Hope's Angel (31 page)

Connie didn’t know what to say. She had begun to wonder why he never
attempted to touch her below the waist when they were making out, even when she
rested her hand on the erection evident beneath his pants.

She had let Paul violate what
Greg struggled to protect.

His right hand was a fist resting on his thigh, and she picked it up
and brought it to her lips. “I’m sorry, Greg. I’m so sorry.” She kissed his knuckles,
then pressed his fist to her breasts as she looked into his eyes. “I love you.
I really do. And I realize now how much you love me. And I’m sorry I hurt you.
It won’t happen again.”

“You realize
now
how
much I love you? You didn’t realize before?” His voice remained strained with
anger. “I didn’t tell you enough times? I didn’t tell you I wanted to marry you?”

Connie held tightly to his hand with both of hers, pressing it to her
heart. “And now you’re rethinking that?”

“I don’t need to. You already said no.”

Despair replaced his rage, and her heart ached “I said I wasn’t ready—that
I needed time to get used to the idea.”

His eyes searched her face for a moment, then he leaned forward to cover
her mouth with his own. The bristles on his chin abraded her skin, as he leaned
against her, pressing her to the seatback. His left hand came down to rest on
the loose dress material covering the top of her thighs, then he shoved his
fingers down between her legs and slid them toward her crotch. She shivered as
a jolt of electricity shot through her groin.

His aggression infuriated her. She twisted away from him, raising her
left leg to dislodge his hand. “Stop it! Your parents are waiting for us.”

Greg pulled back and started the car without another word, then looked
over his left shoulder and pulled out into the street.

Connie gawked at him. “What were you doing? You said you wanted to
protect me, not take advantage of me.”

“Maybe I’ve been taking the wrong approach.” He kept his gaze on the
traffic, his jaw tense. “You say you didn’t realize how much I love you. Well, I
can show you, if that’s what you want.”

The violence behind his act infuriated her. “That had nothing to do
with love.”

“Oh, really?” His lip curled. “But what you did with Paul did?”

She could no longer bear his animosity. Tears welled in her eyes, and
she turned away so he wouldn’t see them. “I made a mistake, Greg. And if that’s
a deal-breaker for you, then I’ll have to live with that. But I’m not going to
keep apologizing. If we’re through, just tell me now and then take me home.”

He drew a deep breath and let it out as a long sigh. “I’m sorry,
Connie. I’m… I’m just upset. I don’t want us to be through.”

She rubbed away the tears with back of her hand and kept her face from
his.

“I can still take you home if you want,” he said.

She sniffled and shook her head. “Your parents are expecting us.”

They had reached his parents’ house. A large Christmas tree twinkled
colorfully behind the Palladian window on the second floor, and the wreath on
the door was hung with silver balls and a red velvet bow. Greg drove into the
circular driveway and parked in front of the big colonial. No other cars were
in sight.

Greg opened her car door and helped her out, then held her hand as they
walked up the stone stairs to the front door. Connie was admiring the decorated
front door when Greg’s mother opened the door to greet them. She was perfectly
coiffed and beautifully dressed in a suit of red wool. But her eyes shone a
little too brightly, and her voice was more shrill than Connie remembered.

“Come in, come in! Merry Christmas, my dear!” She waved them into the
warm foyer with her heavily ringed hand. “We were about to give up on you. We
thought maybe you’d decided to leave us to our own devices, too!”

Connie stepped inside, where the aroma of pine needles hung heavy in
the air. The walls of the foyer and the banisters of the staircase were festooned
with ropes of evergreens and holly berries, and fat green candles flickered in clear
glass bowls on the small tables in the two side halls.

“What happened to everybody else?” Greg asked as he helped Connie slip
off her coat.

“Glenn’s apparently got the flu or something. He just called from his
friend Russell’s house in Manchester.” Mrs. Fairchild closed the door behind
them and took their coats. “Steve put his back out shoveling snow for his
parents. Georgianne says they might make it later, but right now he’s in too
much pain to travel, and she won’t drive in the snow.” She dropped their coats
on the deacon’s bench and led the way to the sitting room, pushed open the door,
and stepped inside. “They’re here, dear. They didn’t abandon us after all.”

Mr. Fairchild rose to his feet as they entered. He was elegant as ever
in a dark suit and tie, unlike his unshaven son who had taken off his long coat
to reveal a red open-necked Ralph Lauren polo shirt over a pair of black slacks.
“Welcome, Connie. At least one of you knows how to dress for Christmas dinner.”
He gave her an approving smile as he looked her over. “We were having cocktails.
It’s after one. Please join us.”

Connie and Greg settled into comfortable armchairs while Mrs. Fairchild
poured Manhattans from a large pitcher for both of them, dropping a maraschino
cherry into each stemmed glass. Connie accepted hers with a smile and sipped
carefully. Greg set his on the coffee table without tasting it.

They made small talk amid appetizers, and Mrs. Fairchild refilled cocktails
for her husband and herself.

“You’ve got enough hors d’ouevres for an army,” Mr. Fairchild said,
picking up a bacon-wrapped item on a toothpick. “What in God’s name is this?”

“The same thing it was the last time you asked—a water chestnut.” Mrs.
Fairchild gave him a tight smile. “I was expecting twice as many people,
remember?” She took her drink and rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll be right
back. I need to check on dinner.”

“May I help? I’d be happy to do whatever you need.” Connie waited for
assurance that she wasn’t out of line.

Mrs. Fairchild tottered toward the dining room door. “Why, that would
be very sweet, dear.”

Connie followed her through the door to the cozy Colonial-era dining
room, past the long table decorated with evergreens and Christmas ornaments and
elegantly set for seven guests, into the shiny stainless steel kitchen. The
mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat filled the warm air.

“I hope you like prime rib.” Mrs. Fairchild set the half-filled
Manhattan on the butcher block surface in the middle of the brightly lit room.
“There’s going to be plenty of it.”

“I’m sorry your family can’t make it.” Connie paused beside the center
counter and watched the woman move toward the oven set in the brick wall. “That
must be very disappointing, especially on Christmas.”

“Yes, well, we can’t always have what we want, can we?” Mrs. Fairchild
took a white organza apron from a hook on the end of the counter and tied it
around her waist, then opened up the wall oven to peer inside. “You certainly
kept my son out late last night. Or should I say, this morning.”

Connie blushed at the implications of her statement. “We went to church
at midnight, and after that my whole family celebrated Christmas at my
grandmother’s house. We do it every year.”

Greg’s mother poked at the vegetables in the roaster pan with a
long-handled fork, then closed the oven door and turned off the heat before
turning around. A smile lurked at the corners of her mouth as her large gray
eyes regarded Connie. “I know. You’re a good Catholic girl.”

Connie was taken aback, not sure if the comment was meant as a
compliment or a jibe.  

The smile on the woman’s face broadened, but her eyes held no warmth.
“Don’t look so stricken. I know all about Catholics and Midnight Mass. I grew
up in Providence, you know. Lots of Italians there. Portuguese, too. Of course,
I probably shouldn’t mention them. I know how you Italians feel about the
Portuguese.”

Connie gave her a small, confused smile. “I don’t think I know anyone
who’s Portuguese.”

Mrs.
Fairchild moved back to the center island, where she picked up her drink and
drained it.
“Well, I had a Portuguese
boyfriend once.” She set the empty glass on the counter and stared at it as
though the young man were inside. “Black hair. Dark eyes. He was gorgeous.” Her
melancholy smile faded. “Of course, when my parents found out, they  were
appalled. That’s when they sent me away to Mount Holyoke.” Her focus shifted from
the empty glass to Connie’s face, and she resurrected the smile as she said,
“Then I met Gordon, and the rest is history.”

Connie remained silent, unsure what she should say. Or believe.

Mrs. Fairchild took two oven mitts from a drawer in the center island and
returned to the wall oven to pull the door open once more. “My point is, I
understand what my son is doing right now. Opposites attract and all that. I’ve
been there.”

Her message was clear. “And you’re hoping he’ll get over it.”

Greg’s mother  pulled a large, speckled, navy blue roasting pan from
the oven and carried it to the island, carefully setting it on a series of hot
pads laid out between her and Connie.  An enormous, perfectly browned chunk of
beef sat surrounded by mounds of roasted potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and
onions. “Not particularly.” She smiled up at Connie through eyelashes heavy
with mascara. “But his father is. In fact, he’s counting on it.”

A small niggle of fear poked Connie’s insides. “And if it doesn’t
happen?”

Mrs. Fairchild bent to bring matching bowls and platters up from the
storage area beneath the counter and set them on top. “In my experience, Gordon
always gets his way.” She began spooning the potatoes into one of the bowls.

Connie’s mind raced. Was the woman simply attributing to her husband
what she felt as well, or would she have accepted Connie as a potential member
of her family? “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“There’s nothing to say. I’m giving you fair warning, that’s all.
Gregory thinks he can be independent on this like he was on school. But he’s
wrong.”

“On school?”

“He was accepted to both Northeastern and Brown. He chose the state
university. You didn’t know?”

Connie shook her head. “No. Why did he do that?”

Mrs. Fairchild gave her a tight smile. “We assumed it was because of
Candy Wellbourne. Her father is a UVM trustee, which is why she went there instead
of Mount Holyoke. But, if Candy
was
the case, apparently she is no more.”

Connie had her own suspicions why Candy Wellbourne had chosen a co-ed
school over Mount Holyoke, but she didn’t voice them. Why Greg had refused Northeastern
and Brown was less obvious to her.

“The gelatin salad is in the fridge,” Mrs. Fairchild said, gesturing
toward the double-doored refrigerator. “You can put that on the table, if you
would.”

Connie went to the stainless steel monstrosity on the far wall and
pulled out a two-toned ring of green and red gelatin with layers of shredded
cabbage and carrots embedded inside. It shimmered and wiggled as she carried it
into the dining room. Greg and his father entered from the opposite door.

“Well, that’s looking more hopeful.” Mr. Fairchild gave her a smile
that bordered on jovial. “We were coming to see if you girls were hitting the
Chablis or what. We’re starving.”

“No Chablis.” Connie was no longer sure how to interpret his behavior
toward her. She glanced at Greg. His cheeks seemed more hollow and darker than
before, and his eyes looked dull, as though his headache had intensified. He
gave her a rote smile, devoid of feeling. Had he and his father been talking
about her?

She set the gelatin on the table and went back into the kitchen. Mrs.
Fairchild had filled a second bowl with the remaining roasted vegetables and
was transferring the roast to a platter. Greg followed Connie into the kitchen
and stayed to help his mother, while Connie delivered the bowls of vegetables
to the dining room table one by one.

Mr. Fairchild was standing at the dry sink in the dining room, uncorking
a bottle of red wine. “So, Connie, what do you think of our humble abode?” His
gaze was on the pointed metal helix he was ardently twisting into the cork.

Connie paused across the table from him, her hands on the top rung of a
ladderback chair. “It’s very beautiful. I love the Colonial feel of everything.”

“Ah, yes, all things colonial are important to my wife, you know.” He
gripped the wooden handle of the corkscrew and worked the cork out of the
bottle. “Her family came over on the Mayflower. I’m sure she’s told you that.”