Page 42 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Oh, Carole,” began Polly, somewhat embarrassed. “You know what I would really love? One of those New York System franks and a big coffee milk.”
Carole raised an eyebrow as she reached for her phone. “Really? That’s what you want?”
“Vraiment. They don’t have anything like them in Paris.”
“I bet they don’t,” said Carole, as they strolled toward the parking garage exit. As far as she knew, they didn’t have New York System franks anywhere beyond Rhode Island, and as far as she was concerned, that was a good thing. The world wasn’t ready for the oniony local delicacy.
An hour or so later, Carole was still tasting the sauce from the New York System hot dog, even though she’d gone through most of a roll of Tums. She and Polly were walking Poopsie on the statehouse lawn. Carole would have preferred to go by herself, but Polly insisted she needed some fresh air to clear her lungs after the airplane flight and the hospital visit. “I just can’t handle that artificial air,” she complained.
Carole had to admit, it was a nice, sunny day, a fact she hadn’t really noticed until now. Maybe what Polly was saying was right; maybe Americans didn’t know how to enjoy life the way the French did. And it was pleasant here, on the huge lawn, as long as you ignored the cars that swooped by on the nearby street.
“And the Italians, too,” continued Polly, oblivious to the roar of traffic. “They take time to eat with their families; they think nothing of taking an hour or two for lunch, and always with wine, followed by a little siesta.”
“How come they don’t get fat?” asked Carole, who rarely ate more than a salad for lunch, with nothing stronger than a glass of Pellegrino.
“I’ve given a lot of thought to this,” admitted Polly. “It’s the lifestyle. They eat small portions, they eat lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, and they’re active; they don’t drive around in giant SUVs and get lunch from fast-food drive-thrus.”
“I dunno,” sighed Carole. “I’m always walking the dog, I never eat fast food, but it’s still a struggle.”
“Perhaps it’s your metabolism,” replied Polly, with a shrug. “Madame Pompadour here manages to look very trim indeed, but then, she is French.”
Poopsie was walking along beside Polly, actually heeling, for the first time Carole could remember. She wasn’t pulling at the leash; she wasn’t growling and attempting to attack other dogs, and she wasn’t even nipping the heels of passersby. She was simply walking along like the dogs in obedience-training videos. It was completely unnerving, and further proof to Carole, as if she needed it, that she wasn’t half the woman her mother was.
“So is Frank really in big trouble?” asked Polly. “Will he go to jail?”
“He didn’t kill Hosea Browne, but I don’t know if a jury will believe it.”
“I saw CNN on the plane, and they said that guy in South Carolina who killed his wife and kid is getting a retrial or something.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better,” said Carole.
“I know,” declared Polly, “you need cheering up. We should go shopping. Aren’t there some cute little stores around here?”
“Yeah, Mom. We’re right by Providence Place. It’s a mall.”
“Good. I will buy you a gift, a hostess gift, a thank-you.”
“Now that you mention it, Ma—I mean Polly—how long do you think you’ll be staying with us?”
“Six weeks, I think. I want a chance to really visit with my daughter and her wonderful children. How is Constancia, by the way?”
Carole swallowed hard. Six weeks! Wait until she told Frank.
Polly headed straight for the mall, while Carole headed home with Poopsie because dogs weren’t allowed in Providence Place. She was worrying about how she was going to break the news to Frank about her mother’s plans when she turned the corner onto Edith Street and noticed the Cayenne was parked in front of the door and Frank’s brother, Paulie, was getting out.
“Thanks, Paulie,” she said, noticing he looked as if he hadn’t slept last night, with deep circles under his eyes. Of course, Paulie always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“No problem,” he said, keeping his distance from Poopsie as he handed her the keys. “How’s Frank-O?”
“He’s got a ways to go, but he’s on the road to recovery,” said Carole, keeping a firm hold on the dog. For some reason known only to Poopsie, she’d never really taken to Paulie.
“Doesn’t rain but it pours, huh? Those fire marshals were at the office first thing this morning, asking lots of questions.”
“So? None of us had anything to do with the fire, right?”
Paulie nodded, jerking his head up and down. “Nothing at all,” he said, a bit too quickly, like a kid caught near the cookie jar with crumbs on his shirt. But that was crazy, thought Carole. Why would Paulie set a fire at a project that was making the Capobiancos a ton of money?
“Do you want a ride back?” she asked.
