В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
The list of ingredients was relatively short. How hard could it be?
I threw on my parka and walked to Le Faubourg Ste-Catherine.
Poultry, greens, rice, no problem.
Ever try scoring a Crenshaw melon in December in the arctic?
A discussion with the stock boy resolved the crisis. I substituted cantaloupe.
By seven-fifteen I had the salsa marinating, the rice boiling, the chicken baking, and the salad mixed. Sinatra was flowing from a CD, and I reeked of Chanel No. 5.
I was ready. Belly-sucking size-four Christmas-red jeans.
Ryan arrived at seven-thirty with a six-pack of Moosehead, a baguette, and a small white box from a patisserie. His face was flushed from the cold, and fresh snow sparkled on his hair and shoulders.
Bending, he kissed me on the mouth then wrapped me in his arms.
“You look good.” Ryan pressed me to him. I smelled Irish Spring and aftershave mingled with leather.
“Thanks.”
Releasing me, Ryan slipped off his bomber jacket and tossed it on the sofa.
Birdie rocketed to the rug and shot down the hall.
“Sorry. Didn’t see the little guy.”
“He’ll cope.”
“You look really good.” Ryan caressed my cheek with his knuckles.
My stomach did jumping jacks.
“You’re not half bad, yourself, Detective.”
It’s true. Ryan is tall and lanky, with sandy hair, and impossibly blue eyes. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a Galway sweater.
I come from generations of Irish farmers and fishermen. Blame DNA. Blue eyes and cable knit knock me out.
“What’s in the box?” I asked.
“Surprise for the chef.”
Ryan detached a beer and placed the rest in the fridge.
“Something smells good.” He lifted the cover on the salsa bowl.
“Melon salsa. Crenshaws are tough to find in December.” I left it at that.
“Buy you a beer or mixed drink, cupcake?” Ryan flashed his brows and flicked an imaginary cigar.
“My usual.”
I checked the rice.
“Who’s calling most?”
“Sorry?” I was lost.
“Agents or talent scouts?”
My hand froze in midair. I knew what was coming.
“Where?”
“Le Journal de Montréal.”
“Today?”
Ryan nodded. “Above the fold.”
“Front page?” I was dismayed.
“Fourteen back. Color photo. You’ll love the angle.”
“Pictures?”
An image flashed across my mind. A skinny black man in a knee-length sweater.
