Zaccaro

the back of his neck as I kneel to grab my dress and bra. I’m passing the large, deconstructed dining room, while shoving on my bra, not sexy like at all. On a mission to hightail toward the front door, I make the ultimate mistake of looking back. He stays planted. Why does the pit of my stomach clench in disappointment? Upon turning forward, I almost topple over one of the marble statues.
I wonder the price of it, and then the weight. Can I get this thing downstairs and to the bank? I'm sure it could pay the back-due mortgage at my bakery ‘Flour Shoppe’ and then some. Zipping up the back of my dress, I step to the side and back away from what must be a Greek marble piece.
A loud crash, behind me, cuts the monotony of stillness. My eyes close momentarily. It’s an automatic thing I’ve done since I was a child. Dad beat goons to within an inch of their life before my eyes, I was never physically punished. Not sure if I thought closing my eyes meant I was invisible, or I’d go unnoticed from my latest gaffe.
The air escapes from my lungs as I turn slowly. There are pieces of broken clay all over the floor.
I give a huffed breath as Evan starts toward me. “Take it easy, Reese. Watch your st–”
“Damn, I am so sorry,” I begin. “Look, how much did it cost? I'll pay for it.” One day, within the next millennium… God, why didn’t I turn around and flee as soon as Evan showed me his badge!
“Reese, stay put,” he orders. As my mouth moves a mile a minute offering to once more pay, Evan adds, “It was one of a kind. Aztec. My mother… gave it to me.”
“Look, I… I…” Shit, I can’t replace it. And as he steps toward me with more concern for my well-being, I blurt. “Oh, my goodness. Your mom…”
Yeah, I’ve seen lots in my lifetime, which normally makes me perceptive. This is one of those times where being ditzy is best. My throat clamps. There’s a connection here. And it’s not the fact that I should steer clear of the cops because my father was murdered by one. But the fact that he’s grieved a mother just as I have grieved my father.
Evan nods, finishing my sentence, “My mom’s deceased.”
“Sorry.” A breath sucks into my throat, filtering through my lungs. My body is still geared toward fleeing. “I’m so… very sorry.”
“Please, don’t move,” he holds out a hand. Then Evan steps over to me, careful to sidestep some of the larger pieces. My bottom lip begins to tremble, and I want to abuse myself for this blunder, but he has me in his arms in one quick swoop.
“Evan, I am sor—”
“No more apologizing,” he issues a soothing command. As Evan sets me down near the window again, the hot zone, my mouth opens for another round of apologies. My father was taken from me way before his time, and I have one single item of his.
“Shhhh,” Evan’s fingertips graze from my temple down my face. The upsurge anxiety attack which threatened to overpower me vanishes. “Wonder why I have so many statues?”
His question further erodes at my guilt. My eyebrows knit together, and I realize this is a touchy subject as we both stare at the fragments of broken clay. The art pieces do make the place eclectic, disjointed even. If it weren’t for the various statues, there’d be no color in this place, no color what so ever. The place would be cold, lavish but lifeless.
Perceiving my humiliation, Evan speaks, “My mom, she was a curator for one of the top museums in New York, and then she headed the expansion of the museum in Los Angeles when I was about nine or so. If word got out that there was an original Picasso at the edge of the world, you could bet your ass my mother dropped everything to investigate.”
“Oh God,” I whisper. A terrible sinking feeling rushes over me as I comprehend that what I had broken was truly priceless. Tears burn my eyes, but my throat is clamped, and my usual arsenal of apologies for being clumsy is stuck down my windpipe. Again my eyes close, the useless defense mechanism does nothing because Evan continues to speak.
“Most of her findings are in the museum in Downtown Los Angeles. Shit, I’m not even aware as to why I’ve decided to mention this,” Evan pauses though it’s obvious he wants me to stop apologizing.
Biting on my bottom lip, I gesture for him to continue, “She was on the board at the Smithsonian. When mom died my father couldn’t bear to look at the few–and I say that lightly–pieces of art she chose for home instead of selecting to have on exhibit.”
I can’t look away from the man I shouldn’t even be having a general conversation with, let alone converse about something so intimate.
His story is full of emotion, yet pride resides there too. “They were married eighteen years. I was twelve when my father lost my mom, but I knew love. That good Italian love where nothing could tear it apart. The happily ever after stuff. But cancer nipped that shit in the bud.”
Why me? Why is Evan being so open with me? Set aside the fact that my mother has made me shun the Italian half of my heritage. But, Evan is entirely too open. And then says he’s never talked about this with another woman before. There’s a connection between us, built rock-solid. But I can’t just divulge how my father died. Blood flashes before my eyes each time I blink, yet I’ve never told the story. I surely never intend to, least of all, to a cop. I’m the daughter of a slain drug lord, at the hand of LAPD’s finest, no less. Yet, I’m drawn to Evan in ways I never imagined were possible.

3
Reese
The sky is a flurry of turquoise