Second Honeymoon

Chapter 7

“DO YOU KNOW what the Italians call dining outdoors?” asked Judy, looking at her two grandsons as if they were sitting at desks in a classroom instead of at our round patio table.

Susan’s mother had been an elementary school teacher for twenty-eight years. Old habits sure die hard.

“Honey, give the boys a break,” said Marshall, cutting into a full pound of New York strip. “School’s out.”

Judy happily ignored him. They’d been married even longer than she’d been a teacher.

“Alfresco,” she continued. “It means ‘in the fresh air.’” She then repeated the word slowly, as it would have been pronounced on one of those classic Berlitz language tapes. “Al-fres-co.”

“Hey, wait a minute, I know him!” announced Marshall, shooting the boys a wink from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Al Fresco! He and I fought in Vietnam together. Good old Al Fresco. What a character.”

Max and John Jr. cracked up. They always did at their grandfather’s jokes. Even Judy cracked a smile.

As for me, I was smiling, too. I was looking around the table at a family that had been devastated by a tragedy but had somehow managed to regroup and carry on.

Gee, any thoughts of regrouping and carrying on yourself, O’Hara? Maybe get your badge back? Some semblance of a life? Yes? No?

A couple of minutes later, Judy was even doing something she hadn’t done since Susan’s death. She was talking about someone else’s death. For a while there, the mere mention of the word would trigger her crying.

“I saw the most awful thing on the news earlier today,” she said. “Ethan Breslow and the doctor he just married were murdered on their honeymoon.”

Marshall shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel sorry for his father.”

“Wait—who’s Ethan Breslow?” asked John Jr.

“He’s the son of a very wealthy man,” I said.

“A very, very wealthy man,” added Marshall. “Warner Breslow is a lot like Donald Trump…only less modest.”

Judy shot him a disapproving look, although she wasn’t about to disagree. Warner Breslow’s ego was world-renowned. It even had its own Wikipedia page.

“Have they caught the killer?” I asked.

“No,” said Judy. “The news said there were no witnesses. They were in Turks and Caicos, I think.”

“Turks and where?” asked Max, unaware that he’d just walked into another one of his grandma’s teaching moments.

“Turks and Caicos,” she said. “It’s an island in the Caribbean—really a bunch of islands.”

As she began a brief history lesson about the British West Indies, I heard the phone ring inside the house. I was about to get up when Marshall beat me to the punch. “I’ll get it,” he said.

Less than twenty seconds later, he returned to the table, looking utterly shocked and confused. He had his hand over the phone.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Warner Breslow,” he said. “He wants to speak to you.”