Free Whole Latte Life by Joanne DeMaio Page A

sip of the champagne.
    “Thank you,” she answers, watching him closely. The music moves through the room like wisps of fog, winding round tables, visiting at the booths. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Sara Beth, I don’t know a whole lot about you, Officer Micelli.” She reaches forward and clasps his hand briefly. “Tell me about yourself.”
    What that does is make him feel very aware of himself as she looks from his eyes, to his face, weathered from a life out-doors patrolling the city streets, to the gray creeping into his dark hair at the temples, sitting in this club in Manhattan.
    So how do you tell someone that there isn’t much to tell? That you haven’t gone out two nights in a row for months? How do you explain mundane, that your life is lacking? Empty, even. Until suddenly, one screwy Thursday when you least expect it, that same someone inches right into that big empty space.
    He spins his glass slowly, looking at Rachel, then beyond her, in the dim light. “There’s not much to tell. You’ll wish you’d never asked.”
    “No sir. Come on now,” Rachel says, smiling.
    “Okay. Well, I’ve been on the force for fourteen years. Five on horseback.” He’ll make the rest quick and painless. “I’m divorced. I live alone in my childhood home in Queens, am a Yankees rather than a Mets fan and I have a daughter, too. She’s fifteen and so far on the straight and narrow.” Does he mention that he’s afraid that is about to change? He shifts in his seat. “I don’t go out much. A drink here and there, catch some ball games, you know, see my daughter, go to the movies. Really, Rachel. It’s pretty lame.”
    “Sounds nice to me.” She watches him still.
    “Okay then. Let’s see…I’m forty-four years old and liking it these days, and I love music.” The piano notes tiptoe past and he nods toward the band.
    “Go on,” Rachel urges.
    He pauses, not having put his life under a microscope like this for a long time. Does she really want to hear about his horse and what it feels like to patrol the city streets from a saddle? Does she want to know his daughter’s name and what style house he lives in? What it is about forty-four that has him liking it? Would she understand the security he finds in it all?
    “Only one more thing.” Really, Rachel DeMartino seems too urbane to care much about a New York City cop. He doesn’t want to lose her on the trivia of his days. Funny, he’s finding that he doesn’t want to lose this abandoned friend at all.
    “I’m waiting…”
    It’s Friday and the hot spots are jumping in the city. Other dance floors are filled to capacity. Here, well, here the crowd swells after midnight. He pauses, then reaches for her hand. “I like to dance.”
    They walk to the edge of the dance floor, his hand reaching around to the small of her back as they dance a slow song that has her glance around the room briefly before she’s looking right back at him.
    He senses that gaze stopping at the shadows of his face, seeing his features up close, trying to catch his eye. It feels different tonight, holding her like this, compared to yesterday’s coffee at Joe’s deli, hearing her story. The music plays and he moves his hand over the smooth velvet jacket on her back, up to her neck, drawing her close. She rests her head on his shoulder.
    “And there’s one more thing,” he says, bending close to her ear. “I haven’t had a weekend this interesting in a long, long time.” He doesn’t see her smile and close her eyes as he folds her hand to his chest and they finish the dance.

     
    “Your turn.”
    “For what?”
    “Who are you, Rachel?”
    After two dances and a drink, it seems he wants to know more. So far he only knows her as the blonde widow deserted in Manhattan on a weekend birthday jaunt. He folds his arms on the table and leans closer.
    “Well, you know all about me. I’m a pesky Connecticut widow,” she says, pulling out her cell phone. “Wait, let me