Hope's Angel (12 page)

She
fought the building paranoia within her and told herself to stay calm. She
didn’t want to have him think she was some kind of schizophrenic freak. But
this probably wasn’t the smartest thing she had ever done, coming so far from
home with someone she barely knew, not knowing where she was. Her parents had
no idea how to find her. All she knew was that it had taken over an hour to get
there, but she really didn’t know where “there” was.

And
then she saw it hovering beside the road ahead.

Tall
and graceful, its arms outstretched from flowing robes, a silvery angel with
high, arching wings reached out toward the car, beckoning them.

Connie’s
heart began to pound uncontrollably as she stared at the startling apparition.
“Stop!”

Greg
slammed on the brakes, and the Mustang skidded across the gravel, fishtailing to
the right before it stopped at an angle on a patch of grass between the road
and a high wrought iron fence.

“Jesus,
Connie! What’s wrong?” Greg’s eyes were wide with fear as he stared at her.

Connie
looked out the passenger side window, her face sickly cold and clammy. The car
had come to rest a few feet from a brick pedestal bearing a larger-than-life angel
carved out of stone. A rush of fear came over her—a terrible dread that filled
her chest and left her feeling drained and afraid. She had been here before.
She knew this place. And yet… she didn’t.

She
looked up at the angel’s fixed, sightless stare. “Where are we?”

“About
a mile from their house.”

“No,
I mean, what’s this place?”

Greg
leaned between the seats to peer out the rear window. “It says ‘Hope
Cemetery.’”

“Hope
Cemetery.” The words came out in a whisper as she stared up at the angel’s
silvery face. It made no sense.

“Connie,
what’s going on?”

“I
don’t know.” She turned away from the angel and moved toward Greg, leaning
across the floor shift between them to reach for him. He wrapped his arms
around her and pulled her close, and she buried her face against his warm neck
and closed her eyes.

“God,
you’re shaking like crazy. I am so sorry. I never knew it would affect you like
this. I should never have taken you there. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Connie
pressed closer to him, seeking refuge in his warmth. He smelled like marijuana.
“I don’t understand,” she said as she lost control and began to sob.

“It’s
the pot. I’m sorry. I really am. Just let it out, whatever’s happening. God,
your dad is going to kill me.” He tightened his grip on her and held her to
him, and she cried in his arms until she felt empty and exhausted. What
was
happening? Could it be the pot?

“I
need to go home,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she slid
away from him.

Greg
didn’t move. “Just so you know, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”

Connie
settled back into her seat and closed her eyes in an effort to regain her
self-control. The car moved out onto the gravel road—she could feel the
movement and hear the stones crunching beneath the tires. To her dismay, the
sound renewed her terrifying sense of déjà vu, and the pressure began to build
in her chest again. Strange images fluttered through her pot-addled mind, and a
shiver ran through her as the cold night air penetrated her clothes. She was riding
in the backseat of a huge car, snuggling in fear against Gianna, and her father
was yelling at her…

Connie
opened her eyes and forced herself to look out the side window at the passing
countryside. “You must think I’m a schizoid nutcase.”

“I’m
not sure what to think.”

She
drew a deep breath and released it. If she didn’t want to lose him, she needed
to give some sort of explanation. “When Angie was born, I had a dream that an
angel brought her, and I guess I told everybody. I wouldn’t shut up about it. I
even insisted that we call her Angela.  And my parents would get angry and tell
me to be quiet.”

“How
old were you?”

“Four.
Four and a half.”

“Why
would they get angry? That doesn’t sound like such a big deal to me.”

Connie
stared out at the moonlit countryside. “I guess it was a hard time for them,
and I just made it harder. Angie was a twin, but the other one died.”

“And
that’s why the angel freaked you out?”

She
closed her eyes, and the angel’s moonlit face shone vividly against her eyelids
once more, only this time, she was in the backseat of the huge car, listening
to Gianna breathe, looking up into the angel’s face.

That
angel’s face.

“That
was the angel from my dream,” she whispered in awe.
But how could that be?

“A
big one like that.”

She
opened her eyes, her mind racing. “No, that was
it
. That’s the exact
same angel I saw. That’s
it
. I’m sure of it.”

“So…
you must have ridden past it before Angie was born,” Greg said, “and the angel
made an impression on you. You know how stuff you can’t explain ends up in
dreams.”

“Maybe.”
Any plausible explanation was welcome. Then another thought hit her. “Do you
want to know something else weird? Do you know what Angie’s real name is?”

Greg
glanced at her, his eyes conveying the possibility that he might not want to
know.

“Hope,”
she said.

“You
think they named her after a cemetery?”

The
lilt of Greg’s voice and the incredulous expression on his face caused Connie
to break out in embarrassed laughter. “You’re right,” she said with a sigh of
relief. “Thank you. Maybe it was the pot.”

Greg
shook his head once more. “Well, I can tell you one thing—we won’t be doing
that again.”

Connie
stared at him, a small stab of fear twisting against her breastbone. “What do
you mean?”

He
glanced at her, his brow furrowed. “I mean, you’re banned from pot parties from
now on, as far as I’m concerned.”

“But
we’re still okay?”

His
eyes searched her face. “Are you serious? You think I’d stop seeing you because
you’re—what did you call it—a schizoid nutcase? You’re the most entertaining
girl I know.”

Connie
smiled, then reached over to rest her hand on his jean-covered thigh. “And
you’re the nicest guy I know.”

“That’s
it? The
nicest
? God, have I got work to do.” He sounded disgusted.

“I’m
sorry if I scared you by yelling like that.” She withdrew her hand from Greg’s
thigh, and he reached out to catch her hand in his, his eyes on the road ahead.
A small smile played about his mouth as he wrapped his fingers around hers.

“That
was
pretty exciting,” he said, his smile growing. “I can’t wait for our
next date.”

Chapter Eleven

Sunday,
October 13

Once
gardening season was over, Nonna passed most Sunday afternoons with Connie’s
family in the flat above the store. She and Mamma sat together in the living
room, crocheting doilies and antimacassars to sell at church bazaars, gossiping
about goings-on in the neighborhood while Papa worked at one of his many
projects or watched sports on TV. If Mariana was away, Nonna would bring Aunt
Lucretia to nap in one of the back bedrooms.

On
the Sunday following her encounter with the stone angel, Connie spent her
afternoon tending to the marinara sauce simmering on the stove and browning the
fat little meatballs Angie was making.

“What
time is Greg coming over?” Angie asked. She lined up her meatballs in precise
rows like rotund members of a marching band.

“Five.”
Connie took another band member from the wooden cutting board.

“Is
he nervous?” Angie asked.

“About
eating your meatballs?”

Angie
chuckled. “About
la famiglia
.”

Connie
added more meatballs to the frying pan. “He’s met almost everybody before.”

“Not
Nonna or David.”

Connie
glanced at her sister. “David’s coming?” She hadn’t expected him to be at the
house this weekend.

“Yeah.
Why?” Disapproval edged Angie’s voice. “You haven’t told him David’s black,
have you?”

She
was right, but Connie could justify that. “Why would I? I’m not in the habit of
bringing up someone’s race.”

“Nice
try. There’s usually nothing to bring up.” Angie gathered her equipment to
carry it to the sink. “What if he’s caught off-guard?”

Connie
added more meatballs to the pan. “Then I’ll know he’s racist.”

Angie
gave her a questioning smile. “And if he is?”

“Strike
three and he’s out,” Connie said playfully.

“Strike
three? What are the other two?”

“He’s
planning to vote for Nixon, and he doesn’t like Motown.”

Angie
laughed. “What about religion? Is he Catholic?”

“No.”

“Uh-oh.”

Connie
poked at the browning meatballs with her fork. “Well, look at it this way. I
have a better chance of converting him to a Catholic than Gigi has of
converting David to a white guy.”

Angie’s
smile turned to a frown. “Whoa, that’s crude.”

“No,
it’s not. I’m just saying that
la famiglia
seems to have accepted David
for who he is; they can handle Greg.”

Connie
paused to watch Angie load the dirty dishes into the sink. Her experience of
the night before was weighing on her mind, but with Nonna there all day, she’d
had no opportunity to ask her mother why the angel might be familiar. “Have you
ever wondered where your name came from?”

Angie
squirted dishwashing liquid into a bowl full of utensils, then turned on the
hot water to fill the bowl with suds. “It came from you. I’ve heard that story.”

“I’m
talking about your real name.”

Angie
didn’t respond.

“Did
you ever ask Ma where your given name came from?” Connie asked.

“No.”

“Don’t
you wonder about it? I mean, all the rest of us have family names—Italian
names. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Hope. But I guess I’d be
curious as to why it’s so different.”

Angie
kept her eyes on the rising water in the bowl. “It sounds like you’re curious
enough for both of us.”

Her
defensive tone caught Connie by surprise. “Hey, I’m not criticizing your name,
little punk. I’m just asking.”

A
knock on the kitchen door ended their conversation. Connie turned off the heat
beneath the meatballs and crossed the room to answer the door, glancing at the
clock as she went. It was only four-fifteen; Greg wouldn’t show up this early.

She
pulled the door open and gaped. Paul Cefalu was standing on the porch landing, lean
and sexy in his two-toned leather Red Sox jacket and tight blue jeans. His blue
eyes watched her intently as he gave her a quick nod. “Hey. I saw your dad
outside, and he said you were home and I could stop in. Is this an okay time?”
He looked past her into the kitchen, then returned his gaze to her face, his smile
unusually guarded as he waited for her answer.

Her
surprise at seeing him gave way to a sudden sense of dread. “Oh, no. Did you
hear from Nino?”

He
shook his head, his handsome features suddenly fraught with concern. “No. Did you?”

“No.”
She stepped back to let him in, and he followed her just far enough into the
kitchen to close the door behind himself.

His
eyes traveled around the room, and when they settled on Angie, he gave her a
quick nod and a smile before turning back to Connie. “It smells good in here. What
are you cooking?”

He
obviously was not bringing bad news, and Connie breathed a sigh of relief.
“Meatballs. We’re having
Americani
to dinner. They’ve got to have their
spaghetti and meatballs, you know.” She gave him a welcoming smile. “Come on
in. I need to get back to them.” She returned to the stove, gesturing for him
to pull out a chair at the kitchen table where the remainder of the meatballs
waited on the wooden cutting board. “What’s up?”

Paul
paused to stand at the table, his hands resting on the back of a chair as he
leaned across it toward her. “I, uh, wanted to see if you were free tonight.
I’ve… got the night off, and I was thinking maybe you’d like to go for a pizza
or something.”

The
excited bump of Connie’s heart against her ribs was quickly followed by a pang
of regret. Was this really happening? But why now? Why tonight? She took a deep
breath and composed herself before turning to look back at him. “I really wish
I could, but one of the people we’re having to dinner is a friend of mine from
UVM.” She scrunched up her nose in apology.

Paul
gave a curt nod, as though that were the answer he had expected, then pushed
himself away from the chair and stepped back. “Well, I knew it was a long shot,
but, hey, maybe another time.”

“I’d
like that.” Connie stared into his eyes in an effort to drive home the message
that he should try again. “I’m pretty busy during the week, but weekends are
usually good. With a little warning.”

“Yeah,
me, too. I’m going to Montpelier every day now. But I’ll give you a call.” He
turned away and headed for the kitchen door, holding up his hand to stop her
from following. “I can let myself out. Don’t burn those meatballs.”

A
gnawing ache filled Connie’s chest as she watched him leave, and she had to
fight back an urge to run after him. She had waited years to hear those words
of invitation and couldn’t believe she had just refused.

“A
friend
from UVM?” Angie stood with her back to the sink, wiping her
hands on a towel. “I thought you were pretty high on this Greg guy.”

“In
case you didn’t notice, that was Paul Cefalu.” Connie turned toward the stove and
poked half-heartedly at the meatballs.

“Yeah,
I know. But still.”

If
she was trying to make Connie feel guilty, she was succeeding, and Connie
didn’t appreciate it. “Still what? I’ve officially gone out with Greg once,
twice if you count pizza on the way home.”

“So,
is Greg history now? Or are you going to juggle two of them?”

Connie
stabbed a meatball in frustration, and it broke in half. “It’s called dating—trying
different people until you find the right one.”

“At
the same time? Aren’t there rules about that?”

“If
you’re going steady.”

“Does
Greg date other girls?” Angie could be relentless.

Connie
sighed. “I don’t know. He did up until last week.”

“Well,
we all know Paul does. I’d be careful with him, Con.”

It
was Connie’s turn to probe. “Are you dating Francis LaCroix?”

Angie
took the question without offense. “He’s just a friend.”

“Are
you dating anybody?”

“As
in going out? Don’t you think you’d know?”

No.
“What do I know?” Connie grumbled.

Angie
turned back to the sink and resumed washing dishes. “Papa wouldn’t let me go
out. You know that. He wouldn’t let you go out until you were eighteen.”

“Yeah,
but stuff like that changes over time. The younger kids in a family have it
easier.”

“Not
this family.” Angie’s voice had taken on a note of resignation.

So,
she
did
have a boy she was interested in. “Does that mean somebody’s
asked you out? Who?”

Angie
spoke to the soapsuds in front of her. “A new kid in school. He asked me to go
to a football game with him, but Papa said no.”

“Do
you like him?”

“Yeah.
Kinda.” Angie’s melancholy was clear.

“Well,
maybe Pa will let you go when you’re sixteen. Fifteen’s kind of young.”

Angie
smirked at Connie over her shoulder. “I turn sixteen in a couple of weeks. What
startling changes should I watch for?”

Connie
laughed as she turned back to the meatballs sizzling in the pan. “For one,
maybe you’ll stop expecting rules to make sense.”

***

Greg
arrived promptly at five. Immediately upon seeing him in her kitchen, Connie
put aside her thoughts of Paul Cefalu. Greg’s lop-sided, slightly nervous smile
reminded her of how much she enjoyed his company. She kissed him lightly on the
lips and complimented his dress shirt, tie, and sport coat before ushering him
into the living room to meet Nonna and greet her parents.

After
the introductions, he joined her dad before the television set to watch the
final quarter of the Boston Patriots’ game against the Buffalo Bills, and
Connie returned to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner. She was
dumping a second pound of linguine into the big pot of boiling water on the
stove when Gianna and David came through the back door.

“It
smells fantastic,” David said with a grin. Like Greg, he was dressed for Sunday
dinner in a sport coat and tie, and Connie couldn’t help but note how good he
looked. Gianna’s face was glowing with happiness as she unbuttoned her wool
coat and let David slip it from her shoulders.

“I
was just telling David about how Nonna keeps her spaghetti in a drawer so she
can measure it by the handfuls.” Gianna scanned the visible parts of the flat. “Is
Greg here?”

“In
the living room.” Remembering Angie’s concern over taking Greg by surprise, Connie
gestured to David. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

David
and Gianna followed Connie into the living room. The Patriots were finally
winning a home game, and both Papa and Greg were leaning toward the TV, absorbed
in the action. David greeted Mamma and Nonna, who were seated together on the
couch, and Gianna bent to give her grandmother a kiss on the cheek.

“Twenty-three
to six, Patriots!” Greg lifted off his seat with a fist in the air, his eyes
still fixed on the television set.

Papa
laughed, and David turned toward the TV with a grin. “All right!”

Greg
looked up in the direction of David’s voice, and if he was surprised by David,
his face never showed it. He rose to his feet and extended his hand, smiling
into David’s eyes. “Hi. Greg Fairchild.”

David
shook his hand and gave him a broad grin. “David Thomas. Nice to meet you,
Greg. I hear you’re the owner of that fine-looking red Mustang out there. Sharp
car.”

“David’s
from Boston,” Connie said.

“By
way of St. J now,” David said. “How about you, Greg?”

Greg
sat down beside Papa, still smiling at David. “Living here right now, but hoping
to make Boston home someday. I like that city a lot.”

“It’s
a good place. What do you do?”