Free Unnatural Acts by Stuart Woods Page B

I’ll talk to you from the direction of the stove.”
    “What are we having?”
    “Osso buco,” Stone said, “with risotto.”
    “Doesn’t that take hours?”
    “Not in the pressure cooker,” he replied. “The risotto takes half an hour, though—no way to speed it up.”
    “It all smells wonderful, and I thank you for not making me dress up to go out to a restaurant.” She pulled up a stool to the stove and watched him add stock to the risotto and stir it in. “Let’s get this out of the way,” she said. “Tell me about your wife.”
    “She was murdered by a former and insanely jealous lover,” Stone said.
    “I hope he got the chair.”
    “They don’t do the chair anymore, it’s the needle nowadays,” Stone said. “But, in any case, he’s still at large, probably in Mexico.”
    “That must be hard to take.”
    Stone shrugged and added more stock. “I’m not a vengeful person. He’ll be caught, eventually, and will spend the rest of his life in prison.”
    “Not the death penalty?”
    “I’m opposed to the death penalty.”
    “On what grounds?”
    “Religious, moral, and economic.”
    “I can understand the first two, but economic?”
    “The death penalty costs the state several times as much as a prisoner’s serving life without parole, what with appeals. And in prison, they can make him earn his keep, until he’s too old or sick to work.”
    “I never thought of that,” she said. “I guess I’m more vengeful than you.”
    “I’ll try never to earn your vengeance,” Stone said.
    “Smart move. I can be a real bitch.”
    “Or your anger.”
    Stone turned off the pressure cooker and let it cool, but he kept stirring the risotto and adding the stock. Finally, when all the liquid had been absorbed, he folded in half a container of crème fraîche and a couple of fistfuls of grated Parmesan cheese, then raked the rice into a platter and made a wall of it around the rim. He opened the pressure cooker, spooned out four slabs of the veal, and poured the sauce over it. “Voila,” he said, setting the platter on the table. And seating her.
    “Why so much?” she asked. “Are we expecting someone else?”
    Stone tasted the wine and poured them each a glass. “Nope, but I’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow and maybe for dinner tomorrow night, too.”
    “How long ago did your wife die?”
    “A year ago Christmas.”
    “And how long have you been dating?”
    “You’re the first woman I’ve asked out in New York,” Stone said.
    “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
    Stone raised his wineglass. “You have convinced me I’m ready.”
    “I’m flattered.”
    “I’m flattered that you’re flattered. Try your food.”
    She forked a piece of the veal into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then tried the risotto. “You’re hired,” she said. “Can you come to the theater and make lunch every day?”
    “I work every day,” he replied, “but I appreciate the offer.”
    “Your offices are in the Seagram Building, aren’t they?”
    “That’s right, but my office is right through that door and through a couple of rooms. It used to be a dentist’s offices, but when I inherited the house, I made it into my workplace. It houses my secretary, an associate, and me.”
    “You inherited all this?”
    “Yes, from a great-aunt, but it wasn’t in this good a shape. Took a lot of work.”
    “I want to see the whole place,” she said.
    “After dinner. Besides, I haven’t heard your life story yet.”
    “Born in a small town in Georgia called Delano,” she said. “Learned to tap dance at four—a regular Shirley Temple—started ballet at six, and danced my way through school and college. Came to New York, auditioned for thirty-seven shows, finally got one, and I haven’t been at liberty since.”
    “That was concise,” Stone said.
    “Well, I skipped the early husband, who turned out to be gay, and a few unsatisfactory love affairs. Something I don’t understand