Ask Mariah

by Barbara Freethy

  For a moment Michael thought Tony was serious, then he saw the hint of a smile playing around Tony's mouth. "Yeah, right. You know, you don't need Helen, you need a woman who won't take crap from you. Helen is too nice for you."

  "Then tell me where I can find myself a gorgeous bitch."

  "Try any bar in the financial district after five. So, what are you going to do with this boat?"

  "Run charters. I finally get to be my own boss."

  "Don't kid yourself. You open your own business and you'll do nothing but cater to everyone else, to your clients, to your banker, to your crew. It's called being a grown-up."

  "No, not that, please."

  "Do you have a business plan?"

  Tony made a face. "Unlike you, I don't plan out every move I'm going to make. Sometimes I just jump and then look down."

  "That's a good way to break your neck." He sat back in his chair. "Owning your own business is a risk."

  "Yeah, well, if you took a risk once in awhile, you wouldn't be stuck building square boxes for business suits."

  He frowned, once again reminded of how far he had strayed from his original goals, but he had made the right decisions. He had a family to support. Ideals were fine, but they didn't put food on the table.

  "How are the girls?" Tony asked, changing the subject.

  "The same. Happy most of the time, at least on the surface. God knows what's going on in their heads."

  "Still not talking?"

  "Not to me."

  "What are you supposed to do about it?"

  "Be patient, wait until they feel comfortable enough to talk to me. By that time I'll probably be too old to hear them. Sometimes I just want to shake them until the words come out or they yell at me to stop. But I don't."

  "Of course you don't. You love those kids." Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do the doctors say?"

  "The doctors say that while the girls are happy to live with me, they don't want to talk to me. They don't trust me for some reason -- which maybe some day they'll be able to tell me."

  "Mama can't get anything out of them?" Tony asked.

  "No. But Sophia has been distracted since Angela died."

  "Angela was everything to her, the only daughter. She was one of a kind," Tony said.

  Michael stared at him for a long moment.

  "What did I say?" Tony asked.

  "You're not going to believe this."

  "What?"

  "I saw a woman who looks just like Angela at the school where I took the girls this morning."

  "No way."

  "The girls even called her Mama. They threw themselves at her."

  "What? She has dark hair?"

  "And big brown eyes, and an oval face, and a soft, warm mouth, and ..." Michael's voice drifted off as he realized just how much Joanna had affected him.

  "Michael?" Tony snapped his fingers. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Nothing."

  "This woman -- she really got to you, didn't she?"

  "You'd have to see her to believe it."

  "So when can I see her?"

  "I pick up the kids at three."

  Tony checked his watch. "I'll be back."

  Chapter Four

  "We waited so long for you to come back," Rose said as Joanna sat down with the twins at the art table. "Where were you?"

  Joanna sighed, looking from Lily to Rose. She had tried to convince them for the past six hours that she was not their long-lost mother, but to no avail. It didn't matter that everyone called her Joanna. They seemed to think she was playing a game with them.

  Wishing she had majored in child psychology instead of history, Joanna opened her purse and took out her wallet. "I want to show you a picture."

  She handed Rose a photo taken of her family a year and a half earlier at Christmas, before her father had gotten sick. "That's my mother, her name is Caroline; and the man is my father. His name was Edward. He died a couple of months ago." Her voice softened, "I still miss him a lot. Just like you miss your mother. It's hard to say good-bye, isn't it?"

  Rose and Lily stared at the photo, then at her.

  "Where are Grandma Sophia and Grandpa Vincent?" Lily asked in confusion.

  Joanna tried again. "I'm not your mother, Lily. These are my parents."

  "We did something bad, didn't we, Mama?" Rose's chocolate brown eyes filled with tears. "I remember when you said we were driving you crazy, that you had to go away. You made us promise -- "

  "Rose, she wants to be sure we didn't break our promise," Lily interrupted.

  Rose looked relieved. "Oh. It's okay. Mama, I haven't told Daddy anything. I told you I could keep a secret."

  Secret? What secret? Joanna tucked her hair behind her ear as she realized the children still believed she was their mother. "Come on, girls. Look at the photo. Do I really look like your mother? Are our clothes the same? Our hair? Our teeth?"

  Lily tilted her head as she stared into Joanna's face, then back at the photo. "Your hair is longer and curlier now."

  She let out a breath of relief. They were finally making progress. "What else?" She turned to Rose. "Can you see the difference, honey? Can you understand that I'm Joanna, that I'm not your mother?"

  "If you want us to call you Joanna, it's okay," Rose replied. "It's a pretty name."

  "We like it," Lily added.

  "I give up," Joanna said with a helpless laugh.

  "Are you mad at us?" Rose asked. "Please don't be mad."

  Rose threw her arms around Joanna, burying her face in the curve of Joanna's neck. Her hair brushed against Joanna's skin, bringing with it the sweet scent of flowers. Joanna couldn't help but hug Rose back. The child felt so right in her arms, a perfect fit. Lily stepped up next to them, running her hand down the side of Joanna's hair, twirling her fingers in the long strands.

  "I like your hair longer," Lily whispered. "I think Daddy likes it, too."

  Joanna's heart caught at the simple word, at the reminder of their father, Michael Ashton. She'd been thinking about him all morning, and it had to stop. She hadn't spent this much time thinking about David, and they'd gone out for six months. But she could still see Michael in her mind, wrestling with the girls, his tie crooked, his hair ruffled, his eyes shocked at the sight of her.

  "Mama -- I mean Joanna," Lily said, "do you want us to clean up now?"

  Joanna looked at the clock, suddenly realizing the bell had rung.

  "Good idea." She stood up and helped the other children in her class prepare for departure. Her first day of teaching had gone well. Aside from putting several children to sleep during her recitation of Emily Dickinson, she'd done okay. And she had been surprised at how much she'd enjoyed it. She'd always felt awkward with the college kids, never feeling all that secure or confident in herself.

  Here she was definitely in charge, and the kids were so loving, she couldn't help but connect with them. They hugged her before recess. They showed her their pictures and shared their excitement. They fought over who would get to sit in her lap during story time.

  She had never felt so loved, and even though she'd spent more time tying shoelaces than teaching numbers, she felt good about the day.

  The twins helped her put the chairs on the tables as various children were picked up by their parents. Michael Ashton was the last to arrive, and he had another man with him.

  "Uncle Tony!" the girls said in unison, running over to the other man.

  Uncle Tony had a shadowy beard, windblown hair, and a smile guaranteed to charm. Despite Tony's obvious good looks, Joanna still felt drawn to Michael. Maybe it was Michael's eyes, so blue, so light in contrast to his dark hair. Maybe it was his broad chest, his confident stance. Maybe she had been alone too long.

  "Hi midgets," Tony said, receiving a smacking kiss from each of the girls. "I brought you candy."

  Joanna smiled at the girls' pleasure. She turned to Michael to tell him about their day. Once again the intensity of h
is gaze caught her off guard. He seemed as shocked to see her now as he had been that morning.

  "Mr. Ashton," she said slowly.

  "Yes?" He sounded distracted.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No. No, I don't think so. All morning I told myself it was my imagination." He turned to his friend. "Tony, I want you to meet Miss -- "

  "Joanna," she said.

  Tony stepped forward. His smile faded as he looked at her. Joanna put a hand to her temple, pressing hard against her threatening headache. She didn't think she could stand much more emotion. She'd used up all her energy and patience with the children.

  "Wow." Tony took in a deep breath. "You weren't kidding, Michael. She looks just like Angie."

  Joanna abruptly turned around. She was beginning to feel like a bug under a microscope. She walked over to her desk and began organizing her papers.

  After a moment Michael joined her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

  "Well, you did," she said shortly, unwilling to admit that her discomfort had more to do with attraction than dislike.

  "Joanna." Michael's voice came out low and husky, making her name sound like a caress.

  She raised her head, and his gaze drifted across her face, as if he were memorizing each line. Comparing her to his wife, probably. There was far too much intimacy in his look for two strangers to share.

  She cleared her throat. "Perhaps the girls should have another teacher. I'm not sure it's good for them to be with me every day."

  Lily and Rose immediately disagreed with the plan. "No! No!" they cried, abandoning their uncle Tony for Joanna. They threw their arms around her waist, holding on with stubborn determination.

  "Girls, it's okay," Joanna said, trying to ease their distress. "The other teachers are good."

  "We want you," they chorused.

  Michael put a hand on each of their heads, bringing him into even closer proximity to Joanna. His expression was clearly troubled as he looked into her eyes. "I don't think the girls will stay with another teacher."

  "But is this good for them?"

  "They've had a lot of counseling since their mother died. Time seems to be the only answer. If they stay in school, I think they'll realize that you're not their mother, but if I take them away now, I'm afraid they'll think I'm taking them away from their mother."

  "I can't look that much like her," she said, wanting him to contradict her.

  Michael exchanged a glance with Tony. "You could be her sister," he said, his gaze returning to her.

  "My sister," Tony added, "This is weird."

  She thought so, too. Nothing in her experience had taught her how to deal with a situation like this. She took in a breath and let it out. But she would deal with it, as she'd dealt with everything else in her life in the past year. Her father's illness had given her strength, his legacy to her.

  "All right, we'll let things stay like this for now," she said.

  The girls cheered, and she couldn't help smiling. It was nice to be loved. She just wished it could be for herself.

  * * *

  Sophia De Luca carefully ironed out the wrinkles in her husband's monogrammed handkerchief. When it was perfectly flat and creaseless, she folded it in neat squares and set it on the couch next to her. Then she picked up the embroidered linen cloth that had graced the top of Angela's dresser since her birth and set to ironing it with the same sense of purpose and determination. It didn't matter that Angela would never again see the cloth. It didn't matter that no one went into Angela's bedroom anymore.

  She couldn't stand to take the room apart, to put Angela's things away, to change the bedspread or the curtains. Angela hadn't lived in that bedroom since she was eighteen years old, but Sophia had kept it exactly the same so that her daughter would have a room to come home to, just in case.

  Angela had never come home, and like so many things Sophia kept "just in case," Angela's bedroom went unused.

  Picking up the starched linen cloth, Sophia climbed up the stairs from her sewing room on the first floor to Angela's bedroom on the second. She carefully placed the cloth on the dresser and put the silver brush and mirror and Angela's favorite music box on top.

  As she looked around the room, she was assaulted with a longing that grew stronger with each passing day, a desire to go back in time or at least to stop the clock from moving forward. She couldn't believe it had been twenty-seven years since she had brought Angela home from the hospital, since she had sat in the rocking chair by the window and sung lullabies to her baby, some in Italian, some in English, all filled with love and promises. How quickly the time had passed.

  Sitting down in the rocker, she ran her hands along the smooth wood. Her husband, Vincent, had built the rocking chair for her just before the birth of their oldest son, Frank. Every night, after a long day in the restaurant, Vincent would go down to the basement and work on the rocker, shining it, polishing it. They had been so in love then, dreaming of the family they would have. There were so many memories in this chair, hours alone with her babies, in the dark of the night, when the world slept. That's when she had felt the closest to them. That's when she had cried. A tear ran down her face as she rocked, thinking about her life, about how silent the house was now.

  Frank, his wife Linda, and their four children lived a few blocks away. Frank had made a good marriage, and at thirty-seven he was ready to take over De Luca's when Vincent retired at the end of the year. Frank would continue their traditions. He would bring honor to the family, because he knew no other way to live. She had been in awe of her oldest son's principles since he was six years old, when Frank had decided that he would not be friends with anyone who lied, called him names, or didn't do their homework. Needless to say, Frank didn't have a lot of friends as a child. But he was a good man despite his rigid ways. And he adored his mother, held her up on a pedestal.

  He didn't know her at all.

  Tony, at thirty-three, was the complete opposite of Frank: emotional, unpredictable, sensitive, passionate. Tony took after her. Frank took after his father. Maybe that's why she worried more about Tony. Sophia knew how much trouble he could get himself into if he wasn't careful. And Tony was never careful.

  Oh, how she missed him. He'd taken off after Angela died, sailing his way around the world, picking up odd jobs, dropping the occasional note home. She knew Vincent was disappointed in Tony, that her husband very much wanted his youngest son to come home and run De Luca's with Frank. Then Vincent could retire, knowing that his sons' futures were secure.

  But Tony didn't want security. He wanted more than that. Sophia remembered feeling that way a very long time ago.

  Now she could feel nothing but pain. As she glanced around Angela's bedroom, as she saw the remnants of her daughter's life, the posters of pop stars on the wall, the school yearbooks in the bookcase, the clothes in the closet, the pain filled her stomach like too much pasta. It got worse every day. She could barely eat anymore. Not even her favorite chianti eased the pressure rising within her. She felt that she might burst at any moment.

  But she couldn't let the words out. She had to stay silent. She had to keep going for the sake of her family, for Vincent and Frank and Tony -- for Michael and the girls. It had always been that way. No real time for her. No moment when she could cut loose, when she could scream at the injustice of life.

  Not that it would matter. Angela was gone. Sophia pulled out the simple gold cross she wore around her neck and fingered the four points, silently asking again why God had taken her baby away. The answer was always the same -- because she had sinned.

  * * *

  "I don't think you should tell Sophia about Joanna," Michael said as he parked the car in front of the De Lucas' house in North Beach. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the girls were paying attention, but they were playing with their dolls in the backseat. "It might upset her."

  Tony stared straight ahead for a moment, then turned to Michael with a troubled
expression. "I feel like we're in the Twilight Zone."

  "I've been feeling that way all day."

  "Who is this woman? How could she look so much like Angela? It's crazy."

  "Maybe she's a distant relative."

  Tony drummed his fingers restlessly against his thigh. "Do you think it's good for the girls to be with her?"

  "You saw how they reacted to the thought of leaving. It's not like she's Angela's twin. Her hair is much longer. And she doesn't dress the same. There's a resemblance, but I think after awhile they'll begin to see differences between Joanna and Angela." We all will, he added silently.

  "I hope you're right. Because if you're not, I think your problem with the girls just got bigger." Tony turned to the girls. "Hey, midgets, shall we go surprise Grandma?" The girls eagerly agreed, and the four of them made their way into the house.

  The De Luca home was a two-story Victorian with hardwood floors and throw rugs in the entryway, living room, dining room, and hall. The stairs were carpeted in dark blue, with the walls painted a lighter shade of blue. It was a warm, colorful house, filled with antiques and knick knacks that Sophia collected during her weekly trips to secondhand stores and flea markets. Like the De Luca restaurant a few blocks away, the family home invited guests. There were comfortable chairs and sofas to sit on, paintings from Italy, and Sophia's collection of music boxes from around the world.

  "The place looks the same," Tony said. "Home sweet home."

  "Can we get some cookies, Uncle Tony?" Lily asked.

  "Michael?" Tony asked.

  Lily and Rose looked at him inquiringly, but didn't speak. He nodded. For a while he had tried denying them anything they wanted unless they asked for it with words, but that maneuver had turned out to be as big a failure as the rest. Now it seemed pointless to encourage a full- fledged temper tantrum over a few cookies.

  Tony watched the interaction with a troubled eye. "I don't get it, man," he said as the girls ran into the kitchen.

  "Neither do I."

  "How do you stand it?"

  "I tell myself that some day it will end. Some day they'll look me straight in the eye and say they love me, and that will probably be the happiest day of my life." He cleared his throat, suddenly choked up by that thought. "Of course, then they'll probably start arguing with me over every little thing, and I'll wish they would just shut up."