I sniffed the air. “Meat loaf.”
“Got a new recipe from Betty Szajack,” my mother said.
“She puts sliced olives in her meat loaf, and she makes it with soaked bread instead of crackermeal.”
The best way to defuse my mother is to talk about food. For thirty years, we've expressed love and anger in terms of gravy and mashed potatoes.
“So are you staying for supper?” my mother wanted to know. “I have spice cake with chocolate mocha icing for dessert.
”
“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”
I helped Grandma Mazur set the table while my mother finished up in the kitchen. We were about to sit down when the doorbell rang.
“Probably the paperboy trying to juice us out of more money,” Grandma said. “I'm wise to his tricks.”
I answered the door and found myself looking into Joe Morelli's brown eyes.
He grinned when he saw me. “Surprise.”
“What do you want?”
“You asking for the long list or the short list?”
“I don't want any list.” I made an attempt to close the door, but he muscled his way into the foyer. “Out!” I said. “This isn't a good time.”
He ignored me and strolled into the dining room. “Evening,” he said to my mother. He acknowledged my father with a nod of his head, and he winked at my grandmother.
“We're having meat loaf with olives,” Grandma Mazur said to Morelli. “You want some? We got plenty.”
“I wouldn't want to impose,” Morelli said.
This triggered eye rolling on my part.
My mother pulled an extra side chair up next to me and laid out another plate. “We wouldn't think of having you leave without supper,” she said to Morelli.
“I'd think of it,” I said.
My mother smacked me on the top of my head with a wooden serving spoon. “Miss Fresh Mouth.”
Morelli helped himself to two slabs of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and applesauce. He made polite conversation with my mother and grandmother and discussed sports scores with my father. On the surface Morelli seemed relaxed and smiling, but there were unguarded moments when I caught him watching me with the offhand intensity of a tree toad eyeing a tasty insect.
“So what's going on between you and my granddaughter?” Grandma asked Morelli. “Being that you're here for supper I guess everything's pretty serious.”
“Getting more serious by the minute,” Morelli said.
“Morelli and I have a working relationship,” I said to Grandma. “Nothing more.”
Morelli slouched back. “You shouldn't fib to your grandma. You know you're crazy about me.”
“Well, listen to that,” Grandma said, clearly charmed. “Isn't he the one.”
Morelli leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Speaking of work, I have a matter I'd like to discuss with you in private. I thought maybe we could go for a ride together after the table is cleared.”
“Sure,” I said. And maybe I'll poke out my eye with the turkey baster.
I gathered the plates together and hauled them off to the kitchen. My mother and Grandma Mazur followed with the serving dishes.