Hope's Angel (25 page)

Connie
leaned across the table toward her, a new thought crossing her mind. “What if
she’s not adopted? Legally, I mean. What if they did it all under the table?”

“Why
would they do that?”

“I
keep thinking about my dream.”

Gianna
rolled her eyes, but Connie persisted, an idea slowly taking shape. “What if it
wasn’t a dream? What if it really happened, but we weren’t supposed to know
about it? What if we were just supposed to sleep through it all, but I woke up
and saw what they were doing?”

“And
what were they doing?”

“Going
to that cemetery to get baby Angie—baby Hope—from the LaCroixs.”

Gianna
stared at her, her brow furrowed. “If they didn’t want us to know, why would
they take us along?”

“Maybe
there was nobody to take care of us.” A surge of exhilaration traveled through
Connie’s body as everything began to make sense. “Nonna had to go back to
Pittsburg, remember, because Uncle Mike had that accident at work, the one where
he lost his fingers. Maybe they went late at night, hoping we’d sleep and
nobody would see them, and they could simply take her because there was no
adoption.”

“Why
would you even think that?”

Connie’s
excitement grew, and she leaned closer to her sister, convinced she was right.
It all made sense to her. “Because I knew that place, Gianna! I knew that
cemetery and that angel. But not because we passed it before or visited it, but
because it wasn’t a dream! It happened just like I remember.”

“Why
would they do that?”

“Because
the LaCroixs didn’t want her adopted, they just wanted to hide her. She told me
her mother was scared that someone would come and take her away from them.”

“Why?”

Connie
sat back in her chair, her eyes on her sister’s. “I don’t know why. But it was
enough to convince Mamma and Papa that they needed to help.”

“Do
you think the LaCroixs were in some kind of trouble? What kind of trouble would
put your new baby at risk?”

Connie
shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s the part only Angie can tell us. Or
David.” She smiled at Gianna. “You know, Gi, I think you’ve got it all
backwards about him. You’re thinking he was introduced to you because he needed
some kind of connection to our family. But if he knew about Angie all along—and
maybe even was keeping an eye on her for the LaCroixs all along—then, he
probably knew about you, too. Maybe
he’s
the one who asked Father to
arrange a meeting.”

Gianna’s
eyes showed a degree of hopefulness. “Do you think so?”

Connie
nodded, pleased to see her sister’s reaction even though she had no basis for
her statement. “I do. There’s no reason he needed to build a relationship with
you because of Angie. He wanted to.”

Gianna
gave her a weak smile. “I hope so.”

“Ask
him. You’ve got to be able to talk about stuff like this, stuff that worries
you. Maybe he’ll even tell you Angie’s story if you ask.”

 “I
doubt it. He can be wicked tight-lipped when he wants to be. But I will ask him
about us.”

“Good.
That’s good.” Connie turned to stare out the kitchen window at nothing in
particular. Her mind was racing with new possibilities. “That’s a start.”

Chapter
Eighteen

Wednesday, November 27

The
radio was blasting “How Sweet It is to Be Loved by You,” and Connie was dancing
as she wiped the dishes that Angie washed.

“Wow,
you’re in a good mood.” Angie giggled as she rinsed plates and set them in the
dish drainer.

“I’m
in love, Angie-girl.  I am really and truly in love.” A little shiver of pleasure
ran through Connie as an image of Greg’s face flashed in her mind.

“With
a guy who doesn’t even like Motown,” Angie said in mock disgust. “I can’t
believe it.”

 “Or
opera. But don’t tell Papa.” Connie did The Stroll across the kitchen, dancing
her way to the overhead cupboard. She slid two glasses onto a shelf.

“Are
you nervous about going to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

Connie
grimaced and nodded as she danced her way back to the sink. “At least there’ll
be a lot of people there. I’d hate to have our first dinner be just the four of
us.”

The
song ended and Connie turned the volume down. They were only allowed to play
the radio after the store closed, and even then they had to respect the fact
that their parents didn’t appreciate popular music.

“A
French-Canadian-Abenaki Thanksgiving should be interesting,” Connie said.
“That’s about as authentic as an Italian one.”

“The
whole holiday is made up anyway,” Angie said with a shrug. She slid a serving
bowl into the dishpan full of soapy water.

“Well,
I‘m sure I’ll be going to the ultimate Yankee take on it. Greg’s mother is a
Mayflower descendent, so she’s pretty big on Thanksgiving.”

Angie
gave her a wide grin. “A Mayflower descendent. Pooh! She’s a relative newcomer
to my country.”

Connie
laughed at the mischievous twinkle in Angie’s eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell her
that.”

***

“Tell
me again who’s going to be there,” Connie said as she slipped her arms into the
sleeves of her winter coat. Greg stood behind her, holding it for her.

“Garrett
and Emily, Glenn, Georgianne and her boyfriend, Steve, and my mother’s sister
Margaret and her husband, Edward.” Greg spun Connie around like a child and
proceeded to button her coat, a small smile playing around his mouth. “Don’t be
so nervous. You look beautiful, by the way.”

Connie
wrinkled her nose. “You’re sure the red dress isn’t too much?”

“You
look beautiful in red. It goes with your dark hair and eyes.” Greg smiled, then
leaned forward and kissed her lips. “I promise if it’s too awful, we’ll leave.”

Connie
pulled on her gloves. “We can’t leave before it’s over. That’s not polite.”

“Yes,
I know.”

She
grinned at the contrition in his voice. “My mother’s gotten over that. She
loves you.” She slipped her arm through his and pulled him with her into the
living room to say good-bye to her parents. Mamma kissed each of them twice—once
on each cheek—and wished them a Merry Thanksgiving.

They
stepped out into the brisk November sunshine and hurried down the stairs to his
car. “Anything I need to know about fingerbowls or extra forks?” Connie asked
as they drove away from her house.

Greg
laughed. “No fingerbowls that I’ve ever seen. Use your forks from the outside
in. The little one is for salad. Really, Connie, it’s not that bad.”

“Should
I help with the dishes or anything? Like, clear the table? Or is that not good
manners?”

“Just
watch the other women. I really don’t know.”

Connie
turned to look out the passenger side window. Her stomach was churning, and she
wasn’t sure she would be able to eat anything. Perhaps having their first
encounter in a formal setting wasn’t such a great idea after all.

Greg
drove her to a part of Stoneham she had never seen. She was aware that homes on
the west side were large and beautiful, but she was not prepared for the size
of the grounds that surrounded each stately colonial or sprawling split-level
ranch. Each was set in its own private park with extensive landscaping,
incredible manicured gardens, and rolling lawns.

As
Connie expected, the Fairchild home was a large two-story center-chimney Colonial
painted white with dark trim. A magnificent, full-story Palladian window dominated
the second floor, and a single candle glowed in each of the ten multi-paned
windows facing the front on both stories. Centered beneath the Palladian window
was a blue-gray front door adorned by a huge evergreen wreath with a silver
bow. A circular driveway curved in front of the elegant house, and each of the three
cars parked along it was a dark, late-model sedan of considerable size. Greg’s
sporty red Mustang was conspicuous enough as he pulled up behind the row of
luxury cars; Connie’s old off-white Plymouth station wagon was unimaginable in
such a setting.

Greg led her up the stone stairs and through the front door into the
vestibule of a magnificent house that smelled of roasting turkey. Beautifully
veined pieces of slate paved the entryway floor in shades of gray and dark red,
then gave way to a highly polished, honey-colored hardwood floor. Paneled white
doors to the immediate left and right were closed, while straight ahead, a wide
white central staircase with oak banisters led up to the second floor. Short,
narrow hallways to either side of the staircase led to additional closed white
doors that faced the vestibule. Small tables stood against the paneled
wainscoting in the hallways, with a single framed painting over each one.

Greg laid her coat, along with his, on a deacon’s bench to one side of
the entranceway, then took her hand and led her to the door on their immediate
left. A mix of male voices came from the other side. Greg squeezed her hand for
reassurance, then opened the door.

The large, bright room before them occupied the front corner of the
house, its light coming from pairs of multi-paned windows on two walls, each
hung with drapes in a deep forest green. The walls were covered with velvety,
pale green wallpaper accented by golden pine woodwork. An oriental carpet in
rich shades of rust, green, and copper lay on the polished floor made of wide pine
boards. Ornate colonial-style upholstered chairs in shades of green and gold
clustered around a long low table with curved legs and multiple small drawers
beneath its lacquered surface. In the far corner, two sleek black Labrador
Retrievers lay sleeping in the sun.

Four men, two of them with a strong resemblance to Greg, sat on the
chairs and small sofa, while a slim young woman with heavily teased, shoulder-length
blond hair handed each of them a stemmed glass holding colorless liquid and a
submerged olive on a plastic pick.

Everyone turned to look at Connie and Greg as they entered, and all of
the men rose to their feet.

“Dad, guys, this is Connie,” Greg said. “Connie, this is my sister,
Georgianne.”

Blue-eyed Georgianne, her perfectly shaped eyebrows slightly raised,
gave Connie a guarded smile and a “nice to meet you,” then stepped forward to
give her brother a quick hug.  She excused herself and exited the room through
a door on the far end, and Greg continued with his introductions.

“Connie, this is my father, Gordon Fairchild.” A distinguished
gray-haired man—an older version of Greg with the same blue eyes as Georgianne—gave
Connie a wide smile, offering his free hand as he welcomed her to his house.

Greg continued down the line with Garrett, Steve, and Glenn. The last
was the oldest brother—a slight, serious-looking man around thirty who did not
resemble the others in either facial features or build. He was the most
reserved in greeting Connie. Garrett pumped her hand with a hearty welcome, and
Steve, Georgianne’s bespectacled boyfriend, gave her a friendly smile.

“Your aunt and uncle are on their way,” Mr. Fairchild said, speaking
directly to Greg. “Your mother and the girls are in the kitchen. We’re having
our first martinis of the day. Care to join us?”

“In a bit.” Greg rested his hand on the small of Connie’s back as the
other men sat down once more. “I’ll take Connie in to meet the rest of the
family first.”

He guided her across the room to the door at the back and pushed it
open.

A formal dining room lit by a huge glass chandelier stood before them. Large
pieces of colonial-era furniture—a hutch with antique platters lining its
shelves, a dry sink, and a distressed pine cabinet—stood against the end walls.
Down the center of the room, a long table flanked by high-backed ladder chairs was
elegantly set with glistening dinnerware, an autumn arrangement of mums and
fall foliage, and clusters of lit candles shining inside wide glass chimneys.
Connie took it all in with a growing sense of inadequacy as Greg ushered her
down the length of the table, past a large fireplace on the inside wall, to another
door on the far end.

They stepped into a large, modern kitchen that seemed out of place
after the period feel of the previous two rooms. Everything was oversized. The walls
were lined with oak cabinets and dark green marble-topped counters, a two-bay stainless
steel sink, a black six-burner gas stove with two ovens, and a stainless steel
double-door refrigerator, as well as a dishwasher and an oven built into a
brick wall. A central island with another sink and a built-in butcher block
cutting board occupied the middle of the room, and three slender women with
varying shades of blond hair stood around it, watching Greg and Connie enter
the room.

The oldest—an attractive, carefully coiffed ash blond Connie guessed to
be in her mid-fifties—stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Smile lines
crinkled around friendly gray eyes as she said, “You must be Connie. I’m
Elizabeth Fairchild, Gregory’s mother. I’m so glad you could come.” Connie took
her hand and thanked her for the invitation, wondering all the while how the
woman could cook without ruining her carefully manicured nails.

“We’ve met,” Georgianne said from her spot beside the island, while
Emily, a petite natural blonde with large green eyes, came forward and
introduced herself.

“I belong to Garrett,” she said. “Welcome. We were just getting ready
to bring out the appetizers. Greg, can I fix you a martini?” She smiled at
Connie. “We girls are doing white wine.”

Greg took the martini offered to him, and Connie could tell he wanted
to join the men in the other room. She gave him a smile that relieved him of
any obligation to stay with her and turned to the women in the kitchen.

Greg’s mother had moved to the wall oven to pull a sheet of hot
appetizers from its depths. Georgianne was taking a cut glass plate of crudités
from the refrigerator, while Emily arranged tiny sandwiches on a platter.
Connie noted that all three pencil-thin women wore shades of green, beige, or
rust in perfect harmony with their surroundings, leaving her to feel like a
large, gaudy Christmas decoration brought out before its time.

Emily offered her a stemmed wine glass and told her to help herself to
the bottle of Chardonnay, then picked up the platter of finger sandwiches and
followed Georgianne out of the kitchen. Mrs. Fairchild was removing the frilly
organza apron protecting her green silk dress when Connie asked what she could
do to help.

“Well, I suppose you could bring the wine, dear. And don’t forget your
own glass. You do drink wine?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good. This is white wine, of course. Is that all right?”

“White wine is fine.” Connie picked up the bottle and the glass and
followed the woman to the front room where the men stood drinking and
conversing.

“So, Connie, tell us a little about yourself,” Mr. Fairchild said as
she set the bottle of wine on the low table in front of him.

Connie gave him a nervous smile. “I’m a science major at UVM. Biology
and chemistry. Born and raised in Stoneham. Not that much to tell.”

“And what do you plan to do with your science major? Teach?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve considered teaching and nursing, but I haven’t
really made up my mind.”

Mr. Fairchild sipped his martini. “I suspect you’ll need to do so soon.
You’re a junior, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Fairchild held the plate of hot hors d’oeuvres in front of Connie.
“Is your father a stonecutter?”

“No. He owns a grocery store.”

“Oh, really?” The woman’s eyes brightened. “Which one?”

“It’s just a little neighborhood one in the north end.”

“I see. Well, that sounds very nice.” She set the plate on the table
beside the bottle of wine.

Connie glanced at Greg, who was standing behind his father’s chair,
talking with Glenn. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

The conversation moved on to Garrett and Emily’s new house in Northampton,
Massachusetts, where both held jobs at colleges, and Connie gratefully stepped
out of the spotlight. Politics soon made its entrance, and Connie learned that
Garrett was the political black sheep of the family, the only liberal in the
group. Good-natured ribbing among the siblings about that took Connie by
surprise. From Greg’s description of his family, she had never expected them to
be as congenial as they were.