‘Wow,’ he said when he looked up.
‘Am I to take that as a compliment?’
‘I’m not allowed to compliment you, am I?’ His mouth ticked up at the corner and he may as well have licked his finger and drawn a tally mark in the air. ‘I was referring to your hat. It’s…large.’
Huh, I knew it was my rule but it was disappointing nonetheless. ‘Yes. Yes, it is. All the better to avoid sunburn, my dear.’
‘Have you tried sunscreen?’
‘Says the man with an olive skin tone and dark hair.’
‘Maybe a hat with a smaller radius than a tractor wheel, then?’
‘If you don’t like my hat, you can just say so—’
‘I don’t—’
‘But I tell you now, it means I will wear it at any and every opportunity when we’re together.’
He clamped his mouth shut and stood up abruptly. ‘Well, let’s hope we can find this man sharpish, then.’
I shooed him out of my apartment, and we began our walk to Little Italy. Sunday morning meant it was crowded with people going out to brunch as well as all the usual tourists and shoppers. I was fairly impressed that he didn’t need to consult his phone to find the place again. I pulled a bottle of water out of my bag and took a swig. Stephen walked fast; he had that cut-through-the-minions stride typical of Wall Street. Time is money and all that, and he wasn’t slowing down for me in my decidedly un-streamlined hat.
When he stopped on Baxter Street, I nudged him, offering him my bottle of water and he shook his head and pointed across the road at an entrance to a parking lot.
‘That. There. Was supposed to be where he lived. Or used to live. Now what?’ His tone was grim but also kind of smug, like he knew it was a dead end.
There were two markets, one either side of the entrance. On the left was a butcher and on the right, a Korean bodega where an old woman was sitting in a white plastic chair, her feet resting on an overturned wooden crate, knitting.
‘Bingo.’ I tugged on his sleeve and pulled him across the road with me. ‘Hi, excuse me.’
‘Yes.’ She continued knitting, looking down at her needles as they moved swiftly, creating a long green shape.
‘Are you related to the people who own this market?’
‘You think I get to sit outside like this because my pretty face encourages custom?’ She looked up at me then, properly, pursing her mouth so wrinkles lined her face.
‘Always a possibility.’ I tried a warm smile.
‘Hmph.’
Stephen shifted beside me, as though he was having to make a concerted effort to stay quiet.
‘Has your family owned it a long time?’
‘Who are you? ICE? We are Americans and we have all the paperwork to prove it.’ She lowered her needles into her lap.
My stomach dropped in horror and heat rushed up to my cheeks as I stuttered out an apology.Way to go, Elle.
‘It’s nothing like that at all. I’m sorry, we should have explained,’ Stephen took over smoothly, his voice full of some magical mix of reassurance and contrition, while I considered curling into a ball beneath my hat like a tortoise. ‘We’re looking for someone, a friend of my mother’s, and had an address for this road, but it appears to be a parking lot now.’
‘What kind of friend gives you an address which is wrong?’
‘One from a very long time ago. Twenty to thirty years, maybe? I know it’s a long shot asking, as you couldn’t have been more than a school girl.’ Stephen flashed her a smile that would rival any Hollywood star’s. She gave him a dubious look at his obvious compliment but it had clearly worked to soften her, somehow creating a little joke between them, the corners of her mouth lifting, like she couldn’t help it. Damn, he was good.
‘It was apartments back then.’
‘I expect a lot of the residents would’ve shopped in your market?’ Stephen asked. So, he wasn’t so clueless about gathering information either – or he was a fast learner.
