Fireside
P U B L I C A T I O N S
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LOVE TAG by Peter Shianna - A Short Excerpt

They met often for lunch at out-of-the-way cafes in the Cities and in nearby towns like Shakopee, Stillwater, Anoka and Lakeville. Nora knew an endless number of delightful rendezvous that served good food and were unlikely to be frequented by his friends and clients. They had met today on short notice at Figlio’s in Calhoun Square. Hardly a chic place, or discreet, but convenient, and they could pass for business associates, which, in fact, they were. From their window table, they had a perfect view of the noon crowd at the intersection of Lake and Hennepin.

“You’ve got to stop sending me so many cards,” Phil said. “I love them, they make my day, but you send too many.”

The cards—humorous, teasing, erotic—arrived in brown envelopes with typed personal and confidential mailing labels. Once in a while she sent a love poem. On one occasion she enclosed the smallest imaginable pair of bikini panties, another time a condom.

“I like sending them. I see them and I think of you.”

“Two came yesterday. My secretary is getting suspicious.”

“I’ll send only two a week.”

“One.”

“Once in a while two?”

The teasing, expectant look on her face, aided and abetted by the sheer white blouse she wore, brought a wave of arousal. He covered her hand with his.

“What a work of art you are. Save the second one and give it to me when we meet. Now tell me everything you’ve done since I saw you.”

Nora shook her head. “Time out. You know my life story. What about yours? Born in South Milwaukee. Then what? You’re so guarded about yourself and your family.”

“Actually, I was born in Gary, Indiana. My father worked in a steel mill there. Didn’t want me to grow up and work in the mill, so he moved to South Milwaukee for a job with Bucyrus Erie. Work just as tough as the mill for less pay. Must be a Polish joke in there somewhere.”

“Polish?”

“It wasn’t always Tag. That’s only short for Taglowski. My father was more American than apple pie and Chevrolet, but he wasn’t born here. Came over when he was five. Loved music and played a trombone in a band to raise extra cash. He’d planned to name me after James C. Petrillo, a long-time president of the American Federation of Musicians. But in the hospital when I was born he bumped into Phil Cavaretta, a first baseman for the Cubs back in the forties. So just like that I became Phillip James Tag. Not too emotional, my dad.”

“He sounds delightfully impetuous. Does he still live in South Milwaukee?”

“Both my parents are gone.”

“I’m sorry. So, Phillip James Tag, what came after that leadoff home run?”

If she knew I raised her child, how would she react? Wouldn’t it violate something between her and David? Between her and me? David and me?

“Hello? Anyone home? You have a habit of leaving me.”

 

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