Free Dragon Moon by Alan F. Troop

probably buy any one you wanted to.”
    I study the estates that we pass, their fake columns and overlarge doorways, their self-important gates and carefully manicured lawns and grimace. “I wouldn’t want any of them. They’re way too self-conscious. You should see my house. It’s designed to be part of the landscape it inhabits — not to stand out from it.”
    Rita looks at me. “I’d like to see it.”
    Once again I’ve little doubt of Rita’s availability. But, as tempting as she is, she isn’t the one I want. “Maybe one day, if we have time.”
    Sam Moscowitz, short and round, with small thin fingered hands that seem to be perpetually in motion, either gesturing or rubbing together or picking up and straightening whatever objects might be nearby, says, “Sure. I remember,” when I ask about the emerald, four-leaf-clover necklace and the earrings he made to match it. To my delight, he brings out pictures of the earrings and sketches of their design.
    â€œTwo weeks,” he says. “They’ll be ready. They’ll be perfect. Your sweet lady here will love them.”
    Rita blushes. “They’re not for me,” she says.
    â€œOh. Some other lucky lady.” Sam cocks an eyebrow at me. “Or should I say a very lucky man?”
    Back in the car, Henri says, “I’m hungry, Papa.”
    â€œWe can go get some burgers now, if it’s okay with Rita.”
    â€œBut I’m tired of burgers!” the boy whines. “I want a steak or something else big. ...”
    I sigh. “Not until tonight, when we get home.”
    â€œNo, I want it now!”
    Rita grins at the struggle of wills going on around her. “I’ve got an idea,” she says.
    Henri looks up at her. I say, “What?”
    â€œHenri, have you ever been to Metrozoo?”
    My son shakes his head.
    â€œIt’s a place full of all different types of animals. We could go there and eat and see them all. Though the food isn’t very good there.”
    â€œAnimals?” Henri asks.
    â€œLions and monkeys and snakes and bears — all types. Would you like that, Henri?”
    He looks at me. “Can we, Papa?”
    We don’t arrive at Monty’s until well past five in the afternoon. Henri, tired from an afternoon of rushing from viewing one exotic creature after the next — and stuffed with two, far too well-cooked hamburgers, as well as an ice cream sandwich and almost a bag of buttered popcorn — sleeps so soundly that he barely moves in Rita’s arms as she takes him from the car.
    She cradles the boy so his cheek is pressed against hers, watches as I put up the Corvette’s top. “He’s so sweet,” she says.
    I nod, motion for her to hand him over to me.
    â€œCan’t I carry him to the boat for you?” she says.
    Her cheeks and nose show the red tinge of a day spent in the sun. I look at her and smile. “Sure.”
    Neither she nor I say a word as we cross the parking lot and walk down the dock to my boat slip. Everywhere people coming in from a day on the water are pulling their boats into slips, washing down their windows and decks, piling leftover supplies on the docks, preparatory to bringing them back to their cars.
    Gas exhaust and diesel fumes mix in the air with the smells of fried fish and beer that emanate from Monty’s. The house band at the restaurant begins their first set by playing Marley loud enough to be heard from the farthest docks and I glance at my sleeping son and smile when he notices none of it.
    At the boat, Rita says, “He was right, you know.”
    â€œWho was?” I take the boy, lay him down on the bench behind the driver’s seat.
    â€œThe jeweler. Whoever you’re buying those earrings for is one lucky girl.”
    I shrug, say, “That remains to be seen.”
    Rita wrinkles her forehead, stares at me. “Aren’t you going