The senior Mundy laughed and patted his son’s dark crew cut. “Too many to count.”
The child declared that he would settle on ten, and counted off the generations before breathlessly punctuating them with the remainder of the sentence: “. . . Grandfather was named Jeremiah Mundy and he was very brave. He sailed all the way across the ocean when he was just a boy like me.”
Questioned privately by this reporter, his father admitted that young Jake wasn’t aware of the tragic postscript to his ancestor’s arrival in the New World. “Sooner or later, I’m sure he’ll find out,” he said with a shrug. “We all do.”
Chapter 6
Sitting across the table from Jake, Rowan watches him study the menu as though he hasn’t eaten at Marrana’s dozens of times before. Hundreds of times, probably.
She admires the familiar furrow between his dark brows and his full mouth and the masculine angle of his stubbly jaw, even though she’s always preferred him clean--shaven.
“What are you having?” he asks without looking up.
“I’m not sure. I forgot my reading glasses at home and I can’t see the specials.”
“So you’re my blind date then, is that it?”
“Good one,” she says, deadpan: her usual response to his corny jokes.
“You can borrow my readers in a second,” he tells her, focused on the menu again. “Maybe I should order something different this time.”
He always says that, then—-after much deliberation—-orders his usual Cavatelli a la Mama. And salad with blue cheese dressing, hold the cucumbers, and a glass of Chianti, just one, because he’s driving. But he’ll urge her to have two and she will, and she’ll tease him that he’s hoping to take advantage of her when they get home, and he’ll tell her she’s absolutely right. He’ll have a cup of coffee and dessert—-spumoni in summer, cannoli in winter—-while she finishes her wine, and then they’ll drive home at around nine and he’ll walk the dog while she falls into bed. She’ll try to stay awake but most of the time she won’t, and he’ll give her a good--natured good night peck on her cheek and go back downstairs to watch Sports Center.
There was a time—-all right, there have been many, many times—-when the predictable rhythm of date night made Rowan long for the passion they shared back in the early days of their relationship. Tonight, however, maintaining her vow to focus on Jake, she finds herself cherishing every mundane marital moment.
“Yeah,” he says abruptly. “I know.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I know I should have shaved. That’s what you’re thinking, right? I can tell by the way you’re looking at me.”
Ordinarily, that would be exactly what she’s thinking.
“It’s okay, Jake. I know you hate to shave on weekends.”
“Yeah, but I really did mean to do it this morning. It’s getting gray.”
“The beard?”
“See?” He strokes his whiskery chin. “You’re married to an old man, Ro.”
“You’re not old. You’re middle--aged, and you’re married to a middle--aged lady.”
“Nah, you’re a hot blonde now. If I’m not careful someone’s going to steal you away.”
She tries not to flinch, smile pasted firmly on her face. “I doubt that.”
“Maybe I should dye my beard.”
“Blond?”
He grins. “That might look kind of cool.”
“I like the gray. It’s distinguished.”
“You think?”
“Sure.” She can’t hold back an enormous yawn.
“Past your bedtime?”
“Pretty much. If you’re finished with your reading glasses there, Gramps, your blind date needs them before she falls asleep at the table.”
Precious normalcy. It can all disappear in an instant.