Page 89 of The Cupid Chronicles

The courtyard was one of the things I loved most aboutthe building when I first moved in, but I only now realize I haven’t spent any real time out here.

Even though it’s too cold for sitting by the empty pool, I spot two older women on a bench near the fountain, a blanket over their laps, bundled in coats and holding two mugs of what I assume is coffee or tea—but judging by the way they’re cackling and carrying on, it could just as easily be brandy.

“What are we doing out here?” I ask, as Matteo makes a beeline toward the women. “Wait! I’m still in my pajam?—”

Before I can finish, one of the women calls out, “You’re back!”

“Oh! And you brought aladyfriend,” the other one says, clearly interested.

I object to the word “lady” but don’t say so.

“This is Iris,” Matteo says, indicating me. “She’s new to the building.”

“Not that new,” the first woman cracks. “She’s been here since August.”

“Works at the elementary school,” the other woman chimes in.

“Hasn’t had a date since she’s lived here but appears to be single,” the first one says.

“Buys a lot of yarn.”

They both stare at me, like they might have to describe me to a sketch artist one day.

“Uh . . . that’s right,” I say, frowning.

“What do you make with all that yarn?” the first woman asks.

“It depends,” I say. “Lately, I’ve been crocheting these little stuffed animals, but I’ve done blankets and scarves and . . .” I lose steam, but add a quiet, “Other things.”

They turn to one another and mumble and nod, asmattering ofoh, yeah, see, I told you, yes, you were right’s,like they had a bet on my yarn usage.

Matteo motions toward the first woman, who is wearing thick, black-framed glasses. “Iris, this is Roberta.” He pivots slightly and points to the other woman. “And her sister, Rhonda.”

Both are gray-haired, wearing big, puffy coats, stocking caps, mittens and have matching red lips.

“Rhonda doesn’t live here,” Roberta says.

“I’m here for the coffee.” Rhonda holds up her cup.

“And for my sparkling personality.” Roberta snorts.

“And for this one’s cannoli.” Rhonda nods at Matteo, who’s standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets. It’s not lost on me that he looks like the top result of a google search for “hot Italian chefs,” and I’m still in my pajamas.

“We would’ve talked to you without the cannoli, you know,” Rhonda says. “But it was a nice touch.”

Matteo trades information for cannoli. Smart. Use what you got, I say. Which makes me wonder—what do I have? A partially crocheted jellyfish?

“Roberta. Rhonda. Will you tell Iris what you told me about Joy?” he asks.

“Oh, right,” Roberta says, her Boston accent coming through thick. “So one day last month, I was standing at my sink, doing dishes—my husband Harold is terrible about rinsing the pan after he cooks, so I had to put a little elbow grease into it. I mean, really, what is so hard about rinsing a pan? It would rinse right off if he did it right away, but?—”

Rhonda smacks her sister in the arm. “Get on with it!”

Roberta holds her hand up in surrender. “Geesh, I was just saying?—”

“Okay, but justsaythe thing he asked you to say! Nobody cares about Harold’s pans.”

In her accent, “cares”, “Harold”, and “pans” all sort of rhyme.

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