Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens Read Online Free PDF

telltale bulge in his armpit. My glance went to his hips.
    “I left it at home,” he said. “Off-duty.”
    “Thank you. I know you’d prefer to carry it.”
    “Didn’t seem right for the opera.”
    I smiled. “Come in here a minute.”
    I drew him into the dining parlor, set down my burdens, and raised the boutonnière to his lapel. He peered down at the rosebud as I affixed it.
    “Nice. Thanks.”
    With my hands on his lapel, I felt my pulse increasing. He lifted his chin and looked at me. I could smell his cologne, feel his warmth.
    “Is your bike out front? Would you rather park it back here?”
    “It’ll be fine.”
    His voice was soft and a little husky. His eyes—lovely warm brown—were hard to look away from. Feeling shaky, I smoothed the lapel and took a step back.
    “I guess we’re ready, then. Would you mind carrying something for me? I’m bringing dessert.”
    For a second he looked disappointed, then he smiled. “Sure, especially if it’s that cake.”
    “It is.”
    I fetched the tray from the fridge and gave it to Tony. Rosa was on her way out the back door.
    “You look beautiful, Ellen!” she said, smiling shyly.
    “Thank you. Everything set for tomorrow?”
    “Yes. The front’s locked.”
    “See you in the morning, then.”
    “Have a great time!” Her glance flicked from me to Tony, then she headed out the door.
    We followed, leaving Mick to lock up. I glanced up at the stormy sky. To the east the clouds were clustered on the crown of the mountains; westward they were more broken up, with the sun stabbing through here and there.
    “Would you mind holding that on your lap? I’m worried it will slide around on the back seat.”
    “No problem,” Tony said.
    We climbed into my car and I headed north out of town. It was a little early, but Aunt Nat had told me that Mr. Ingraham’s tailgates were elaborate and took a while to set up. If the table wasn’t ready by the time we got there, I could always show Tony around the opera house.
    “Hope it doesn’t rain on our parade,” Tony said.
    “Did you bring an umbrella? I forgot to remind you.”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “Well, we can share mine if we need to.”
    “You take an umbrella to the opera?”
    “Always. It’s an outdoor house—I told you that, didn’t I?”
    “Yeah. I guess I figured they would cancel if it got rained out.”
    “Oh, no—the audience is covered. It can get a little windy sometimes, but we shouldn’t get rained on.”
    I told him a couple of stories about rainy performances in the old opera house, my favorite being the time that I and the other occupants of the unlucky middle rows left our seats and came down to crouch in the front of the aisles—only to be choked by waves of stage fog rolling over us. I’d always wondered how the orchestra could stand that stuff.
    “You’re a big fan, eh?” Tony asked.
    “Of this opera house, yes. I’m not an opera expert, but I’ve always loved coming here.”
    I turned off the highway onto the road that wound its way up Opera Hill. The pinon trees were dancing a little in the breeze, but it didn’t look too horribly windy.
    “What’s your favorite opera?”
    “I’m not sure I have a favorite. There are so many wonderful ones. Mozart’s Magic Flute , of course, and the Figaro operas, Donizetti, Bizet, I love Verdi.”
    He was silent. I suspected he thought I’d just started speaking Martian.
    “We’re supposed to look for a white SUV,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot.
    There were only a couple of dozen cars so far. Bored volunteers in fluorescent vests jumped into action, waving flashlights that weren’t yet needed to direct us into the lot. I spotted a big white vehicle with a white tent set up behind it.
    “That must be it.”
    I had a brief, gestured disagreement with one of the traffic volunteers, who finally let me drive through toward the SUV. I parked next to Manny’s car and got out, leaving my coat and tote for later.