The Color of Light by Wendy Hornsby Read Free Book Online Page B

him. On both of them.
    When I lost my husband, Mike, to cancer a little over a year ago, it felt as if the San Andreas fault had opened up and swallowed me whole. I would have given anything for a little more time with him. But Mike decided for himself when he’d had enough, and left this world on his own terms at a time of his own choosing. As much as I missed him, I accepted his decision. But someone else, a stranger maybe, had made that decision for Tina Bartolini. And that was not fair.
    Mr. B took a deep breath and looked up at me from under his thicket of eyebrows.
    â€œEveryone’s sure gonna miss your mom,” he said, patting my hand. “She was one of the finest ladies I ever knew. You know, when she first met my Tina, I thought there might be some, ya know, resentment, her being Vietnamese and your big brother dying over there.”
    â€œMy parents would never associate Mrs. B with what happened to my brother.”
    â€œYeah? Well some people did. Gave her a hard time.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
    â€œBut not your mother. She helped Tina get registered in some English classes over at the JC. Then when the war over there went all to hell and refugees poured into this area, your mom hooked her up to the refugee assistance programs. You know, to help people coming in from Vietnam to get what they needed.” He began to choke up again. “That was real important to my wife. Being able to help out like that.”
    During the entire conversation, Beto kept an eye on his father. When Mr. Bartolini reached a certain emotional state, Beto handed off the customer he was serving to one of his staff and joined us. He wrapped an arm around his father’s shoulders and leaned down close.
    â€œHow you doing, Papa?”
    â€œGood. Good.” Mr. Bartolini wiped his eyes with the backs of his big hands and gave his son a game smile. “I was telling Maggie how sorry we were to hear she lost her mother.”
    Beto kissed his father on the forehead, gave me a watcha-gonna-do? look. I smiled. There was no point correcting Mr. Bartolini, again.
    Mr. B turned to me. “You should try Beto’s pastrami today. It’s extra special.”
    â€œMy pastrami is always extra special, Papa.” Beto had been a sweet, round-cheeked little boy. He had become a sweet, round-all-over adult, very much like his dad, except with his mother’s soft brown slanted eyes and none of Mr. B’s curmudgeonly edges. “But you talked Maggie into having the pastrami day before yesterday. Today I have some really nice baked ziti with chicken, artichokes, some asparagus and good Greek olives. I think she’ll like it.”
    â€œSounds more like puttanesca than baked ziti,” Mr. Bartolini said, winking at me. “But you’re the boss, son. You’re the boss.”
    â€œMaggie, I think your number is up,” Beto said, pointing his chin toward the service area; my number was fifty-eight, the number on the call board was fifty-four. “Papa, stay put. Can I get you a coffee?”
    Mr. Bartolini, who seemed fatigued, started to nod, but stopped himself. He turned and looked up at Beto, and as if scolding, he said, “I run this place for forty years. You think I don’t know where to find the coffeepot?”
    â€œSuit yourself.”
    As I rose to follow Beto, I patted Mr. Bartolini on the shoulder. “Take care.”
    â€œTry the pastrami,” he said. “Today it’s extra special.”
    Beto leaned his head close to mine as we walked toward the deli cases. “What do you think?”
    â€œI think you’re right, Beto,” I said. “He’s getting a little fuzzy around the sides. But he seems to be okay.”
    He nodded. “Some days are better than others, and today’s not so good. If you asked him what happened this morning, he couldn’t tell you. But ask about something ten, twenty, thirty