Chapter 8
“Carmela. Like on The Sopranos?”
Henry shook his head again. He wasn’t familiar with the show.
“Never mind. You want tap water or bubbles?”
“Bubbles, I guess.”
“I’ll bring you some San Pellegrino. And a little bread and some olive oil to get you started. We’re slammed today.”
“I see that.”
Carmela walked away.
In just a few moments, though, her polar opposite approached the table. Rosalie, as this must be, seemed like she’d come straight from central casting where the request was for someone who looked like an Italian mother. Rosalie had an upsweep of salt-and-pepper hair and wore a black dress and what his mother would call sensible shoes. Her nose was big, her features careworn, but there was something about her eyes, a greenish-brown in color, that exuded warmth and maybe, if he looked really hard, mischief. She didn’t smile. “Did Carmela get your drink order?” she asked.
“Yeah, she’s bringing me some water. And bread.”