Hope's Angel

by Fifield, Rosemary

  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.”

  “Actually, Greg told me. She hasn’t mentioned it.”

  The man’s blue eyes came up to focus on her face as he brought the cork to his nose and sniffed it. “Which makes Greg a Mayflower descendent, of course.”

  Connie gave him a polite smile. “Of course.”

  He studied her for a moment longer, then looked down at the cork he was slowly twisting from its impalement. “I can see why Greg is attracted to you. You’re very … attractive. And I believe a young man should sow his wild oats while he can. Before he has to settle down in a long-term relationship.”

  Connie did her best not to appear offended. “He’s not sowing any wild oats with me.”

  Mr. Fairchild smiled at the cork in his hand. “I went to law school with a young man from Hawaii. He was full-blooded Polynesian—except for the usual trace of whatever it was Captain Cook’s sailors left behind—Irish, I think. But he had none of the Oriental in him like so many Hawaiians. And he told me how his parents made it clear that it was his duty to maintain that. That he must come home and marry a full-Polynesian girl because there were so few full-blooded Polynesians left.”

  “So, you’re saying that Greg needs to marry a Mayflower descendent?” Connie hoped her face didn’t reflect her amusement at the absurdity of such an idea.

  “Not exactly.” Mr. Fairchild’s eyes came up to hold Connie’s with a cold blue stare. “After all, I don’t fit that.”

  “But, at least she should be Anglo-Saxon.”

  Mr. Fairchild returned the corkscrew to its drawer, letting his silence speak for itself.

  “Did your friend do as he was told?” Connie asked.

  Mr. Fairchild pursed his lips, indicating the answer was irrelevant. “He wasn’t my friend. He was a fellow student. I really don’t know.” He proceeded to move around the table, filling three wine glasses with the ruby-colored wine. When he came to the place setting next to where she stood, he looked at her and said, “But I suspect that he did. He understood the importance of such things.”

  Connie wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. “In a world that’s short on full Polynesians, absolutely.”

  Her inference was not lost on him. He filled the fourth glass, then looked at her, his face unsmiling. “I don’t worry about the world. All I worry about is my family.”

  Greg and his mother were coming through the door from the kitchen, bringing the roast and carving utensils to the table. Both were smiling, as though they had just finished a pleasant conversation, and Connie watched them, wondering what they might have talked about. Once again, she was struck by how little she knew about Greg and his family. Yet, he had expected her to say yes when he asked her to marry him.

  Connie and Greg sat together on one side of the table, his parents on the other. Mr. Fairchild proceeded to slice the prime rib that had been set before him. Bowls were passed and plates were filled.

  Mrs. Fairchild took a sip from her wine glass and looked across the table at Connie. “Is our cooking too bland for you? I suspect you would prefer more garlic or whatever. I did put herbs de Provence on the root vegetables.”

  “Your cooking is delicious.” Connie gave her a warm smile. “This prime rib is amazing.”

  “Gregory tells me you had seven different types of fresh seafood for dinner last night,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “What an interesting tradition.”

  “Miss Balestra and I were just talking about the importance of tradition.” Mr. Fairchild gave Connie a meaningful stare before he returned his attentions to his plate.

  “I wouldn’t think you could find seven kinds of seafood in Vermont,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “We had wonderful seafood in Providence. I miss it.”

  Connie picked up a roasted carrot with her fork. “Some of ours came from Boston.”

  “Boston? So, you have family in Boston?”

  “My sister’s fiancé. He doesn’t live there anymore, but his family does.”

  Mrs. Fairchild’s face lit up. “Oh, my! You have a sister getting married to a young man from Boston! How exciting! When is the wedding?”

  “I don’t think they’ve set a date. He just gave her the ring for Christmas.” Connie smiled to herself, wondering what the woman would think if she knew more about David.

  “Your parents must be so pleased!” Mrs. Fairchild turned to her husband. “ I do wish Georgianne and Steven would decide to tie the knot.”

  Mr. Fairchild’s eyes were on Connie once more. “Lots of Italians fish out of Gloucester, don’t they? Is he a fisherman?”

  Connie was beginning to enjoy the conversation, pondering where she might take it. “Nope. He’s not Italian. Not even a smidgeon.”

  Beside her, Greg cleared his throat and said, “So, Mom, good old Steve didn’t pop the big question, huh?”

  “Not that I know of. Unless he’s doing it today.” Mrs. Fairchild glanced at her husband. “He didn’t say anything to you, did he, dear?”

  Mr. Fairchild shook his head as he sliced the meat on his plate. “Not yet. He will.”

  “I want to plan a wedding so badly.” She looked across the table at Connie. “I envy your mother with three girls.”

  Greg’s father stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth before shaking his head. “One wedding will be plenty, once the two of you get going. I’ll be paying through the nose.”

  “And loving every minute of it.” Mrs. Fairchild gave him a prim smile. “It’ll be for your baby girl.”

  “Maybe we could do it right here in the yard as long as it’s summer,” he said. “Pitch a couple of those big
striped tents for the food.”

  Mrs. Fairchild rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding.”

  Connie stabbed a parsnip and brought it to her mouth. She was enjoying the repartee, not sure if Mr. Fairchild was simply trying to provoke his wife or meant what he said.

  “I hear that’s the new thing—getting married outdoors instead of in a church,” he said. “Reverend Bob could marry them in the garden.”

  Mrs. Fairchild sniffed loudly. “I can’t imagine that.”

  “Deirdre Hance did it just last year,” Greg said from his position beside Connie.

  His mother sighed. “Gregory, please. The Hances? They may be nouveau riche, but they’re still gypsies.”

  Connie’s hand was poised part way to her mouth with a forkful of parsnips. She stared at Greg’s mother. The woman had gone back to eating as though nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

  “Really, Mom, they’re from Romania?” Greg’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  Mrs. Fairchild pursed her lips in irritation. “You know what I mean.”

  You know what I mean. But, of course. How could Connie have been so blind? The woman was a social worker. She worked with families with kids that were—how had Greg put it?—retarded or crippled or had birth defects. Families that lived back in the hills. Poor Vermont families that didn’t necessarily welcome her arrival at their door. That was why Greg had reacted so strangely to her questions about the Vermont Eugenics Survey.

  Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  Connie’s face was blanching; she could feel it. Across the table, Mr. Fairchild was watching her with interest. “Are you all right?”

  Greg reached over to take Connie’s left hand from her lap, and when she turned to look at him, his expression was a combination of concern and chagrin. His eyes were intent on hers as he said, “Do we need to go?”

  Connie didn’t know what to say. Her head was spinning with reasons why they should leave, yet the well-trained guest in her struggled to keep the peace, and her pride told her not to let them make her run. She forced a smile and shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Sorry. I guess I’m just tired from last night.”