Hope's Angel

by Fifield, Rosemary

  “Hey, Con.”

  Connie turned at the sound of the familiar male voice and looked into Paul Cefalu’s breath-taking blue eyes. His expression was solemn, his lips unsmiling, and all she could think about was how much she wanted to feel those lips pressed against hers once more.

  “Just coming over to see my grandparents.” He gestured toward the elder Cefalus seated beside her grandmother at the far end of the table, then turned toward Angie and nodded. “Angela. You’re looking fine tonight.”

  To Connie’s surprise, Angie gave him a shy smile while two flaming red patches colored her otherwise pale cheeks. But why not? The girl would be turning sixteen soon, and being noticed by Paul Cefalu was no small thing.

  “You gonna miss him?” Paul asked, turning back to Connie. His mesmerizing gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth and back again.

  Connie did her best to keep her rapidly pounding heart from affecting her breathing. “Sure. Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. A lot. If it wasn’t for the damn apprenticeship, I’d be going with them.” The emotion in his voice took Connie by surprise.

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” she said softly. “I know they’re your best buddies.”

  Paul nodded, then looked away, blinking rapidly as he said, “I gotta say hi to my nonna. I’ll see you around.” He turned and walked away from her, then bent to kiss his grandmother on the cheek and greet his grandfather. Connie watched him, thinking about the effect Nino’s and Frankie’s departures were going to have on a number of people in the neighborhood. While they might not be aware of it on a daily basis, all of their lives were interwoven in ways one didn’t notice until something caused the fabric to unravel.

  The accordion player in the band played a few chords into the microphone, and Frankie’s father stepped up to the mike to ask everyone to be seated. As dozens of chairs shuffled and conversations quieted, women and girls appeared from the basement kitchen behind the stage with bowls of spaghetti and sauce and platters of meatballs to bring to the tables. Scarpa and Fiorello men with bottles of red wine in each hand approached the tables to fill the glasses being turned upright by their guests.

  Mamma had settled into the chair beside Angie, and she led her family in the saying of grace as a bowl of fragrant marinara sauce was placed in front of them. Connie smiled into Angie’s eyes, then looked at Gianna beside her and gave her a smile as well. These were definitely the best of times, being surrounded by family and friends this way, and she knew things would not always be this good.

  When the entrée was finished, the women brought servings of spumoni and plates of homemade biscotti to the tables, while the men poured more wine all around. Father Ianelli was among the well-wishers invited to the meal, and he made a point of not noticing how much wine was being distributed in his church basement. Frankie’s father took the stage once more and drew their attention to the baskets at the corners of the stage. Donations would be taken, he said, to buy personal items to send to the troops in Vietnam—warm socks and soap and stationery—and he hoped that people would write to his boy and to Nino wherever they might be stationed to keep them from missing home too much. Someone in the crowd stood up to tell a funny kindergarten story about Frankie, and soon the entire room was laughing as more stories were told and more wine was poured. The band began to play at some point, and people worked together to clear the tables and move them to the sides of the hall to create a dance floor.

  As Nino and Frankie led their mothers to the center of the room, Angie said, “It’s like a wedding.”

  Just so it’s not instead of one.

  Before long the dance floor was filled with couples, plus a few small children who broke away from their caregivers to join them. When Nino stepped up and offered his hand to Connie, she rose and moved into his arms with a smile, resting her cheek against his as they danced a slow dance. He smelled of Canoe, her favorite aftershave, and his embrace was familiar and welcome.

  “A bunch of us are going to Silvio’s when this is over,” he said into her ear. “You wanna come?”

  Connie shook her head. “I’m not twenty-one.”

  “Neither am I. Paul’s got some ID’s. They aren’t going to check us, anyway. They never do.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not a drinker, Nino.”

  He brushed the tip of his nose playfully against hers. “I want to spend my last night with you, Con,” he whispered. “Monday night. Can we do that?”

  His words made her feel like crying. “Don’t ask me that. You know I can’t do that.”

  “It doesn’t have to be the whole night. But I need something to remember, Con, when I’m far away. And I want it to be you. You and me. Can’t you figure out something?”

  What was he talking about? They had never gone all the way, and she wasn’t about to give her virginity to him just because he was leaving. “Come on, this isn’t fair.”

  Nino pulled her closer to him, pressing her breasts against his chest and burying his face in the fullness of her hair. “What’s not fair, Con? I love you. I always have.” His thigh pressed into the space between her legs.

  He was embarrassing and disrespecting her. “Stop it, Nino. Everybody we know is here.”

  “And they all know how I feel about you.”

  Connie pulled back to look into his eyes, her jaw set in anger. “Bullshit. You and I haven’t gone out for two years. You should be spending your last night with Tina. What happened? She already said no?”

  “All right, all right, don’t get ticked.” Nino eased up his hold on her. His soft brown gaze bored into hers, and he was his old boyish self once more. “Just explain to me why I’m old enough to fight for this country, but not old enough to drink or get laid.”

  “You’re old enough to get laid.” Connie smiled into his eyes. “Just not by me. And that’s not personal. I’m not going there with anybody right now.”

  “Paul’s gonna ask you out.”

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  Nino’s expression hardened. “Because I’m leaving. I know he will. He’s always stayed away from you because of me, but now he’ll ask you out.”

  “Why would he? He’s not short on girls to date.”

  Nino’s mouth set in a thin line. “That’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for.”

  Connie frowned at him.“What are you hoping for? That I’m going to wait for you? Nino, what do I have to say? I love you as a friend. I only want the best for you, but I’m not your girl.”

  “So, if he asks you out, you’ll go?”

  Why was he pursuing this? “I don’t know. That’s not even worth talking about.”

  “So, you’ll say no to me, but maybe yes to Paul? Why?”

  Connie widened her eyes at him and whispered through clenched teeth. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill! He hasn’t asked me! I haven’t said yes! Why are we fighting about something that hasn’t happened? Is this really how you want to remember our time together?”

  “I told you how I want to remember our time together,” he answered, nuzzling her neck once more.

  “And that’s real great,” Connie said in disgust. “That’s just so compelling.” She wanted to push him away, but too many people in the room would have noticed.

  Nino pulled back to look in her face. “Compelling? Who the hell says compelling?” His eyes flashed with anger. “Is that what it is, Con? You’re just so much better than me now that you go to fuckin’ UVM?”

  Connie glared back at him. “Yeah, that’s it. I knew you’d figure it out. So, do you want to make a scene right here, in front of everyone, or do you want to keep smiling and dancing like we’re having a good time? Because this is your party, not mine.”

  Nino pulled her to him once more and pressed his head against hers. “I’m sorry. I’m just so damned on edge.”

  “I know.” Connie closed her eyes and leaned against him as they swayed to the final bars of the song. “I’m sorry, too. For a lot of th
ings. For disappointing you too many times. But—“

  “Shhh! Let me just remember the part about you being sorry.” He leaned back to give her his appealing grin, then moved forward and kissed her full on the lips. She savored the feel of his mouth on hers as they held the kiss, until a few people nearby clapped and whistled. Nino released her and laughed while Connie blushed.

  “Kiss all the girls you can while they feel bad about you leaving!” someone shouted, and more people began to clap and laugh.

  A grinning Nino turned away from Connie and opened his arms in a gesture of welcome to all the girls in the room. The crowd burst into cheers and whistles, and as a few girls boldly stepped forward with inviting smiles on their faces, Connie quietly left his side. The familiar, satisfying pressure of his lips on hers was still achingly intense, and she couldn’t bear to watch him sharing that with anyone else, no matter how superficial the gesture.

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday, October 5

  Marilyn sat cross-legged on the couch, the spine of her history textbook resting on her ankles. She had come home with Connie to spend the weekend off-campus.

  Her gaze was currently directed toward the kitchen where Gianna and David were hovering over the stove, working together on Saturday night’s family dinner. “Do you think they do the dirty?” she whispered.

  Connie was seated next to her, reading about yellow journalism during the Spanish American War. She glanced into the kitchen. Gianna had one hand on David’s bare forearm, and the two of them were laughing together as she taught him to make risotto.

  “The priest and the nun? I don’t think so.” Connie stared at them a moment longer, pondering the possibility. “I don’t think they would. They’re both too Catholic. They’ll wait.” She returned her attention to the book in her lap.

  “You think they’ll get married?”

  “They seem pretty happy. Very happy.”

  “What about the relatives?”

  Connie looked up at Marilyn. “She had a talk with our grandma and told her about him. I guess she made it pretty clear that it wasn’t up for discussion, just a courtesy announcement so she wouldn’t be surprised. I think she’s counting on Nonna to spread the word.”

  “How did she take it? Your grandma.”

  “Pooh! They don’t even like to see non-Italians brought into the family, not to mention another race.”

  The statement gave Marilyn the perfect segue for a remark about white-bread Greg, but she didn’t take it. Ever since Nino’s departure for Parris Island, Connie had been down, and her friends and family seemed to know better than to tease her. Greg himself had noted her depression and had been giving her space, letting her take the lead in conversations when they rode together the past two weeks, respecting her silences when she didn’t feel conversational. On both Fridays, he had made plans that kept him from carpooling with her, and he hadn’t asked her again about joining his friends on a Saturday. She wouldn’t have gone anyway; mostly she just wanted to keep to herself these days.

  As if reading her mind, Marilyn said, “Have you heard from Nino?”

  Connie shook her head. “No. But he said that might happen. I’ve written him twice now, just letting him know about stuff and that we’re all thinking about him and Frankie. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Marilyn went back to reading her book, but Connie could no longer concentrate on William Randolph Hearst. She left the couch and wandered into the kitchen in time to see David plant a kiss on Gianna’s cheek.

  He laughed self-consciously when he realized she had entered the room, his golden-brown eyes tracking her as she went past them to the refrigerator. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  Connie opened the refrigerator. “Why not? Except that you’re making me jealous.” She bent down and pulled out a pitcher of green Kool-Aid. “What’s for supper?”

  “Risotto alla Milanese,” he said, rolling his “r” perfectly, “breaded veal with lemon juice and those little green things—”

  “Capers,” Connie said, as she straightened up and shut the door. “Good accent on the ‘Milanese,’ by the way.”

  “Grazie. And…” He gave Gianna an inquisitive look, regarding her with a tenderness Connie couldn’t help but notice.

  “Finocchio,” Gianna answered, smiling into his eyes. “Fennel salad.”

  “Sounds great. Too bad Angie’s not here this weekend,” Connie said. “Risotto’s one of her favorites.” She filled two glasses with Kool-Aid, then glanced toward Gianna and David once more, lifting the pitcher toward them as if in a toast. “Fake lime stuff, anyone?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick to l’acqua,” David replied, holding up a glass of water.

  “She’s turning you into a real linguist.” Connie put the pitcher back into the refrigerator, then picked up her glasses from the counter.

  “Whatever it takes to impress your father.” David’s gaze rested on Gianna’s face as he spoke, and Gianna kept her gaze on him.

  Connie carried her beverages into the living room. “It might be happening sooner than I think,” she whispered as she handed Marilyn a glass. “It’s pretty steamy in there, and I’m not talking about the risotto.”

  ***

  Angie came home on Sunday afternoon, just as Connie and Marilyn were taking their turn at making dinner. Connie had learned not to ask Angie where she went; the girl wouldn’t talk about it and neither would their parents. While the secrecy irritated her, Connie had come to accept it as none of her business—albeit resentfully—and so when Angie appeared at the kitchen door, Connie merely introduced her to Marilyn and went back to browning meat for beef stew. Angie went into the living room to join Mamma, leaving Connie and Marilyn working side by side in the kitchen.

  “She’s very interesting,” Marilyn said as she peeled potatoes into a colander in the sink.

  “How so?”

  “She doesn’t look like the rest of you at all.”

  Connie turned down the heat under the Dutch oven’s sizzling cubes of beef. “What are you talking about? Of course she does.”

  “I don’t think so. She looks very French to me. She has smaller features and a different way of carrying herself.”

  “She’s fifteen. She’s still growing.” Connie poured water and wine into the pot and stirred up the browned bits on the bottom.

  “It’s not that. You and Gianna have a way about you that’s very similar. And your mother, too. A certain bearing and a fullness to your face. Plus, I can see your dad in your eyes. Angie’s very different from the rest of you. She’s got almond-shaped eyes and finer hair. Finer bone structure in her face. Plus, she’s more cat-like.”

  Connie stared at Marilyn, then burst out laughing. “Wow. That’s a lot to get out of a fifteen-second introduction.”

  Marilyn looked offended. “I’m a visual person. I notice details.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Connie asked, still grinning. “My mother had an affair with a Frenchman?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m just surprised at how different she is. But, you’re the geneticist, not me. I suspect it’s all about retentive genes, or whatever you call them.”

  “Recessive.”Connie considered her words for a moment, her mind going to Paul. “Maybe it is. I have this friend who’s got the bluest eyes you could ever imagine, and everyone else in his family has brown. But somewhere along the line, both sides had a blue-eyed ancestor, and they’ve been passing along that gene behind the brown eyes for generations. His parents finally gave two blue-eyed genes to the same kid.”

  Connie concentrated on stirring the brown bits up from the bottom of the pot. Marilyn’s comment about Angie looking French repeated in her head. Mr. LaCroix was French-Canadian. He was small and wiry. But how absurd. Mamma would never cheat on Papa. Anger with herself for even thinking that way flooded Connie. She returned the meat to the pot, turned up the heat beneath it, and put on the cover.

  Mr. LaCroix? If so, why would he dare to
keep coming around, being a friend to Papa, bringing him presents? To make up for what they had done? To see Angie, who was really his daughter?

  That was ridiculous. He was from Swanton, way up north near the Canadian border. He had a wife and a son who was a year younger than Connie. He had brought the boy down with him on one of his trips years ago. Connie remembered him—Francis—because he was born with a cleft palate that had been poorly repaired, leaving him with a malformed upper lip.

  “Okay, the potatoes and the carrots are peeled. What next? Onions?” Marilyn’s words brought Connie back to the task at hand.

  She adjusted the heat beneath the pot and went to retrieve an onion from the bag of onions beside the stove.

  ***

  As she had once before, Connie found herself studying Angie when the family and Marilyn sat down to supper. Frankie had caused her to do it last time, when he said Angie was no run-of-the-mill Italian girl. But as before, all she saw was her familiar dark-haired, dark-eyed sprite of a sister.

  “You’re quiet,” she said to Angie, seated across from her.

  Angie stirred the stew in her bowl. “I’m tired.”

  “How come?”

  “I was outside all day.” She picked up a spoonful of stew and focused on the steam rising from it.

  “Doing what?”

  “Hunting.” The hint of a smile gave her away; she was purposely leading Connie on.

  Connie played along. “Hunting what? Boys?”

  “Timberdoodles.” Angie looked up with a grin, knowing Connie had no idea if her answer was valid or not.

  Marilyn came to Connie’s rescue. “Woodcocks. They’re birds. My uncles hunt them.”

  Connie gawked at Angie. “Hunting birds? You don’t have the heart to kill anything.”

  “I don’t have a license either. I just went with.”