in this apartment, before. He wandered into the living room.
The water shut off and, almost immediately, Acey emerged. Her knee was covered with two crossing Band-Aids, marring the perfect landscape of her leg. She smiled, and said, “Nice place you got here. It’s, well, it’s really clean. A hospital’s not even this clean.”
Harry laughed. “Clean” was pretty much the only thing you could say about it. It was devoid of decoration, a purely functional white-walled enclosure. Thanks to the influence of many maids in his mother’s employ, Harry was only happy in sterile surroundings. “I don’t really like a lot of clutter. Or even a little clutter.”
“That’s all right. I’m not criticizing, just curious.” She shifted her feet, a bit uneasy. Harry knew he was capable of putting her at ease with a gesture, a conversation starter, a drink. He’d done it a hundred times in his life. But he just couldn’t right now.
Another two beats went by. “Well,” Acey said, “I really should be on my way.” She glanced at her watch, perhaps just as an excuse, but then her eyes opened very wide. “Oh, crap, I really should be on my way.” She practically ran to the front door. “This was very decent of you, cowboy. Thanks. See you around.”
Harry fumbled for something to say, but before he could, Acey Corelli winked and was out the door even faster than she’d literally fallen into his life. The strange thing was, he already missed her.
“Sicilian pie, peppers and mushrooms!” Acey shouted over her shoulder while adding up the total on the register. She waited for a middle-aged woman to count the money out of her wallet and took stock of the now-empty restaurant. The lunch crowd started before eleven on weekdays, and the time always flew by until two, leaving Acey with her face and neck sweating from the ovens.
“Sicilian, peppers and mushrooms,” Anthony repeated, sliding the pizza onto the counter. Acey folded the cardboard box like an origami expert and placed the pie inside. “Thanks for coming to Focaccia’s,” she said to the customer.
No one else stepped up to the counter. Acey could actually hear herself think again, and could now hear the piped-in easy-listening music. Acey sang with Carole King as she threw a rag down on the counter and wiped it clean.
“Come on, Lydia, for God’s sake,” Acey heard behind her, and rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought. Anthony and Lydia were like a broken record.
“Shut up,” Lydia said, then stomped over to Acey. Her bleached-blond hair was in a neat, sleek ponytail. “Acey, tell that gorilla I hate him. And we’re never speaking again.”
Since Lydia was clearly relying on her as a fellow woman, Acey at least tried to be tactful. “Um, you both work here. I don’t think you can get away with not talking.”
“I’d rather quit than work with that…that…”
“So, why don’t you?” Acey asked, knowing the answer never changed but also knowing she was expected to show interest every time drama arose.
“He should be the one quitting,” Lydia said. “My father owns this place.”
“I don’t think he’s quitting.” Acey patted Lydia’s shoulder and Lydia grabbed Acey’s hand.
“Hon, that’s a nice set of tips. Look at that color.” Acey grinned. No Long Island girl worth her salt went without fake nails. They were a bit of an expense, but Steph worked at a salon, so Acey got a good deal. Lydia examined the little rhinestones and said, “He’s such a Scorpio. He’ll never change.”
So much for getting her off the topic. “You know,” Acey said, “I think you two are the perfect couple. So you fight—” all the time “—but everyone fights. I heard that the couples who fight the worst are the ones most in love. Because they know how to push each other’s buttons.”
“Who said that? Dr. Phil?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe. Just be nice to him. I know he loves you.” This was true. As often as they argued, Anthony was always doing nice things for Lydia. Buying her little gold charms, taking her bowling even though he hated it, bringing her flowers. Acey thought they were the nicest couple, when they were being nice. Their fights were only over stupid things, but they escalated because they both enjoyed yelling.
“Yeah,” Anthony said, coming around behind Acey and giving her a platonic kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.” He glanced at the sulking Lydia. “You should listen to your friend here. I’m a good guy.”
“Please. I wouldn’t come back to you if you were the lottery winner.”
“That’s interesting, huh?” Anthony said. “No one came forward yet.”
“Nope,” Acey said. She’d planted herself in front of the news every night for almost a full week with Steph, but no word. That no winner had revealed himself was becoming more of a story than the fact that there was a winner.
“What kind of a moron doesn’t take the money?” Lydia asked. “I’d run to the lottery office.”
“Maybe someone who’s out of the country. Doesn’t know he won,” Anthony said.
“Or maybe someone who doesn’t speak English, and didn’t hear it on the news,” Lydia suggested, temporarily forgetting the silent treatment.
Acey didn’t remind her. “Maybe the winner is scared.” This was her new theory, after discussing it last night with Steph.
“Scared? Of what? Being rich?” Anthony laughed.
Two junior-high-age boys approached the counter and asked Acey for zeppoles. She submerged five dough balls in the deep fryer. Lydia was saying, “It’s true. Like, if you’ve been dirt-poor your whole life, suddenly having all that money would be a jolt to your system.”
“I’m sure I could handle it,” Anthony replied. “Besides, I don’t think anyone around here is dirt-poor. Just average.”
Acey lifted the crispy zeppoles from the fryer, dropped them into a brown paper bag, and sprinkled in a generous amount of powdered sugar. She folded the top of the bag and shook vigorously, then handed it to one of the boys. Taking their money, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Both boys looked supremely guilty.
“Next time you come in here during school hours, I’m going to charge you double. Got it?” she said. The pair scampered off.
“What about you, Acey?” Lydia asked.
“What about me?” Acey wiped her hands on her filthy white apron.
“Would you take the thirty-five million dollars in one lump sum, or the yearly checks?”
Acey considered a moment. “Yearly checks. That way, you’d always have a little something to look forward to. Or, a big something.”
“Not me,” Anthony said. “I’d take one payment. That way, if I ever got hit by a bus or whatever, my family would have the money right away.”
“If only you’d get hit by a bus,” Lydia muttered, and Anthony smiled as if she’d said something quite sweet.
