Homeport

coffee table.
    No one scurried to pick them up, to make excuses for the clutter.

    “Welcome to the Boldaris’.” With a twinkle in his eye, Ryan took two glasses off the tray, handed her one, and toasted. “Your life may never be the same.”
    She was beginning to believe him.
    Even as she took the first sip, a woman hurried into the room wiping her hands on an apron splattered with sauce. Maureen Boldari was a good three inches taller than her husband, slim as a willow, and possessed of striking black-Irish looks. Her glossy hair waved attractively around her strong face, and vivid blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as she opened her arms.
    “There’s my boy. Come kiss your mama.”
    Ryan obeyed, lifting her off her feet as he did so and making her let loose a rich, hearty laugh. “Patrick, Colleen, stop that bickering before I give the pair of you the back of my hand. We’ve got company. Giorgio, where are your manners? Turn that television off. Remo, stop that barking.”
    And as it was all done, quickly and without comment, Miranda got a solid clue as to who ran the household.
    “Ryan, introduce me to your young lady.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Maureen Boldari, the love of my life, meet Dr. Miranda Jones. Pretty, isn’t she, Mama?”
    “Yes, she is. Welcome to our home, Miranda.”
    “It’s very kind of you to have me, Mrs. Boldari.”
    “Good manners,” Maureen said with a brisk nod. “Patrick, bring out the antipasto, and we’ll get acquainted. Ryan, show Miranda where she can freshen up.”
    Ryan led her out of the living room, down a short hall, and into a small pink and white powder room. She grabbed his shirt in her fist.
    “You told them we were involved.”
    “We are involved.”
    “You know what I mean,” she said in the same furious whisper. “Your girl? That’s ridiculous.”
    “I didn’t tell them you were my girl.” Because it amused him, he lowered his voice to a whisper as well. “I’m thirty-two, they want me married and making babies. They assume.”

    “Why didn’t you make it clear we were business associates?”
    “You’re beautiful, you’re single, you’re female. They wouldn’t have believed we were just business associates. What’s the big deal?”
    “For one, your sister looked at me as if she’d pop me in the nose if I didn’t adore you enough—for another, it’s just deceitful. Not that such niceties as honesty matter to you.”
    “I’m always honest with my family.”
    “Sure you are. Undoubtedly your mother is very proud of her son the thief.”
    “Of course she is.”
    She stuttered, losing whatever it was she’d planned to say. “Are you trying to convince me that she knows you steal?”
    “Sure she does. Does she look stupid?” He shook his head. “I don’t lie to my mother. Now, hurry up in there, will you?” He gave her a nudge into the powder room when she only gaped at him. “I’m hungry.”
    He wasn’t hungry for long. No one could have been. There was, in short order, enough food being offered to feed a small and starving Third World army.
    Because there was company, they had the meal in the dining room, with its attractive striped walls and handsome mahogany table. There was good china, the glint of crystal, and enough wine to float a battleship.
    Conversation never lagged. In fact, if you didn’t heave your words out fast and furiously, there was no room for them. When she noted that the level of her wineglass rose back up to the rim whenever she sipped, Miranda left it alone and concentrated on the food.
    Ryan had been right about one thing. She loved his mother’s linguine.
    She was brought up-to-date on the family. Michael, the second son, ran Boldari Gallery, San Francisco. He was married to his college sweetheart and had two children. The last tidbit of info was delivered by the proud grandpa with a meaningful look at Ryan and an eyebrow-wiggling grin for Miranda.
    “You like children?” Maureen asked her.
    “Um, yes.” In a vague and cautious manner, Miranda thought.
    “Center your life, children do. Give you real purpose, and celebrate the love that brings a man and woman together.” Maureen passed a basket of irresistible bread to Miranda.
    “I’m sure you’re right.”
    “Take my Mary Jo.”
    And Miranda was treated to the virtues of her eldest daughter, who owned a boutique in Manhattan, and had three children.
    Then there was Bridgit, who’d taken a sabbatical from a career in publishing in order to stay