A Mom for Matthew

Glancing up, Grace couldn’t help noticing that Zeke Rossetti wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Did that mean he lived alone and cooked for himself? Although she’d learned the hard way that married men didn’t necessarily advertise the fact with a ring. One in particular had gone to great lengths to conceal his marital status, she recalled with sudden distaste. Sure, she’d been gullible. Once. A mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

“Tell you what…” Rossetti’s voice rumbled from his dim corner. “Just order what you think you’d like to try.”

“Oh, but I’d hate to leave you with anything your family might not eat.”

Zeke sent her a veiled frown. He was sure he’d never mentioned having a family. So, Grace Stafford wasn’t above fishing for other things besides that old war plane, he decided uncomfortably. Zeke considered it lucky that a waiter came to take their drink order, and saved him from answering.

He ordered a bottle of the house Chianti, assuming she’d drink red wine with Italian food. Since Grace didn’t object when he held up two fingers as the waiter asked, “How many glasses?” Zeke continued, emboldened to order a sampler of four popular dishes. “I know it’s a lot for two people,” he added. “Tell the chef I’m showcasing house specialties to a visitor tonight. I’ll have you box what’s left.”

“Excellent choices,” the no-nonsense waiter said, turning to smile at Grace. “And welcome to our humble island. I know you’ll love every bite of the ravioli. It’s seafood tonight. Magnifico,” he said, kissing his fingertips.

Once the waiter had hurried off, Zeke didn’t know how to progress through the awkward initial phase of being out with a woman—the time after the food order had been taken and the drinks or salad hadn’t yet arrived as an icebreaker.

Grace opened her purse. She extracted a packet of folded papers—and filled the emptiness for Zeke. “Here are my permits. You said you wanted to see them. Now’s probably the best time. Then I can stow them away again without the risk of getting marinara sauce all over them.” Her mouth tilted up prettily on one side.

Zeke reached out blindly, thoroughly captivated by a deep dimple winking at him from her soft-looking cheek. He fumbled and dropped the papers atop a candle flickering in a red glass holder. “Jeez,” he yelped, snatching them away, and slapping them on the table to douse the flame.

“Ah, so that’s your plan,” Grace teased. “You think if you set them on fire and turn them into cinders, I’ll have to give up my quest. Sorry to disappoint you, Zeke, but I had copies made at the hotel before I went up to shower. The originals now reside in the hotel safe.”

“I didn’t drop them on purpose,” he muttered gruffly, feeling his cheeks heat. “I didn’t actually access them, but I’m aware they’re on file at our courthouse. I went there after we talked. I needed to check out Kemper’s options before phoning my boss at his office in Dallas.”

“Oh. So then you know I have salvage rights for as long as it takes to explore the floor of the bay.”

Zeke adjusted the pages so the low candlepower highlighted the intent and the signatures. He studied the permits, folding them closed as their waiter returned with a wine bottle and crisp house salads. Pulling the cork, the waiter offered him a taste. Zeke nodded in approval and the man poured their glasses. After a sip, Zeke set her papers aside. “These are mine, you say?”

Grace shrugged. “If you want. I assure you they’re valid.” She dug into her greens.

“I’m sure they are. However, I’d like to fax copies to Pace Kemper. He’s not going to be happy,” Zeke muttered right before he speared a cherry tomato. “Any delay costs Kemper Oil money. But I think you know that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, in the offhand way people did when they didn’t really care. While Zeke shifted salad aimlessly on his plate, Grace steadily ate hers.

Zeke put down his fork and twirled his glass. “You aren’t sorry. If you were, Grace, you’d pack in your search and let us go on about the business of drilling for oil that U.S. consumers depend on. It’s a necessity. I’d hoped you’d see that we’re involved in a serious debate here.”

Grace pushed away her empty bowl. “Well, you’re blunt. Is that what your employer believes? That I’d let a little wine and a meal convince me to quit? Just like that?” She set down her fork and snapped her fingers. “I don’t happen to consider my mission frivolous.”

Zeke’s irritation showed for a moment in his tightly pressed lips. He blotted away the bad taste with his napkin; as he crumpled it in his right hand, he muttered, “Frivolous is your term. You’re jumping to conclusions, Ms. Stafford.”

“Grace. And no, I don’t think I am. What’s this about if not to buy me off?”

“Grace, my boss asked me to try and negotiate an amicable agreement for us both. Pace Kemper is a reasonable man who happens to believe it’s more conducive to talk business over a nice meal.”

As if on cue, the waiter appeared and began to slide a variety of steaming, aromatic dishes between Zeke and Grace. Zeke grabbed up the permits moments before a plate of ravioli would have landed on top of them.

“May I bring you anything else?” the waiter asked, efficiently removing their salad plates as he topped up their barely touched wineglasses. “Is the wine to your liking, sir?”

“What?” Zeke tore his eyes from Grace. “Oh, it’s great.” He took a healthy swig.

Grace could only gape at the amount of food. Zeke was the one to ask belatedly for grated Parmesan on the spaghetti and the lasagna. “This all looks so fantastic. I hope you have a big family, Zeke. I doubt we’ll make much of a dent. I foresee most of this going home with you.” She dished up generous servings to her plate from each platter. Yes, she acknowledged, she was fishing as to who this handsome man had waiting for him at home. Grace told herself it was mere curiosity and a way to steer him off business talk for a while. She so rarely went out to dinner with someone else picking up the tab, and Grace wanted to relax and enjoy tonight’s experience.

She was a teacher in an elementary school where most of her co-workers were also female, so eating out was always Dutch treat. At one time she’d begun dating a science teacher she’d met on a district project; later she’d discovered that he had lied and was married. Deception hurt. She hadn’t recovered from it yet.

Zeke avoided her bait. He didn’t respond and made no apology for it. But it pleased him immensely to see her tuck into her food. Eating kept them both occupied for a while. Until Zeke glanced across the table and said, “Based on your setup, I take it salvage isn’t what you do for a living.”

Grace shook her head. “I’m a first-grade teacher. In San Antonio. That’s how I could take on this project. It’s summer break. I don’t need to be back in school until the day after Labor Day.”

“A teacher?” That jolted Zeke. He took another swig of wine. “So, what’s your experience with undersea salvage? It can be dangerous, you know.”

“This bay isn’t all that deep. And I happen to believe a person can learn any skill through reading up on it. Libraries are a great source for how-to books, Zeke. I bought used but serviceable equipment. I know what I’m doing.”

“That damned boat is a piece of junk.”

“Well…” Grace turned her eyes away. “I didn’t get realistic figures on boat rentals in this area. It seems the costs I was given pertain to out of season boats—when the shrimp aren’t running. But Jorge is confident his boat will suffice for my needs.”

Zeke rolled his eyes.

“Worried about my welfare?” she asked with a hint of challenge.

“Nope. I’m calculating the added cost to Kemper if Jorge’s damned boat sinks over where we have to dig our well. I didn’t factor in clearing the bay of debris.”

“You’re all heart, Rossetti.” Grace reached for the tortellini plate to take a second helping, but Zeke shot out a hand. They both pulled back fast, as though shocked by the brush of callused palm against soft flesh.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, her hand hovering above the table. “Am I being piggish? I told you I had a big appetite.”

“Nothing close to that. Eat all you want. I just wanted to mention that they serve homemade spumoni ice cream for dessert here. I always save room for a dishful with my coffee.”

Grace gazed longingly at the tortellini, but she sat back. “In case you can’t tell, I’m torn. I’ve never tasted homemade spumoni ice cream. I can’t pass up trying something new.”

“Are you a runner?”

“Me?” Grace laughed. “I’m the least athletic person I know. I swim and scuba dive because I grew up outside Corpus and there wasn’t much else to do for entertainment when I was a kid. What made you think I run?”

“Because you eat hearty and you’re no bigger than a minute,” Zeke blurted. Then he promptly shuffled in his seat, clearly discomfited.

“I told you about my metabolism? Well, according to Grandmother, speedy metabolism runs in my grandfather’s family. I think my mom passed it to me.”

“You think? It sounds as if you aren’t sure. Is your mom skinny or not?”

It was Grace’s turn to fidget. “Hey, no fair. Discussing your background is off limits, but suddenly mine’s a hot topic?”

“Excuse me,” Zeke said stiffly. Straightening, he signaled their waiter who’d just served drinks to another table.

Grace wished she hadn’t sounded so snappish. Being virtually abandoned by her mother was still a touchy issue, even though she’d had a lifetime to get used to the idea and get over it. If she’d opened up, maybe Zeke Rossetti would’ve lightened up.

The waiter veered toward their table.

“We decided to have spumoni and coffee,” Zeke said. “Unless Grace wants to keep the tortellini, in case the ice cream doesn’t fill her up. You can box the rest.”

“Dessert will be more than enough for me.” She pushed away the tortellini.

“Shall I make that regular coffee for both?” the waiter inquired as he cleared their dishes.

“I’d better pass on regular,” Grace lamented. “Diving exacts a toll. I need to get a full eight hours sleep. So decaf for me.”

“I run on high octane,” Zeke admitted. He figured it’d be another sleepless night, even though his mother had said Matt was pulling at his ears less, so the medicine must be working. The pediatrician had scolded Zeke for staying up nights to rock his son, especially once Matt started antibiotics for his frequent ear infections. Zeke tended to pay little attention to the advice. The doctor had never experienced pain in a dark and silent world as Matt did. If Zeke’s sleeping in a chair, holding the boy against his chest, gave his son a measure of comfort, then no matter how exhausted Zeke felt the next day he wasn’t going to deprive his child.

“You’ve got that closed, forbidding look again,” Grace said after the waiter had scurried off with their order. “Are you plotting new ways to shut down my operation?”

Zeke emerged from his private thoughts. “It’s not up to me. It’s up to Pace Kemper and his lawyers to find loopholes in your paperwork. I can’t force you to leave the bay.”

“But you’d like to.”

“Of course. I won’t lie. My team has everything in place to start moving in a well undercarriage. You represent one damned headache after another. I’ll have to dicker with a hostile barge company, a disgruntled pipefitters’ union, to say nothing of listening to my crew bellyache over lost time.”

“So, go farther out in the bay. Jorge said he heard in town that Kemper’s planned a whole string of wells.”

Zeke slumped in his chair until the coffee was delivered. Sitting up, he turned his cup around and raised it halfway to his lips. “Bringing in an oil well isn’t like finding a vein of gold or copper and then mining it until the thread peters out. Finding pockets of oil anywhere, especially undersea, is a long, involved process. Sure, I can call in test engineers again, provided they haven’t gone to Louisiana to hire on with another outfit. That’s only a small part of my problem. I have a well ready to dig. Guaranteed to pump oil, understand?”

“I see.” Grace fiddled with her coffee cup. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t say that again,” Zeke burst out. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

“You needn’t shout. People are staring.” Grace tasted her own coffee, then set the cup down and with a shaking hand added cream.

Zeke swiveled his head left, then right. People were indeed watching. He hated being at the center of a scene. Trixie Lee had instigated plenty of them in public during the short time they were married.

Luckily, the waiter arrived with their spumoni and a sack holding Zeke’s leftovers. Well aware that the woman seated across from him had him over a barrel for the moment, all he could do was down the ice cream fast and get the hell out as gracefully as possible. His obligation, with regard to Grace Stafford, would end the minute he dropped her at Seaport House. From here on, dealing with her would be Pace Kemper’s problem, thank God.

Zeke only wished she hadn’t closed her eyes after her first taste of spumoni, and then made noises that brought visions of another kind of ecstasy. Her smile of satisfaction as she savored her dessert showed the barest tip of her tongue—which sent blood rushing to Zeke’s groin. He tried to tear his eyes away, but couldn’t.

Her eyelids popped open suddenly and Grace caught him gaping with an odd expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Oh, did I embarrass you? If so, I can’t help it. This ice cream is heavenly.”

Zeke shifted his attention to his own melting ice cream, quickly stabbing his spoon into the center of his dish. He’d be damned if he’d admit to letting his mind drift to a different sort of heavenly experience. Obviously one he’d put on the back burner for too long, if watching a virtual stranger eat ice cream turned him on. “Eat up. I’m sure we both have to get an early start,” he said brusquely.

Grace didn’t know why, but it felt as if Zeke Rossetti was a Jekyll-Hyde personality. One minute he acted friendly; she even caught glimpses of compassion. The next minute, he was cold and distant. Well, she didn’t need that. She’d been dumped on by enough unpredictable, lying people, what with her mother, then that jerk of a science teacher, Stuart Mathias.

Bending her head, Grace matched her moody dinner partner in silently shoveling up ice cream. Trouble was, it was cold enough to freeze her tonsils, and deserved to be eaten with more care. However, a lot could be said for one’s own company. Grace was supremely glad that after tonight there’d be no reason for her to ever cross Zeke Rossetti’s path again.

Because she was feeling rocky, Grace pulled out her wallet when the waiter brought the check. “Since I’m causing you and Mr. Kemper grief,” she said as sweetly as possible, “I insist on paying my share. As you said when you phoned my room, I had to eat dinner anyway. I would never have tried this great restaurant if you hadn’t brought me here.”

Zeke scowled, raising his eyes from the folder where he’d already plunked down the company credit card. “Put your money away. I invited you, I’m paying. It’s final.”

“I want to confirm that there’s no obligation on my part,” she said stubbornly.

“I got your message loud and clear.” Zeke left an edge of his credit card sticking out as he closed the padded folder and set it on the edge of the table.

Flushing, Grace shut her wallet and returned it to her purse. “I just don’t want your boss to have any misconceptions.”

“Out of curiosity, what’s so damned important about this plane? I know you said it belonged to your grandfather, but what’s in the salvage for you? Did he go down with gold on board?”

“Not everyone is motivated by money,” she said stiffly.

“Okay. So, it’s an historic plane. Now what?”

Grace studied him for some time, then finally said, “My grandmother’s doctor told me her heart’s in bad shape. It’s giving out. He say’s she’s overtaxing weak artery walls—because she’s obsessively trying to set my grandfather’s war record straight before she dies. I wasn’t aware until recently how much time she’s devoted to writing letters and petitioning the navy to give her husband his due. He’s listed as missing. She needs remains or medals or something to bury beside her. Think what it’s like for her. He left to fly a wounded naval officer to Pensacola, Florida, and then a storm cut off his communication. The navy searched the waters off the Florida coast at his last coordinates. My research turned up reports from about that time of a plane crashing in Galveston Bay. The Coast Guard read my notes and they agree it’s possible the storm blew Albert Dugan’s Grumman Duck this far off-course.”

“But nothing’s certain? You’re riding on a hunch?”

She clutched her purse. “A hunch that’s strong enough to interest the Pentagon. Which is why I received authorization to dive here. If I’m right, it’ll close the books for the navy, for Grandmother and the family of the wounded officer Grandfather was transporting.”

“I have to hand it to you, babe, for a teacher, you’ve got guts.”

“You have something against teachers?” Her chin rose and she thrust it out pugnaciously. “And kindly don’t call me babe.”

“Sore spot, huh? Okay, so no one ever accused me of being a teacher’s pet. I was referring to the fact that your field generally takes brain, not brawn, like salvage.”

The waiter scooped up Zeke’s credit card, saving Grace from having to further defend her abilities in either area. And because Zeke told the man they’d follow him to the register in front, they didn’t return to the subject.

Grace put on her sweater and waited by the door until Zeke had signed his credit slip. When he joined her, she began to open the door, but he was faster and reached around her to hold it open. His warm breath whispered against her left ear and cheek and made her shiver.

“Cold?” he asked.

She clasped her sweater under her chin. “It’s the contrast between the warm restaurant and the sudden night air.” She stepped onto the sidewalk, then stopped to let Zeke catch up. “The shops are still open,” she said, gazing longingly at the Strand spread out ahead. “I assumed everything was closed by now.”

The last thing Zeke wanted to do was escort a woman with shopping on her mind in and out of the largely touristy shops that lined the Strand. But who knew if Grace Stafford might get it in her head to wander around alone? The business district was by and large safe. But the side streets she’d have to take to get back to her wharf hotel weren’t. Zeke had witnessed some incidents in the past. “I could stand to walk off that pasta. I don’t mind taking the long way if you’d like to window shop. The stores won’t close for another hour.”

“You don’t mind?”

He did, of course, but the smile she flashed him left Zeke wondering how he’d ever considered her drab. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. Rather than stammer out something that might ruin his tough-guy image, he clamped his teeth together and set off down the street.

Soon, her window-shopping pace had Zeke shortening his stride, and finally dropping back to trail along behind her.

“Oh, look! This shop sells music boxes. May I pop in for a look? My grandmother collects them. I feel so guilty for not spending my summer with her when it may be her last. I didn’t dare confide what I’m really doing in Galveston in case I’m not successful. She thinks I’m taking a summer class.” Grace shrugged lightly. “A music box would tell her that she’s very much on my mind.”

“I’ll wait here. Glass doodads make me nervous. I’m always afraid I’ll knock something off a shelf.”

She turned from the window to look at him. “You do have broad shoulders,” she remarked, continuing to gaze at him. “And those aisles are awfully narrow.” She sighed and moved away from the window. “I can come back another time. No sense holding you up. You probably want to get that food back to your family while it’s still warm.”

“It’s okay. They’ll have eaten,” he said quickly. “Please, go, browse all you want.” Zeke had to get rid of her so she’d stop staring. He’d never met anyone before who had ocean-colored eyes, now blue, now green. Grace Stafford’s eyes made him long for things he’d put behind him. Very little unnerved Zeke, but Grace’s big eyes sure did.

“I’ll be quick,” she murmured, and hurried up the steps, disappearing into the brightly lit shop. Zeke released his breath.

True to her promise, he’d barely settled a shoulder against the rough brick wall to take up people-watching when out she dashed, swinging a package. Her smile spread from ear to ear.

“Found something, did you?”

“It’s so perfect. Want to see?” Not waiting for him to agree, she pulled a box out of the bag, opened it and removed a block of packing foam.

To see better, Zeke had to bend his head near hers. Again her sweet perfume clouded his senses. “That’s a music box? Looks like a miniature white bench with garden gloves and a basket of flowers on the seat.”

“Exactly. It’s almost a replica of a bench in my grandmother’s garden. Better yet, when I wind up the music box it plays ‘I Will Wait For You.’ Grandmother wore out her old record of that tune. I bought a CD she plays over and over. I think the song speaks to her feelings about waiting for news of Grandpa Albert.”

Zeke expelled a loaded, “Oh,” right before he drew back. That one word couldn’t have stated more plainly his feeling on such romancey schmaltz. Grace didn’t care.

Shrugging, she restored the filler and closed the lid. She refused to let Zeke’s cynicism spoil her pleasure over having found the perfect gift for her grandmother.

They walked briskly toward the hotel. Zeke roused himself to comment on the crowded streets that signaled the beginning of summer tourism. Moments later, he pushed open the heavy door and followed Grace into the lobby. She stopped beside a cluster of chairs. “There’s no need for you to see me up. I, uh, thank you again for a lovely dinner.” She thrust out her hand, forcing Zeke to clasp it awkwardly.

“My pleasure,” he mumbled, dropping her fingers as if he’d grabbed a hot potato.

Grace headed for the elevators and entered an open car without glancing back. Zeke didn’t linger, either. He wanted to get home to give his mom a break from Matt.

Since it wasn’t too late, he extracted his cell phone and hit the automatic dial for Pace Kemper. He’d have more peace and quiet to phone his boss from the pickup than if he waited until he got home. Matt wouldn’t be in bed yet, so Zeke’s evening could be hectic.

Kemper answered on the third ring. “Give me some good news, Zeke, my boy. I’ve had a lot of our contractors from Galveston on the horn, accusing me of stalling—if not outright breaking contracts.”

“Yeah, well, my news sucks. Grace Stafford is dug in solid until she finds that damned plane. She’s the stubbornest woman, Pace. After two meetings, I can assure you she’s not going away unless you arrange to have her kidnapped.”

“Damn!”

“You took the word right out of my mouth.”

“If you believe she’s that serious, Zeke, there’s only one thing for us to do.”

“Scrap this well and run tests farther out in the bay?”

“No. I want you to help her locate that damned airplane.”

“Pardon? You want me to—what?”

“You heard me. You scuba dive, don’t you?”

“Yes, but…” Zeke stammered. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Pace. She and I didn’t cotton to one another. She wouldn’t like me sticking my nose in her affairs.”

“Do it anyway,” Pace roared. “Purchase whatever gear you need on the company credit card. And don’t waste any time. I want you diving with her tomorrow. Oh, and assure our men and subcontractors that we’re gonna solve the problem—soon.”

Kemper’s phone slammed sharply in Zeke’s ear. Swearing long and loud, he almost missed the corner to his house.

Dammit! Zeke didn’t want to spend his days watching sweet-smelling Grace Stafford prance around deck in her ugly frog swimsuit. Would Pace know if he pawned this job off on Gavin Davis?