politely muted the television. Ryan hadn’t gotten his build from his father, Miranda decided. The man who studied her was short, stocky, and sported a graying moustache over his unsmiling lips. He wore khakis, a neatly pressed shirt, scuffed Nikes, and a medallion of the Madonna on a chain around his neck.
    No one spoke. Miranda’s ears began to buzz with nerves.
    “You’re not Italian, are you?” he asked at length.
    “No, I’m not.”
    Giorgio pursed his lips, let his gaze skim over her face. “Hair like that, you probably got some Irish in you.”
    “My father’s mother was a Riley.” Miranda fought back the urge to shift her feet and lifted a brow instead.
    He smiled then, fast and bright as lightning. “This one’s got a classy look to her, Ry. Get the girl some wine, for God’s sake, Colleen. You gonna leave her standing here thirsty? Yankees blew it today. You follow baseball?”
    “No, I—”

    “Ought to. It’s good for you.” Then he turned to his son and enveloped Ryan in a fierce bear hug. “You should stay home more.”
    “I’m working on it. Mama in the kitchen?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Maureen!” The shout could have cracked concrete. “Ryan’s here with his girl. She’s a looker too.” He sent Miranda a wink. “How come you don’t like baseball?”
    “I don’t dislike it, in particular. I just—”
    “Ryan played third base—hot corner. He tell you that?”
    “No, I—”
    “Carried a four twenty-five batting average his senior year. Nobody stole more bases than my Ryan.”
    Miranda shifted her eyes to Ryan. “I bet.”
    “We got trophies. Ry, you show your girl your trophies.”
    “Later, Papa.”
    Colleen and Patrick went back to arguing, in hissy undertones, as she brought in a tray of glasses. The dog was barking incessantly at the front door, and Giorgio shouted again for his wife to come the hell out and meet Ryan’s girl.
    At least, Miranda thought, she wasn’t going to be required to make a great deal of conversation. These people simply took over, carrying on as if there was no stranger in the house.
    The house itself was cluttered, full of light and art. She saw Ryan had been right about his mother’s watercolors. The three dreamy New York street scenes on the wall were lovely.
    There was an odd and intriguing tall tangle of black metal—most likely his father’s work—behind a couch with thick blue cushions peppered with dog hair.
    There were trinkets and framed snapshots everywhere, a ratty knotted rope on the floor that showed evidence of Remo’s teeth, and a scatter of newspapers and magazines on the