Free A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) by Rosie Genova

got power in the cottage. Hoping my dad’s generator holds out.”
    “You expected at the restaurant?”
    “What do you think? I’m on lunch service, though, so maybe I can get some writing in later today.”
    “How’s the new book comin’?”
    “Well, I’ve gotten Isabella to America. She’s looking for work at the moment. But she hasn’t met Tomasso yet.”
    “Who’s Tomasso?”
    “
Who’s Tomasso?
you ask! Only the love of her life. A blue-eyed boy that she’ll fall in love with at first sight.”
    “Sounds romantic,” he said wryly. “But I’m not sure about those things in real life.”
    “What, love at first sight? Italians even have a name for it:
un culpo de fulmine.
The lightning strike. One look and boom, it’s all over.”
    “
Un culpo de fulmine
, huh? I kinda like that.”
    “Hey, your accent’s not bad.”
    “You forget my mama’s half Italian.”
    At this opening, I decided to plunge in. “Are your parents still living?”
    “My mom’s still in Louisiana. My father died when I was in high school.”
    “Oh, sorry. That’s a tough age to lose somebody.”
    He shrugged. “He wasn’t the best guy. Mama and I did all right on our own.” He turned his attention to the road, and it was clear I wouldn’t learn anything else.
    But my questions nagged at me:
How did you meet your wife? Why did you break up? Why do you live like a monk, without a picture or a knickknack? Do you have any children? And if not, who belongs to the Velveteen Rabbit?
    But we were turning onto Ocean Avenue, and even if I’d gotten the courage to ask, I was nearly home. We were just past the restaurant when I had a thought.
    “Hey, Cal? Do you mind dropping me on the next corner—right there at the boardwalk ramp? I’d like to check out the damage and see what’s going on.”
    He frowned. “You sure? It’s a long walk to your cottage from here.”
    “I’m used to it. I can walk off all that pancetta I ate last night.” He pulled over and I gathered my things. Maybe Cal
was
holding himself back from me, but despite his own fear and misgivings, the guy had driven in a hurricane to save my computer and put me up for the night. I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him again.
    “My pleasure,
cher
,” he said. “Any time you need rescuin’ you give me a call.”
    “You got it.” I slung the bag over my shoulder and closed the truck door. “You’re not coming in to the restaurant to work today, are you?”
    “Nope,” he called through the window. “Saturday’s my day off.”
    And what do you do on your days off, Mr. Lockhart?
I thought as he drove away. Just one more question to which I didn’t have an answer.
    *   *   *
    Out on Ocean Avenue, the public works guys were already picking up branches and debris from the storm. I strolled the nearly empty boardwalk, noting a few brave souls out on the beach. The water was likely to be rough, and probably cold, but that wouldn’t deter a weekender who was determined to squeeze out some vacation time, storm or no storm. It was, in fact, a perfect beach day: The sun was shining and there were only the gentlest of breezes blowing across the sand.
    But once those beachgoers wanted to eat lunch or take their kids on a boardwalk ride, that was where their fun would end. The entire eastern end of Oceanside Park was still without power, including the rides pier. Those with food stands were already packing up or throwing away their perishable stock. The T-shirt stores and souvenir shops had their metal gates down. The arcade was dark; inside, people milled about sweeping debris and wiping down the machines. Two men wearing green sanitation uniforms and matching caps stood outside, leaning on their brooms and talking. The taller of the two said something in the shorter man’s ear, who threw back his head and laughed so hard his gold tooth glinted in the sunlight.
    “I’m glad they’re amused,” I muttered to myself. “God knows what there is to