Greenmantle by Charles De Lint

getting a crush on this fellow.
    “Mom? Are you coming?”
    “I’m halfway there already—what’s keeping you?”
    Ali grinned. “Do you have room for this in your purse?” She held up a cassette.
    “Sure. What is it?”
    “Just some music that I wanted to play for Tony tonight.”
    Frankie stashed it away in her purse. “Well, Ms. Treasure,” she said. “Are you ready?”
    Ali rolled her eyes and led the way outside.
     
    * * *
     
    Tony Garonne was nothing like Frankie had expected. There was a sense of Old World charm about him that was vaguely at odds with the easy familiarity of his speech patterns. He was wearing a tailored suit, which made Frankie relieved that she’d worn the black evening dress, and smiled broadly as he opened the door.
    “Ladies,” he said. “You look sensational. C’mon in and make yourselves at home.”
    Now it was Ali’s turn to feel shy. Frankie held out her hand. “Frankie Treasure,” she said. “Ali’s told me a lot about you.”
    “Nothing good, I’ll bet,” he replied as he took her hand. “Tony Garonne. How’d you like a little tour of the place before we eat?”
    “I’d love it. This is a beautiful house.”
    “Yeah, well it’s what I’ve got, you know, so I do what I can with it. Hey, what’s the matter, Ali? You got no hello for me today?”
    Ali nodded. “Hello, Tony.”
    Valenti gave Frankie a wink and ushered them inside. The first floor was mostly all one room. A tall stone hearth took up one wall, on another a picture window overlooked the front yard. The furnishings were simple, but expensive. Two couches faced the front window at angles, a coffee table between them. Rugs that appeared to be Navajo weavings gleamed on the hardwood floors. A third wall was taken up with a stereo console and a wall-mounted television. The cabinet under the stereo was filled with LPs and video cassettes. A long counter divided the kitchen from the rest of the room. Beside it was a small nook with a table and four chairs.
    “There’s my bedroom, a guest room and the washroom upstairs,” Valenti said. “Go take a look if you like. I just got a couple of things to finish up in the kitchen.”
    “This is beautiful,” Frankie said. She crossed the room to look at a watercolor that hung over the stereo. It showed a county road overhung with trees, heavily boughed and green. Very much a Lanark County scene. Frankie fell in love with it on the spot.
    “That’s by this guy named David Armstrong,” Valenti explained. “I got it at a gallery in Ottawa. Local guy, apparently. And this”—he pointed to another watercolor, this time a winter landscape—“is by a lady that lives just up the road toward Calabogie—name of Tomilyn Douglas.”
    “It’s lovely.”
    “Yeah. I got a couple more of hers upstairs. Check ’em out while I get the last of this cheese sliced.”
    Frankie glanced at Ali, who was entranced by the size of Valenti’s television screen.
    “Look at the size of it,” Ali said. “It’d be just like watching something in a movie theatre.”
    “We could watch something later if you like,” Valenti called from the kitchen area.
    “That’d be great,” Ali said, her sudden shyness wearing away. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s go look at the upstairs.”
    More motherly concerns, she supposed as she followed Ali up the stairs. There was a Richard Gill clay sculpture of a tree in the hall going up, as well as another Douglas watercolor—a barnyard scene in muted browns, grays and greens. The two upstairs rooms were both large and, again, tastefully furnished. But no books, Frankie thought. Lots of magazines lying around. People, Life, Newsweek .
    “Some place, huh, mom? Wow. Look at this.”
    Frankie turned away from a Bateman print to look at the little soft-sculptured gnome that was standing on the dresser in the guest room. There was a dusty-rose business card beside it that said “Fabric Art by MaryAnn Harris.” Frankie smiled at the expression on