Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

L auren insisted on returning to the apartment after dinner on Christmas Eve, despite the Caravellos' invitation to stay in one of the unoccupied boarding rooms. Cleo needed to be fed, after all.

"You can still change your mind." Joe stood by the door. "Now that Cleo's had her meal, you could bring a change of clothes and come back with me."

Lauren rinsed Cleo's water bowl, refilled it, and set it on the floor next to the cat's food dish. "Is this because of that note I found in my office today? It had no bite to it," she said. "I'm not afraid to be here alone. I didn't always have roommates. Besides, this building is secure, and whoever wrote that note is surely celebrating Christmas, too. If he's planning anything else, he'll wait until after the holidays."

Joe's expression remained taut, his lips a firm line. She wished she could wipe the concern from his brow.

"Your family has been nothing short of wonderful. I couldn't possibly feel more welcome with them, but I'd prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight. You can come and fetch me tomorrow if you don't like the idea of me taking a cab back to your place."

He pulled off his gloves. "Are you sure?"

Unstrapping the heels she'd worn to work that morning, she stepped into a pair of fuzzy slippers. "I'm sure. If my father calls—I know he probably won't—but if he does, I should be here to talk to him." It would be so much easier not to, but nothing would ever get resolved that way. "I hate this fresh divide between us, especially at Christmastime." Dad was wrong, but she'd overreacted and hadn't given him a chance to explain.

Apparently convinced she intended to stay, Joe removed his coat and crossed to the cold hearth to build a fire.

The Christmas tree began shaking, jingling the silver-bell ornaments, and Lauren hurried to pull the cat from where she was climbing through the branches. After tossing Cleo to the floor with a perfunctory scold that would certainly go unheeded, she padded to the sofa and sat.

After brushing bits of bark from his hands, Joe took the folded blanket and unfurled it over her. When he sat beside her, she arranged it over his knees, too.

"I see you've done some ... redecorating." Joe nodded toward the mantel where she'd flipped over the framed photograph of her and her father, then toward the two small blue figures peeking out from the top of the bookcase. "I'm sorry your Christmas isn't what you expected."

Cleo jumped on the couch and walked across Joe's lap and onto Lauren's. She rested a hand on the cat's back. "Expectations can be overrated," she said. "I didn't expect to spend time with your family, and I enjoyed that so much. Thank you for that."

"You're more than welcome. All of us were happy to have you, and as soon as I get home, I'm sure they'll interrogate me about why I didn't extend an invitation sooner."

She smiled but sensed something was off. He'd seemed a little distant throughout the meal. "Is something bothering you, Joe? Aside from the note and the forger we haven't caught yet?"

He scratched Cleo between her ears. But a muscle flexed in his jaw.

That was a yes.

"Did I ever tell you what I really want for Christmas?" she asked. "Honesty."

"From your father?"

"Of course. But I'd welcome it from anyone else who's brave enough to be on the level with me." Lauren held his gaze. "So what's on your mind, straight shooter?"

His mouth twitched into a smile, then fell flat again. "Yeah, you're right." He rubbed the back of his neck. He was nervous.

That wasn't good.

"I care for you deeply," he began, in a way that sounded like a caveat would soon follow. "Which is why I'm so afraid of hurting you in the long-term."

Lauren frowned. She'd known him longer than any other man in her life, except for her father and Uncle Julian. She already cared for Joe long-term. They'd known each other for two decades, for goodness' sake. "Why would you say that?"

"Your father hurt you by not being there for you when you needed him. I see how rejected you feel, even now, when his work calls him away."

"That's different," Lauren inserted, already seeing where this was going.

"I've missed dinners, birthdays, and holidays, too. For as long as I'm a police detective, there's always a possibility that something will come up at the last minute and take precedence over a plan that's been on the calendar for weeks or months. I don't want to hurt you, Lauren, but given how important reliability is to you, it seems inevitable. I will cancel plans. As much as I want to be available any time, that's not going to happen."

Lauren wasn't stupid. She knew the realities of a detective's occupation meant his hours were irregular. "I understand that. I don't need or want you to be at my beck and call. I'm not a lovesick schoolgirl so infatuated that I can't function without you. I'm a working professional trying to get to Egypt. You and I are two independent people."

"Yes," he conceded. "But when you go to Egypt, that's your choice. What I'm worried about is when we're both in the same city, and you want me to be somewhere, and I disappoint you, like your father has. It will happen again and again."

If Lauren didn't know better, she'd think he was trying to wave her off. What she didn't know was whether it was for her sake or for his.

Dread quickened. "Have you changed your mind about me? Do you want to go back to being friends only?"

"No, that's not what this is. You own my heart, Lauren. I couldn't take it back if I wanted to. And I don't want to."

She studied his face, his earnestness a balm to her ragged nerves. "Then I still say that this is different from my father's absence when I was a young girl with a dying mother. I can take care of myself now, and I have my own work to keep me busy."

"And yet you're still upset when Lawrence's work interferes with your plans to spend time together." He paused, giving her time to deny it.

She didn't. She couldn't.

"You and I have seen a lot of each other these last couple of months," he went on. "Much of that has had to do with the cases you've been consulting on. There will come a time when you're not my consultant anymore, and I'll see you less than I've been seeing you lately."

"We don't need to figure all of this out right now, though, do we?" Lauren asked. It had been a long day. Weariness lay heavy upon her. "It's not like you've proposed—" it was far too premature even to mention the word marriage —"anything serious," she finished.

"I'm serious about what's important to me, and that means you." His eyes shone. "I don't play games. I play for keeps. This is on the level, like you asked. Think about it. If you decide that someone like me isn't good for someone like you, I expect you to be on the level with me about that, okay?"

"All right, Joe." Sobered, she rested her head against him and stared into the dancing fire behind the grate. "I'll think about it."

He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. "There's a reason many detectives don't have romantic attachments," he said quietly.

"But why shouldn't you have a chance at being as happy as anyone else?"

"It's not our own happiness we're thinking of."

"Your hero, Joe Petrosino," she said. "Didn't you say he was married?"

"After years of waiting, yes, he married the woman he loved. Her name was Adelina. She was a waitress at her father's restaurant, which accounts for how often he ate there."

"Why did he wait so long to marry her?"

"Because her father objected to the match. Adelina had already been widowed young. He didn't want her to marry a policeman who could die in the line of duty, making her a widow twice over."

A chill swept over Lauren. She twisted the fringe on the blanket's edge around her fingers. "But her father relented, deciding it was worth the risk?"

"He died. They basically married over his dead body, ten years after Petrosino first fell in love with her. For ten years, he went to her restaurant to see her, since they couldn't be together any other way."

"Oh my goodness," she whispered. "He never gave up on her."

"He didn't. But he also respected her father's wishes so much that he didn't push. He could have stolen kisses or persuaded her to defy her father, but he didn't. That's because he loved her, not because he didn't."

Lauren closed her eyes and sighed. "Joe Petrosino was far more romantic than Jay Gatsby," she murmured. She'd read the novel to see what all the fuss was about but couldn't understand the appeal.

" The Great Gatsby ?" Joe scoffed. "Forget it. Gatsby tried to manipulate the girl of his dreams into leaving her husband and running away with him. It was completely selfish. There was nothing great about him."

A log crumbled in the fire, sending up a spray of sparks. Her face warm from the blaze, Lauren turned and focused on Joe instead.

Stubble shadowed his jaw. "True love takes no for an answer. True love respects the other person's decisions, even when it hurts."

She could smell the tiramisu on his breath. He was close enough to kiss her, but she knew he wouldn't. Not when he was still waiting on her to decide whether she could accept the consequences of his occupation.

Without explicitly stating them, Joe had made clear his intentions. Now Lauren needed to figure out hers.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1925

The Caravello living room looked nearly the same as it had every other Christmas in Joe's memory. But with Lauren here, included in the gift exchange that followed the early morning church service, everything was different. Instead of the nostalgia of Christmases past, he found himself wondering about the future. He'd given Lauren a lot to think about last night. So much that he wondered if she wished she hadn't asked for honesty after all. But he was doing them both a favor by telling her the truth sooner rather than later.

How she responded was up to her. Like Petrosino, he refused to persuade against her convictions.

But, oh, she wasn't making it easy on him. She'd always been beautiful, but interacting with his parents and Doreen—well, she was radiant. He'd figured she was most comfortable with rich folks. In mansions, hotels, galas. Now he realized with a pang that her natural place was with family. This was where she shined. With people to love and care for. With people who cared for her.

It wasn't right that she hadn't grown up with this. He thanked God for Elsa and Ivy in her life. But roommates weren't forever, unless all of them decided to remain unmarried—a highly unlikely scenario. Where would Lauren be when Elsa and Ivy moved on?

Another man could step in and sweep her off her feet. One who was steady and reliable. Lauren would be fine without Joe. If that's what she wanted.

"I'll take that." Lauren collected cast-off wrapping paper from Doreen and Sal, stuffing it into a paper bag.

When she came to Joe, he stopped her from stooping to pick up more trash. "As it happens," he told her, "honesty wasn't the only thing I got you for Christmas." He pulled a box from under the tree, took the bag from her, and placed the gift in her hands.

With a curious smile, she returned to the armchair and withdrew from the nest of tissue paper the items he'd purchased last week. A white scarf, long and wide. A broad-brimmed hat, lightweight but sturdy enough to protect from the sun. A long, tan linen duster.

She hugged it to her chest.

"What's this?" Mama asked, looking confused yet delighted. "Are you going motoring, my dear?"

Laughing, Lauren stood, pulled on the duster and buttoned it over her dress, and settled the hat on her hair. Then she wrapped the scarf over the hat and around her face so only her eyes were visible. Those shimmering blue eyes looked straight at him.

"No, Mama," Joe said. "Dr. Westlake is going to Egypt."

"Ah!" Pop clapped, and Mama and Doreen joined in. "Brava!"

Lauren laughed again, turned to show off her expedition fashion, then returned the scarf and hat to the box with more care than they deserved. "Someday," she said. "Maybe."

"One day," Joe countered. "For sure. You'll get there, Lauren. It's only a matter of time."

"Thank you." Reluctantly, it seemed, she unbuttoned the duster and took that off, too. "I have something for you, too." She pulled a card from her pocket and gave it to Joe.

With no idea what to expect, Joe opened it. Inside were four tickets to the Metropolitan Opera. The performance was Die Walküre by Wagner, for this upcoming spring. He looked up, holding the tickets aloft. "It's the opera," he said.

"It's for all of you," Lauren said, "if you'd like to go. It isn't Verdi's La Traviata , but I figured you might still like it."

She remembered.

"The opera," Pop said reverently. "Petrosino loved the opera."

"Wagner!" Mama added. "It's perfect, Lauren, but too generous!"

"Nonsense. It's been a long time coming."

Doreen looked between them all. "There's a story here, isn't there? Is it a secret?"

Joe chuckled. "No, it's no secret. I was fourteen years old, and full of admiration for police detective Joseph Petrosino. It was common knowledge that he loved the opera and Verdi and the Italian tenor Enrico Caruso. So when I learned that Caruso was the lead in La Traviata at the Metropolitan Opera, I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Met. I ought to have been more specific in my directions. The driver took me to the other Met. The museum on Fifth Avenue. That's where I met Lauren for the first time." He smiled at her, remembering her as a precocious twelve-year-old child in need of his supervision. Or so he had believed. "Needless to say, I did not make it to the opera that day."

Or any other. Not long after, his family's financial situation began to crumble. He delivered flowers for Doreen when he wasn't in school, but any tips he made went to his parents, not to cultural events.

"Well, you can go now," Lauren said. "I hope you all enjoy it."

Pop pushed out of his chair, bent to Lauren, and kissed both her cheeks. " Grazie . We will." Straightening, he began belting out a few lines from La Traviata . He took Mama's hand, lifted her to her feet, and spun her around before pulling her near and dancing with her among discarded bows and wrapping paper.

Mama laughed, eyes glittering. She eventually pulled away from his overtures as though she weren't charmed. Pop kissed her hand before releasing her.

Lauren watched them with something akin to wonder. Joe figured her own parents had never freely displayed affection like that. And Beryl and Julian Reisner? Forget it.

"Ach." Mama shook her head in a mock scold that no one believed. "This is what I get for marrying an Italian," she teased.

"This Italian isn't done yet," Pop announced, presenting a gift to his wife.

She untied the green ribbon and lifted the lid, then withdrew a wooden carving of a horse and rider. The details were painted in bright colors. "It's lovely, dear. What is it?"

He pointed to the box. "There should be documentation inside to explain." But his patience clearly could not withstand her riffling through the tissue paper. "That right there is a genuine Egyptian antiquity. For months, you've been talking about how interested you are in Joe's work, and Dr. Westlake's, but that you don't have time to go to the Met and look at the displays the way you'd like to. So when the opportunity came for you to own one yourself, that you can enjoy every day, I couldn't pass it up. You are holding a piece of history, Greta, and it's all yours."

Joe's stomach dropped. How much had his father paid for that piece? And how was he so confident it was real? Joe didn't share details of his cases, but his parents knew what he and Lauren were trying to do. He glanced at Lauren, whose cautious smile hinted at similar misgivings.

Mama gasped. "It says here that this comes from either the fifteenth or sixteenth dynasty." If she was half as suspicious as Joe was, she hid it well. On the other hand, maybe she really did find Egyptology fascinating. Maybe this was the best gift she didn't even know she wanted.

Doreen's eyes rounded. "How old does that make it?"

"Those dynasties lasted from 1640 BC until 1550 BC," Joe supplied. He'd studied the dynasties so much these last few months it shouldn't surprise anyone he had that memorized.

"That's right!" Mama said, holding a document aloft. It must be the provenance.

Joe extended a hand, and she passed it to him. "If I'd known you were so interested in this, I would have brought you a reproduction of Egyptian art from the Met's sales desk months ago," he said. "For paperweights, they have a little black cat wearing a gold-colored collar, an obelisk that represents the one behind the museum, and I don't know what else. There's also some watercolor prints of interior tomb paintings."

"Oh no," Pop said. "That's not the same, is it?"

For Pop's sake, Joe hoped it wasn't. "Where'd you get this, Pop?"

"Don't worry." His father sat straighter. "That right there came direct from Egypt, through none other than the Napoleon Society. I knew I could trust Dr. Westlake's father." He beamed at Lauren.

She looked almost as surprised as Joe was.

"I thought the Napoleon Society was in the business of collecting antiquities, not selling them—aside from those they auctioned off at the fundraising gala," he said.

"This opportunity is for members only."

"Members only," Joe repeated, hoping to jog his own memory.

"Sure," Pop said. "Doesn't the Met offer membership levels with different benefits?"

Lauren assured him that was so.

"There you go. So does the Napoleon Society. Wait a minute, I'll show you."

While Pop left the living room, Mama passed the artifact to Joe, who inspected it only briefly before handing it to Lauren. Then he passed her the provenance, too. She seemed to relax as she studied them both. Good.

"It's a beautiful piece," she said at last. She gave the carving and provenance back to Mama, who brought it to Doreen.

"And you work with this old stuff all the time," Doreen said to Lauren. "Isn't that something? Whatever I touch in my line of work is usually dead and in a refuse pile within ten days." The florist chuckled, and Joe smiled at her self-deprecating humor. He guessed that "this old stuff" didn't really excite her. How could it, when she was likely distracted by Connor's absence?

"Here it is." Pop returned, a brochure in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He set the steaming drink on the table beside Mama first, then opened the trifolded paper before passing it over. "Don't show your mother," he added quietly. "It's bad manners to know how much a gift cost."

Lauren joined him on the sofa, and he held it so she could read it, too. According to this, the cost of membership to the Napoleon Society included a bulleted list of benefits: a subscription to the Napoleon Herald ; a year-long pass to the Napoleon House, to begin from its opening day, whenever that may be; a 10 percent discount on all gift shop purchases; and a handsome, engraved wallet-sized card identifying the bearer as a Napoleon Society member. Those who donated at the highest level also received through registered mail a carefully packaged, fully authenticated piece of antiquity, complete with its provenance document. Each item comes direct from Luxor (formerly the ancient city of Thebes) or Cairo.

"Sal." Mama's voice was thick with emotion. "It's an extravagant gift. I don't deserve it."

"Don't you? All right, let me check." He made a show of reading the brochure over Joe's shoulder. "Sorry, no refunds. I guess you'll have to keep it. It's about time you were indulged, anyway. I'd give you a roomful of this stuff if I could."

"How about a visit to the Met instead, or even a membership there?" Joe asked. "They already have fifteen rooms of ‘this stuff,' and arranged quite nicely, too. I happen to know the curator. So do you."

"Assistant curator," Lauren corrected him, as he knew she would.

"In fact, Merry Christmas, everyone," Joe said. "I'm taking you all to the Met as soon as you'd like to go."

"And I'll show you around if you'd like to go after the meal," Lauren added. "We're open today from one until six."

"What are the pair of you trying to do, outshine me?" Pop teased.

Joe leaned forward and tapped Doreen on the knee. "Do you have any interest in the museum?" he asked quietly.

She smiled, but he felt it was more out of politeness than anything else. "Of course I do. But if I had to choose one place to go on Christmas Day..." She shrugged. "I'd rather go to the jail."