Taste Of Home

Thanks go out to Ken for letting Renny come out and play. Thanks, Ken!--Maer

Sunday, 24 Jul 2011
Devereaux-Shields House B & B
Natchez, MS
2130hrs, local time

It was over 80 degrees and the humidity was too damn close to matching it, percentage wise, but Irina whiteknuckled it out on the porch all the same. Gotta acclimate to the damned stew sometime, DiSanti. Might as well be now, on the Agency's dime. She'd had the good sense to raid her closet for every single cotton garment she owned and pack it for her move south. She wore a pleated tee and modest cargo capris she'd picked up from Old Navy. Not exactly her preferred style but at the moment she was too hot to care. On no account am I going to swan around in a freakin' sundress like some brain-dead Stepford Wife. Hell no, I'd rather roast first.

She had an iced tea at her elbow, the paper towel she'd folded under it sodden from condensation weeping off the glass, and she paused in her typing to sip it. Sugared, unfortunately, but the hostess had added a sprig of fresh mint from her garden out back. Irina liked the zip it lent the drink and resolved to choose a place that afforded her a balcony to grow some of her own, no matter what. Putting down roots here. No reason it can't be literal as well as metaphorical.

She closed a window on one website and stared at the half dozen she'd narrowed herself down to. Grabbing a legal pad and a pen off the table beside her, she noted the directions and sketched their locations in on a rough map. The screen door to the front porch softly screamed and she flicked a glance in its direction. Ah. Mystery Man from the Gallery Suite. He lives. Dark brown on blue, 5'-5" to 5'-7", 150, pale even for a white boy. Damn, somebody get that man a sandwich. Aloud she merely said, "Nice night. There's a seat left if you need it."

She tipped her head at the other chair, the one not in the corner but closer to the threshold where the man stood with one foot on the boards of the porch.

Renny smiled as genuinely as he could, which was quite genuine, save that it wasn't. "Good evening," he said, in the smooth, pleasant voice he usually saved for customers. "Renyard Jacovich." He extended a hand. "Call me 'Renny' everyone does. From your voice, I take it that you are the other 'invader from the north'?"

"Damn straight," Irina said softly with a smile. She didn't want her voice to carry. She saved and shut her laptop, then rose to shake his hand. "Nice to hear a voice from home. Let me guess—Brighton Beach?"

There was that faint hint of the Slavic in his tone and just for an instant, a grue ran down her spine. No. Not the same. He's not one of them. But she couldn't help thinking, But he could be related... She steeled her expression to give nothing away and said instead, "What brings you to Natchez, Mr. Jacovich?" He’d pronounced it as it would be spoken in Brooklyn, yak-ko-vich instead of the more Russian yah-, and she repeated it back to him. She’d look deeper into it later.

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