“No, it’s not, Greg. I can tell. What’s wrong?” She turned her body toward him, her eyes intent on his, a lump rising in her throat at the thought that he was about to tell her he had someone else.
He shook his head again, his eyes full of misery as they stared into hers. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Connie. But I spend time with your family, and I ride with you every day, and it’s just killing me to know that all I’m doing is filling in until Paul’s back in your life.”
An overwhelming ache spread through her entire body, a pain that had her on the verge of tears as she stared back at him. He had no idea how she really felt.
“I love you, Greg,” she said, looking deep into his eyes, saying out loud for the first time what she only recently had realized herself. “I don’t want Paul in my life. I want you.”
“Two weeks ago, you said you weren’t through with Paul,” he said warily.
“But I am now.”
Greg watched her as though waiting for the other shoe to drop, girding himself for the caveat, the qualifier that he was sure must be coming. When it didn’t happen, his brow furrowed for a moment and then he began to relax, slowly at first, the light returning to his eyes as the unconditional nature of her declaration began to sink in.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Connie. That would be worse than never hearing you say it at all.”
Connie smiled and shook her head in an attempt to dispel his fears, then leaned across the floor-mounted stick shift to put her arms around his neck and pull his face to hers. “I love you, Greg. I love you.” She closed her eyes and kissed his lips, her heart pounding as the words became her reality. His arms closed around her and pulled her tightly to him and the intensity of the kiss increased.
His gray eyes were dancing with fun as he pulled back to look at her. “Okay,” he said with a laugh, drawing out the second syllable of the word, “now, let’s go watch this heartbreaking movie about a man whose future is hopeless.”
***
Angie and her friends were still awake, giggling in the bedroom, when Connie arrived home just before midnight. She stretched out on the couch, sure she would never fall asleep after her evening with Greg. Parting had been more difficult than usual.
She slept fitfully and was up early the next morning. Angie and her friends were sound asleep. Connie and Gianna sat at the kitchen table, talking in low voices as they shared slices of the warm homemade bread Nonna had sent home with Gianna.
Connie sipped her coffee. “Did you and Angie ever finish the conversation about David yesterday? About why he knows more about what’s going on than we do?”
Gianna avoided Connie’s eyes as she nodded. “Because of Father Ianelli.”
The priest’s ubiquitous nature was beginning to irritate Connie. “He’s kind of got his finger in everything, hasn’t he?”
Tears welled in Gianna’s eyes, and her voice broke. “And now I’m starting to wonder where David and I fit in.”
“What do you mean?”
Gianna’s eyes shifted to meet Connie’s. “David knew about Angie and the LaCroixs years ago. And he says it’s just a coincidence that we’re together now, but I don’t know!” Tears began to stream down Gianna’s cheeks as she stared at Connie. “Is it just a coincidence that Father Ianelli introduced him to me? Or is this really all about Angie—about keeping an eye on her for the LaCroixs? What if I’m just some kind of pawn?”
Gianna didn’t require much to destroy her self-confidence, and Connie hated to see her lose the headway she had made. “That doesn’t make any sense, Gi. Why would he need to keep an eye on her, especially now, when she knows about the LaCroixs and goes to be with them? Why does he need to keep an eye on her at all? Did she ever explain that to you? Why they gave her up?”
Gianna shook her head as she brushed the tears from her cheeks with her fingertips.
“Has David ever said anything about them?” Connie persisted.
“No.”
“Well, I don’t get it. If they put her up for adoption, and Father arranged it, why did Mamma and Papa keep it such a big secret? Why didn’t they tell her about her real parents sooner?”
Gianna sniffled, then blew her nose into a paper napkin and looked at Connie. “Maybe they were embarrassed. Or afraid.”
“Afraid of what? That she’d be upset? Of course, she’d be upset! So you wait until she’s practically an adult?”
Connie’s exasperation had raised the volume of her voice, and Gianna frowned at her. “Shush. She and her friends will hear us.”
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 cabin
et—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.
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