Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

was Thanksgiving dinner at Papa’s. The more difficult was Wukowski working the same case, albeit from different sides, as me. And why hadn’t he mentioned this morning that he was assigned to the Johnson case? Regardless of his responses, another item on my agenda for the evening was to get my guy in the sack. It was almost a week since our last romantic encounter, and I was more than ready.

Even as I eased the front door of my condo open, the delicious aroma hit me. I opted for normalcy and called, “Ricky, I’m home.” Wukowski rounded the corner and engulfed me in a hug. “Lucy,” he kidded me in a fake Cuban accent, “you’re late.” He eyeballed me. “Nice dress. Something purple underneath?”

I gave him a Mona Lisa smile. “You can find out yourself…later.”

He lifted me up and kissed me, long and slow, while my feet dangled in the air. Then he set me down gently, keeping his hands around my waist.

“Wow,” I said, “any special reason for that?”

“Nah. Just…I missed you, you know, and…jeez, Angie, I hate it when we’re at odds—even though you deserved some of my anger.”

I decided to focus on the semi-apology. “I feel the same way about you.” Then I smiled. “I see make-up sex in our future. Our near future.” He started to gently suck on my ear lobe. “Not that near, caro. I’m starving, and something smells good! What’s for supper?”

“Pierogi.”

Delectable Polish dumplings. I grabbed Wukowski’s hand and pulled him into the kitchen, expecting a mess. The kitchen should have been full of dishes, but the counters and sink were clean.

“They’re in the warming oven.”

“You didn’t have to clean up. You know the deal. When one of us cooks, the other has KP.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly cook. I warmed. My mom made a big batch and sent some with me. She said a working woman should have a hearty meal at night.”

Okay, this was verging on the odd. Wukowski was an only child. I’d never met his mother. He seldom spoke about his family, except to say that his father was dead and his mother lived on the south side, near St. Josaphat’s.

“That was very thoughtful of her.” I paused. “Maybe I should call her to say thanks.”

“Actually, Angie, this is sort of an opening salvo. Mama wants to meet you.”

“Really? Must be in the air.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s sit down and talk while we eat.” I loaded up two plates with pierogi and cucumbers in sour cream, which Wukowski called ‘mizeria.’ He poured us each a shot of Sobieski vodka, a kick-ass distillation made in Poland, forty percent alcohol by volume. I learned the hard way to sip it slowly. The pierogi were succulent: a light dough with a hint of sour cream, filled with potatoes and meat, boiled and then pan-fried with onions. The cucumbers were a perfect accompaniment. When Wukowski asked me what I meant by “must be in the air,” I set down my fork and sipped the Sobieski cautiously.

“It’s like this. Papa called me yesterday to find out if you’d be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner. So when you mentioned your mom, it seemed ironic, given that Papa and Aunty Terry have escalated from hinting about you to outright demanding to meet you.” I picked up my fork and took another bite, waiting and watching.

Wukowski gave me his crooked grin, the one that makes my pulse speed up. “Guess it’s time to face the music, moja droga.”

Moy-ah drow-ga. My dear. Sweet words sound so much more romantic in a foreign language. I mentally shook myself. “The thing is, we’ve both been so busy, that I put off asking you about Thanksgiving. I promised Papa I’d call him tomorrow with an answer.”

“Gee, Angie, I don’t know. I can’t leave Mama alone on Thanksgiving.”

How sweet, that he was worried about his mother. I plunged into the ice cold relationship ocean, hoping not to sink in the ‘too soon’ undertow. “She’d be welcome to our meal, you know. It’s sort of traditional turkey and dressing, with pasta on the side.”

He laughed. “Ours is the same—but the side is kielbasa and sauerkraut.”

“Pumpkin pie and zabaglione for dessert,” I offered.

“Ditto the pie, with budyn—a pudding—and chocolate icing.”

“Well,” I said, “the food part sounds like it could work. What about the parents? And others? My kids and grandkids will be there. Too soon?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure about my mom. She might embrace you all, or she might feel out of place and shut down. It’s always a crapshoot with her, when you get her away from the familiar.”

“We can be pretty boisterous. But I know for sure that my family will welcome her and make her feel comfortable, if she lets them.”

“That’s the problem. Will she let them?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

He downed his vodka and poured a second shot, but let it sit untouched, like an ex-smoker who needed the reassurance that cigarettes were nearby, just in case. I could almost see the alcohol hit. Then he met my gaze. “Okay. Here’s the short version. I had a younger sister, Celestyna. She was a beauty. Abducted and murdered when she was sixteen, walking home from a CYO dance at St. Joe’s. It was a revenge thing. Some Polish south side teens insulted a couple of Latin Kings gang members. The Kings wanted to show that they didn’t take crap, so they grabbed the first Polish girl they saw—my sister.

“The long and short of it is, Mama never really recovered. She lives in a very small world. Goes to church and shops, volunteers to visit shut-ins, coffee klatches with her neighbors. But when she’s in a strange environment, she gets afraid.” He paused. “And, in her mind, Sicilians are probably close to Latinos.” He raised his hands, palms forward. “I know it’s irrational. My sister was killed twenty-five years ago. Mama’s been like this ever since.”

And what about you? I thought. First Celestyna, then Liz White, his assassinated partner. Small wonder he has an issue with women