Roz Fox - A Mom for Matthew

Zeke listened while it rang and rang. For a minute, he wondered if the clerk was stonewalling him by ringing an empty room. Just as he was about to hang up, a breathless woman answered. “He…ll…o.”

“Ms. Stafford?” Zeke gave her a moment to catch her breath.

“Yes,” she returned hesitantly.

“It’s Zeke Rossetti. We met out in the bay today? I represent Kemper Oil Explorations.”

“Oh! I, ah, received your message. I’m sorry if you made a trip into town for nothing. Really, there’s no need for us to meet. I won’t be persuaded to give up searching for my grandfather’s plane. And as I only recently got to my room, I’ll say goodbye. You interrupted my shower. I’m dripping all over the carpet.”

Zeke followed her stilted, choppy response—which in essence told him to buzz off. He envisioned the soggy woman he’d glimpsed earlier, now resembling a sunburned prune and the image left him unable to speak for a moment. Sensing she was going to hang up, Zeke’s sluggish brain connected with his mouth. “If you just got in, that means you haven’t eaten. My employer’s springing for dinner. Isn’t that a fair exchange for listening to our side?”

The silence went on so long, Zeke grew tense. “If I recall, Ms. Stafford, you offered to let me look over your permits. Why not have dinner at the same time? There are plenty of good restaurants nearby.”

Zeke heard her swift intake of breath. “We can walk to a restaurant?” What did she think, that he’d drive her to the bay and drown her?

“Sure thing. I’ll even let you choose. We’re early enough to get in almost anywhere without a reservation.”

“All right, then. But I’ll need fifteen more minutes. And it’s your city, so you choose. Except…nowhere fancy, please. Diving’s hard work. In the evening I prefer casual and relaxed.”

“Works for me. I’ll wait in the lobby, Ms. Stafford.”

“Uh, if we’re dining together, perhaps you should call me Grace. And your name is…Zeke. Correct?”

“Yes.” As his name fell softly from Grace Stafford’s lips, shivery fingers of an almost forgotten anticipation marched up Zeke’s spine. His well-conditioned reactions kicked in, however, and slammed on the brakes. Tonight’s meeting with this woman was business. Zeke wanted it kept on that level. Clenching his teeth, he said, “I’ll wait. Fifteen minutes.” He didn’t care that he probably sounded rude.

After hanging up, he sat in an easy chair and sorted through the Dallas newspaper someone had left on a coffee table. Zeke fully expected her fifteen minutes to stretch into half an hour. In his experience, a woman needed at least fifteen minutes to dig through her closet. And twice that to apply makeup.

He was pleasantly surprised when, ten minutes later, the elevator bumped to a stop across from where he sat and opened. Out walked Grace Stafford. Zeke almost didn’t recognize her. The hair he’d seen in a soggy ponytail that had reminded him of a dead rat now curled in a reddish-gold halo around an oval face. She wore khaki slacks and a peach-colored blouse that complemented the golden tan she was beginning to acquire. No prune effect, after all. She’d tucked the blouse into the narrow waistband of her slacks. She also carried a shoulder bag and a dark-brown sweater, which told Zeke she was aware that Galveston evenings near the waterfront were cool this time of year.

She approached him the same way she’d spoken on the phone, tentatively.

Zeke rose at once and set the paper aside. “Wow,” he exclaimed. “That didn’t take you long. I didn’t mean to rush you, Ms., uh…Grace.” Rattled, Zeke buried his hands in his pockets and clinked his loose change.

“You didn’t. I’m starved, and I assumed you must be, too, after working all day.”

Zeke realized he was famished. As she halted beside him, her light fragrance, reminding him of spicy cinnamon, shot straight to his stomach. And suddenly, the prospect of sharing a meal with her held more appeal than he’d ever imagined it would. Up close, he saw she’d worked a little magic on her previously sunburned nose, too. Her soft freckles knocked Zeke off kilter enough to have him stammering, “How—ah—what would you like to eat?” He shuffled to his other foot and withdrew a hand from his pocket long enough to rake it through hair he suddenly discovered needed cutting.

But Grace barely glanced at him. She grew thoughtful as they moved toward the door. “Really, I’d rather defer to you. I must admit I haven’t taken time to check out what’s available. I’m not here on vacation but to find my grandfather Dugan’s plane. I’ve been grabbing whatever fast food is handiest.”

For a whole minute there, Zeke had forgotten their purpose in eating together. Brought back to earth, he held open the door to let her pass. “Still, I need to know what your idea of a satisfying meal is.”

When Grace shot him a puzzled glance, he shrugged and blurted, “Are you a woman who picks at a salad and claims she’s full, or do you eat real food?”

Grace laughed, and Zeke noticed that it changed her into a different person. She had a mouth full of pretty white teeth. And he realized he hadn’t noticed her lush pink lips before. Natural. No artificial color. Some guys were leg men. Some ogled women’s butts. Zeke gravitated toward a kissable mouth. Unfortunately, Grace Stafford possessed one.

At the moment, Zeke was trying hard to shake off his attraction and dismay. He needed to hear what she was saying—and he had to ignore that tinkling, delightful laughter.

“I know you wouldn’t think it from looking at me, but I fall in love with almost any food I set eyes on. My grandmother used to complain that when I was growing up, I threatened to eat her out of house and home. An active metabolism accounts for my staying thin. I’m warning you, Zeke Rossetti, your employer won’t get off easy when it comes to feeding me. Sure you wouldn’t rather reconsider?”

Now it was Zeke’s turn to laugh. “Nope. So, if that was a challenge of some sort, I accept. I have just the place, then. Guaranteed to fill a hungry stomach. An Italian restaurant on the Strand. I swear, if you leave Luigi’s hungry, it’s your own fault.” He took her elbow. “Let’s cross the street here. It’s a few blocks. That’ll give us a chance to walk off their huge servings of spaghetti or lasagna on the way back.” Zeke rubbed a hand over his flat belly, drawing Grace’s eyes to his rangy physique.

Up close, Zeke Rossetti was even more dangerously disarming and formidable than she’d guessed as she watched him motor away from Jorge’s boat. “I should’ve known,” she threw out quickly to cover her staring, “with the name Rossetti, of course you’d know where all the best Italian restaurants are. I read that Galveston was settled by families from the New York banking industry. Can you trace your roots back to the birth of the city?”

“No.” Zeke immediately pulled back from her eager personal inquiry. He also dropped his hand from her elbow as they were well across the street, down the block from where they’d cut over. Zeke never understood why women always wanted to delve into a man’s history five minutes after they’d met. “Turn here,” he said, feeling a need to slide some inconsequential remark into the uncomfortable silence swirling around them. “It’s not far.” He started walking faster.

Grace lengthened her stride to keep abreast. Before long, she found herself puffing up the steady sidewalk incline. She had no breath to ask further questions. And although she considered herself to be fairly good at reading people, they’d reached his proposed destination before it struck her that a desire to silence her questions was precisely what had led to Zeke Rossetti’s hundred-yard uphill sprint. It served to make Grace even more curious. But she’d get her answers eventually.