When she looked at him, just looked at him, with her exhausted eyes stunned and filled with emotion, Roarke knew he had chosen well.
She lifted out a young girl’s music box, not a fancy, important one. Just a sweet little white box with some gold swirls. And the dancer, twirling on one leg, arms curved overhead as the music played.
“It’s a common thing,” Roarke began.
“No, it’s not. It’s not. Shut up a minute.” She fought back tears, even if they were hot with gratitude, full of the miracle that she had someone who loved her just this much.
“It’s not common,” she managed. “It’s beyond special. Not my style, right, not cop-style. But…”
“Even when I bought it I wasn’t sure if it was for you or for me.”
“For us then. It made you sad when I told you about it. You could’ve bought something slick or fancy or glittery, but you knew it wouldn’t be right. It would’ve looked important, but it wouldn’t be special. You took some … you took an ugly little memory, and you turned it into love. I’ll never … I can’t tell you…”
She took a long breath, watched the dancer twirl. “What’s the song?”
“A twentieth-century classic. ‘Tiny Dancer.’”
“Fits. Thanks.” She moved to him, wrapped around him. “It means … I can’t begin. I’m going to put it in here. Not cop-style, but it fits in here.”
She drew back, walked to the shelf where she’d put the silly stuffed Galahad he’d once given her, set the box beside it. “It’ll remind me there’s room for the sweet. No matter what, there’s room, and you need to take it.”
Gently she closed the lid. “And when I need the sweet, when you’re not right here for me to grab on to, I just have to open it.”
“He didn’t break you,” Roarke said.
“No, they didn’t break us. That’s why it fits in here. It’s why we fit in here. And the way we do, Roarke, the way we fit? Nothing’s ever going to break us.”
Touched by her reaction, steadier in his own heart seeing the little box on her shelf, he smiled at her. “We are what we are, and what we’ve become together. I’ll see to that meal.”
When he went to the kitchen, she gave the music box a last brush of her fingers. Then she went to her command center, brought up the list the dependable Peabody had sent her, skimmed an e-mail from Mira thanking her for Roarke and telling her she shouldn’t worry.
“I forgot,” Eve called out. “The resident corpse wasn’t in the foyer. What gives?”
“Summerset, alive and well, is off meeting a group of friends for drinks and dinner.”
“Do corpses have zombie groups or friends or—”
She swung around at the unmistakable scent.
“Pizza?”
“There are times,” Roarke said as he carried it to the table, “you need it.”
She sat a moment, afraid she’d become overwhelmed yet again. Then she rose, went to him. She slipped her arms around him, kissed him softly, brushed her lips over his cheeks, then again to his mouth, still soft, but deep.
“You make me question why I don’t offer you pizza every day. Several times a day.”
“Just the right amount.” She hugged him, swayed with it. “Just one thing?”
“Which one?”
“Tell me there’s no spinach anywhere in that pie.”
“There is no spinach anywhere in that pie.”
“That’s perfect. I think wine’s a good thing. I’ll get it.”
She looked back at him as she chose a bottle with a name she actually recognized. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What doesn’t matter?”
“How hard it gets with the job. It doesn’t matter if you’re pissed at me or I’m pissed at you, or we’re seriously pissed at each other. Because we’re always going to come back to this.”
“To pizza and wine,” he said a smile.
“To that. To each other.” She carried the bottle to the table, poured him a glass, poured herself half of one. “And that’s enough sloppy stuff. Let’s eat.”
19
She could take a half hour, Eve told herself, with him, pizza, and wine. And talk about anything but murder.
“So the youth center, it’s coming along?”
“It is. We should do a walk-through, you and I. You may have some ideas on the finer details as we move in that direction.”
“They won’t care about that—the kids who come there. They’ll care about having a roof over their head, and a decent bed to sleep in, a decent meal.”
Which should include pizza regularly, Eve thought.
“I know it’s more than that,” she added. “The counseling, the education, and the training, the chance to become something other than a punching bag or an addict or a petty criminal. They’re not going to care what color you paint the walls, or the shape of a sofa or table.”
“Perhaps not, but by living in a space that surrounds them with care in those details, they may be more inclined to care how they live, to take care of where they live.”
He brushed his hand over hers. “And some,” he continued, “might make the connection that someone cared enough about them to add the little details.”
“That’s a point. It’s a good point,” she decided. “I can guarantee they are going to care about the size of the screen in the community room, and what vid games they’re allowed to play.” She smiled as she bit into pizza. “And they’ll bitch about the classes, the assignments, the chores.”