"As if you could." Bernice looked down, pressing her fists to her eyes. "This is all a dream. If I can just wake up, it will all be over."

"You are awake," said Angelo, slipping his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.

They were such a ridiculous couple, thought Bernice. MTV should make them into a cartoon sitcom. She was a good five inches taller than Angelo, with all the sex appeal of a hubcap, while Angelo was thick and wide, with all the sex appeal of an Idaho baker. And yet that didn't prevent them from being madly attracted to each other. It must be some sort of twisted kismet.

"I adore you, Bernice." He nibbled her ear. "You're the most refreshing woman I've ever met. You're a real person. You're not just a facade."

If she could pick a facade, this wouldn't be the one she'd choose.

"I'd do anything for you and your family. We're in it together now."

"We are?"

"Sure. We have been for months. Since you agreed to be my wife. Only thing is, you left me standing at the altar, Bernice. You kicked me in the nuts . . . so to speak."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I forgive you. I will admit, I was pretty PO'd back in June, but I cooled off. And to show you what kind of man I am, I'm giving you a second chance. You just got scared. Marriage is a big step."

She felt a little desperate. She'd fallen in love with him so quickly, so totally, but he was right. She was scared. "I can't marry you, Angelo."

"Why not?"

"Because . . . because-"

He drew back. "What? Tell me."

"I just can't." But he deserved an answer. She had to put it on the table once and for all. It was the only way out. "It's . . . your business."

He cocked his head. "Laundromats?"

"Don't lie to me."

"Lie to you? I own a bunch of laundromats, Bernice. Sixteen of them."

"You know what I mean. You're a rich man. You have an incredible apartment on the Upper West Side, a huge house in Connecticut. You drive a 1965 Lamborghini 400 GT with a Beretta in the glove compartment."

"How did you know it was a Beretta?"

"I looked it up on the Internet."

He grunted. "People have a right to protect themselves. And hell, I like vintage cars. Makes me think I'm James Bond."

She did a double take. "How does someone who owns laundromats get that kind of money?"

"Spit it out, Bernie. What are you saying?"

"That you're . . . you know . . . connected. I've seen enough movies to recognize the signs."

"You think I'm Mafioso? A member of the mob?"

"How else can you explain your wealth?"

"You're actually telling me that because I'm well off, I'm Italian, I own a gun, and I'm from New York, that I have to be a made man?"

"Aren't you?" she asked weakly.

"Are you nuts?"

"You aren't . . . laundering money in your . . . laundromats?"

"Is that what you've been thinking all along? That's why you wouldn't marry me?"

"You never talk about yourself, Angelo. Whenever I ask you about your family or your past, you clam up. What am I supposed to think? You must have secrets, things you're trying to hide."

He gazed up at the moon, looking solemn, hurt. And then he burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" she asked, giving her shawl an indignant tug.

"You," he said, his laughter turning to giggles.

Now she was embarrassed. "I don't think being a mobster is all that amusing."

He wiped a heavy hand across his eyes. "Oh, Bernie. You're such an innocent. Sometimes I forget that."

"I am not."

"You may have traveled the world, doll, but you're still a small-town girl at heart. It's what I love about you."

"Why won't you tell me about your past?"

He cracked his knuckles. "There's not much to say."

"Give it a shot."

"Well," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, "you know the basics. I was born in New Jersey, grew up in Brooklyn. Never went to college. Never been married. And I own some laundromats."

"More."

He gave a frustrated sigh. "My family was dirt poor. I was one of six kids. I started working at a cleaners when I was thirteen, did mostly grunt work. But I liked it. I felt like I was doing something important, helping people take care of their fancy clothes. The guy who owned the business had a laundromat just down the block. By the time I was sixteen I was running it. Working a fifty-hour week, and making good money, too. I didn't give a damn about high school. I never got good grades. Hell, I couldn't be bothered. And I hated being home. My mother drank. Who wouldn't with six kids and a husband who thought he was Marcello Mastroianni."

"He was unfaithful?"

"He was a pig. Thank God he gave everybody a break and kicked the bucket fourteen years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He had testicular cancer." Angelo snorted. "Served him right. After he died, I bought myself a six-pack of Budweiser, sat under a tree in the graveyard and drank it, then pissed on his grave. It's what he deserved."

Bernice had never heard such anger in his voice before.

"Anyway, I was a natural at business. A real achiever. By the time I was twenty-four, I owned my own laundromat. By the age of thirty, I owned seven. I worked all the time. Night and day. Lived in a one-room dump and put everything I earned back into the business. And no, I never laundered money. Sure, I knew guys who were connected, but I didn't want any part of that. The farther I got from my parent's life, the better I felt about my own. When my parents divorced in '81, I bought Mom a house in Queens. Real nice place. Picket fence. Little blue-and-white checked curtains. I take care of her now, like my dad never did. By '81, I'd also started investing in the stock market. I had a few lucky breaks. And then when the nineties hit, well, I mean, you'd have to be brain-dead not to make money in that market. I made a shitload. Why shouldn't I have a house in Connecticut and a nice place in Manhattan? Why shouldn't I drive a great car? I got nobody to spend my money on but me and my mom. I've got four assistant managers on my payroll now so I get to relax a little, live the good life. I do what I want when I want. Except, I got nobody to share it with."

Bernice thought of all the willowy blonds she'd seen on his arm, young women who swung their pelvises across the dance floor, more interested in how they looked in the mirror than in who they were with. Not that they weren't impressed with Angelo's money. But that wasn't the same as caring about him. Angelo was right. He didn't have anybody to share his life with. And that was sad.

"It's a fascinating story," said Bernice, snuggling closer to him. "I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

"It's not interesting."

"Of course it is. It's rags to riches. The American Dream."

"It's more like the American nightmare. Pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps is only interesting if you've never had to do it. Being poor isn't fascinating. Working like a dog isn't fun. I never had a childhood. Until I turned fifty, all I did was chase the Almighty Buck. But I'll be damned if I'll let anything prevent me from enjoying myself from here on out. Nothing and nobody's going to stand in the way of that."

"I'm so glad you're not a gangster, Angelo." She sighed.

"Yeah," said Angelo, smiling into her cleavage. "Me, too. Does that mean you'll marry me?"

"Yes. But I can't even think about it until my father's legal problems get resolved. I mean, if Cora Runbeck is running around with a shotgun threatening my family, I can't exactly announce my engagement."

"No, I see your point." He attempted to brush the bangs away from her forehead but found that her hair was glued together en masse. "Don't worry about a thing, babe." He settled for a friendly nose tweak. "I came to town to talk to your dad. Don't get mad at me now, but I wanted to ask his permission to marry you. I know it's archaic. I know it's dumb, but I thought if I had him on my side, it would help me win you over."

"You're neolithic, you know that?"

"But lovably neolithic, right?"

From her comfortable position wrapped in his embrace, she nodded contentedly.

"Good. Because, see, I came to Rose Hill for selfish reasons, but I stayed to help your family. You believe that, don't you?"

"I do," she said, gazing down into his eyes.

"I'll take care of Cora Runbeck. You can take that to the bank."

Bernice felt a tiny quiver of apprehension, but dismissed it. A quiver of something far more exciting commanded her full attention.

31.

On Wednesday morning, Angelo stood on Cora Runbeck's front steps and rang the doorbell. After her near-death experience on Monday night, he figured it would take a miracle to get her to talk to him today, but he'd spent some time on the phone after breakfast talking to a business associate back in New York, getting ideas. He felt he had it all worked out. Only thing was, Cora didn't seem to be home. He pressed the bell again, then banged on the door with his fist. He cupped a hand over his sunglasses and tried to peer in through the small window, but all he saw was darkness.

Crossing the front yard to the side of the house, Angelo passed an old Chevy Malibu on his way to the backyard. If her car was here, she had to be around someplace. He moved carefully past the charred hole where Kirby Runbeck's truck had blown sky-high. Yellow crime scene tape had been balled up and stuffed into a badly dented garbage can. He also noticed that parts of the screen on the back porch were ripped away and the yard was pockmarked and still full of debris. Nitrogen tri-iodide sure made a mess.

"Stop right there, sonny!"

Cora was standing on the screened porch with a shotgun pointed at his chest.

Angelo dropped the briefcase he was holding and raised his hands.

"Get off my property. Now!"

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"We gotta talk first."

"I told you the other night, I don't talk to mobsters."

"I'm not a mobster."

"Tell me another."

"Look, this is important. I wouldn't stand here facing down a gun if it weren't."

She raised an eyebrow. "If it's about John Washburn and his demented brood, you can save your breath."

Very carefully, Angelo lifted his foot and pushed the briefcase toward her. "I brought you something."

She eyed the case suspiciously. "What is it? Another bomb? What do you take me for? I'm not as stupid as my husband."

No, thought Angelo, but you're every bit as greedy. "Just come down here. I promise. I'm not armed." Very slowly, he dropped one hand and flicked open the button of his sport coat, spreading it wide so she could see he wasn't carrying. Then he patted down his pocket and pants. "I can't hurt you when you're the one with the firepower."

She thought about that for a moment. "Open it up." He looked over both shoulders. "Not out here. It's too public."

"My closest neighbor is half a mile away."

"Just let me bring it up to you."

"Open it!"

Bending down, he pressed the button on the expensive Zero Halliburton aluminum case, then drew back the cover. He could hear an audible gasp from inside the porch.

"In case you're wondering, Mrs. Runbeck, it's fifty thousand dollars in small bills. I'm makin' you a deal you can't refuse." He figured she'd appreciate the idiom. Standing up, he shoved the case closer to the concrete steps.

She was silent for almost a minute. Finally she said, "What kind of game are you playing?"

"It's no game. All you've got to do is give me five minutes of your time. Come on, let's put our cards on the table. The money's my bargaining chip. You've got something I want. I've got something you want. I'm no threat to you. You're packing the heat and you can go on packing it. Just let me onto the porch so I can talk to you more privately."

Her eyes shifted between the money and Angelo's face. "What exactly do you want?"

"Information. That's it. Just information."

"On John Washburn?"