Read Moon Shadows for Free Online Page B

with the light of a full white moon.
    â€œYes, I like it.”
    There was other art—all of places, wild, lonely places struck by moonlight, he noted. There were no people in any of the paintings, and no photographs at all.
    â€œGot a thing for the moon,” he commented, then glanced at her. She studied him, he thought, as the dog did, speculatively. “The art, the name of your shop.”
    â€œYes, I have a thing for the moon.”
    â€œMaybe we can take a walk out to the cliffs later. Take a look at it over the water. I don’t know what phase it’s in, but—”
    â€œWaxing, nearly full.”
    â€œCool. You know your moons.”
    â€œIntimately.”
    â€œOkay if Amico has the bone?”
    â€œOffer it.”
    Gabe pulled it out of the bag, held it out. “Here you go, boy.”
    But Amico sat, making no move. Then Simone murmured in Italian, and the dog leaned forward, closed his teeth over the bone, wagged his tail.
    â€œThat could’ve been a raw steak, I imagine,” Gabe commented, “with the same result. That’s some dog.”
    â€œHe’s a treasure. I’m in the kitchen. We’re having spaghetti.”
    â€œSmells great. And it shows how clever I was to pick a couple of Italian wines.” He patted the bag he carried as they stepped into the kitchen. “This Chianti’s supposed to be fairly amazing. Should I open it?”
    â€œAll right.” She handed him a corkscrew. “Dinner’s going to be a little while yet.”
    â€œNo problem.” He pulled off his jacket, then opened the wine. He set it and the corkscrew aside. “Simone. This is going to sound strange.”
    â€œI’m rarely surprised by strange.”
    â€œI was thinking today, trying to figure why I’m having such a strong reaction to you. And I can’t. So I thought, maybe it’s just sex—and what’s wrong with that? But it’s not. Not when I’m standing here looking at you, it isn’t.”
    She got down two glasses. “What is it then?”
    â€œI don’t know. But it’s the kind of thing where I want to know all sorts of things about you. Where I want to sit down somewhere and talk to you for hours, which is weird considering we’ve only had two conversations before. It’s the kind of thing where I think about how your voice sounds, and the way you move. And that sounds lame. It’s just true.”
    â€œBut you don’t know all sorts of things about me, do you?”
    â€œNext to nothing. So tell me everything.”
    She poured the wine, then got out a vase for the flowers. “I was born in Saint Louis,” she began as she filled the vase with water. “An only child. I lived there until I was twelve—dead normal childhood—until I was twelve. My parents were killed in a car accident. I got out of it with a broken arm and a concussion.”
    â€œThat’s rough.”
    There was sympathy in his voice, but not the maudlin, pitying sort. Just as there was comfort, but not intrusion, in the light touch of his hand to her arm.
    â€œVery. I moved to Saint Paul to live with my aunt and uncle. They were very strict and not all that thrilled to have a child thrust on them, but too worried about image to shirk their duty. Which is all I was to them. They had a daughter close to my age, the detestable and perfect Patty. We were never even close to being friends. She, and my aunt and uncle, made certain I remembered who the daughter was, who the displaced orphan was. They were never abusive, and they were never loving.”
    â€œI’ve always thought the withholding of love is a kind of abuse.”
    She looked over at him as she began to arrange the lilies in the vase. “You have a kind heart. Not everyone does. I was provided for, and I did what I was told, for six years, because the alternative was foster care.”
    â€œBetter the devil you