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?”
“I’m going to UVM. You?”
“I work at the Fairbanks Museum.” David turned toward Papa and held out his hand. “Signore Balestra. It’s good to see you again.”
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