Ask Mariah

by Barbara Freethy

  "I've always wondered where my dark hair and eyes came from. You and Dad are so fair."

  "Your grandmother, Theresa, had brown hair."

  "Light brown, dishwater blond really, not almost black like mine."

  "I'm sure someone else in the family had dark hair," Caroline said, although she couldn't come up with any specific names.

  "No one did. Mother. I've done our genealogy charts, remember?"

  "But you didn't have pictures of everyone. Some genes are dormant for generations. Who knows why?" The teakettle whistled, and Caroline turned off the heat. "Would you like a cup?"

  "No, thanks. I feel like something cold." Joanna stood up and retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator. "After I get something to eat, I thought I'd start going through Dad's things in the den," she said, changing the subject.

  "Why don't we go shopping after you eat? I could use some new shoes."

  She sighed. All she wanted to do was stay home and putter around the house, but her mother rarely allowed her that luxury. "You have a million shoes."

  "But nothing new. I want something new. I would have gone earlier, but I thought you'd like to go with me."

  "What I'd really like to do is start organizing the den. We need to send information to the insurance companies, and I know Dad's lawyer wanted a copy of something. Do you remember what that was?"

  "Just a letter or something," Caroline said with a vague wave of her hand. "It can wait."

  "We can't keep putting things off."

  "Dammit, Joanna. The man's dead. What could possibly be urgent about the things in his den?" Her blunt words drew a long silence between them.

  "Mom? What's wrong?" Joanna asked.

  Caroline couldn't seem to meet her eyes. "I don't want you to go into the den."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the papers belong to your father and me." Caroline pulled a cup and saucer out of the cabinet. "I should take care of it. And I will."

  "When?"

  "When I'm ready."

  "A lot of what's in there just needs to be tossed in the trash. Dad never threw anything away. I bet his collection of fishing magazines goes up to the ceiling."

  "He loved those magazines. Everything in that room meant so much to him. It was his personal, private place, Joanna."

  "I know, but it's not as if he had a stash of private love letters in there or anything."

  "How would you know that?" Caroline asked sharply.

  Joanna was taken aback by her mother's question. "I don't know that, but are you saying there's something in there you don't want me to see?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Do you think he was -- "

  "No."

  "You don't know what I was going to say."

  "Yes, I do, and he wasn't. But some things are private between a husband and a wife. You'll know what I mean when you get married."

  Marriage. She took a sip of her drink as she leaned back against the counter. In the past year, whenever she had thought of marriage, she had thought of David. Now his image had been replaced by that of another man -- of Michael Ashton. It was ridiculous. She didn't even know him. But there was something about him, something so compelling that she couldn't stop thinking about him. And the twins were adorable, affectionate, spontaneous, loving, honest. They wanted her to be their mother.

  In her mind she saw Michael, Lily, and Rose, standing in a circle, holding out their hands to her. But she couldn't complete the circle. She might look the same, but she wasn't Lily and Rose's mother, and she wasn't Michael's wife. That spot belonged to someone else. She needed to remember that.

  * * *

  Dinner at the De Lucas' was a noisy affair. Everyone talked at the same time. The loudness in the room grew higher as the level of wine got lower. Arguing about everything from politics to religion to meat prices was required, and anyone who couldn't finish a sentence in thirty seconds could count on being interrupted.

  It hadn't taken Michael long to realize that he couldn't keep up with the De Lucas. Angela had usually finished most of his sentences, even if she didn't know what he was thinking. She had simply assumed that he thought the same way she did. In the beginning he'd been too infatuated to contradict her. Her passion and zest for life had appealed to him. He'd thought her crazy antics would brighten his life. But her endless energy had been tiring, her penchant for trouble wearing, and after they'd had kids her irresponsibility had turned him off completely.

  "I think you should add that pasta dish Sophia made the other night to the menu, Frank," Linda said. "The shrimp and fettuccine was delicious. You'll have to give me the recipe, Sophia, although I doubt I could re-create it. You're such a great cook."

  He smiled to himself as Linda De Luca lavished praise on her mother-in-law. Linda had been married to the oldest De Luca son, Frank, for thirteen years, and she had a tendency to try too hard to fit in. When Linda found out Sophia collected music boxes, she began a collection of ceramic angels. When Sophia tried out a new recipe, Linda asked for it. Linda shopped at the same markets and dress shops. She went to the same dentist as her mother-in-law, and the same doctor. Not that he could blame Linda for wanting to emulate her mother-in-law or to create the same happy family as the De Lucas'. He'd tried to do much the same thing himself. Only he'd failed. Linda, on the other hand, seemed to be successful. She had four beautiful children and Frank.

  He looked over at his brother-in-law, who was eating his linguine with the same seriousness Frank brought to every task. Instead of twirling the strands of pasta around his fork, Frank cut them with a knife and fork. He wasn't one to slurp or spill. He had to control everything and everyone around him. And the burden of such a need seemed to be aging him prematurely. Not yet forty, Frank had thinning hair and streaks of gray. His clothes were a little too tight, his shirtsleeves a little too short, his style a little too conservative.

  "Michael?" Linda said. "What do you think?"

  "What?" he asked, realizing she was waiting for him to reply to a question he didn't remember hearing.

  Before she could answer, Frank jumped in. "We would have to charge more to cover the cost of shrimp. It would be cheaper to stick with chicken."

  "Chicken is so dull," Linda said.

  "Everything is dull to you lately," Frank snapped.

  Michael studied them thoughtfully, suddenly noting the tension in their faces. He had a feeling they were talking about more than chicken.

  Sophia cleared her throat. "That's a lovely idea, Linda. I'm sure Vincent will consider it. And I certainly appreciate the compliment."

  "Personally, I think you should just stick with spaghetti," Tony said.

  Vincent shook his head. "No one wants good, hearty spaghetti anymore. Do you know when I first started cooking for my father ..."

  Michael paid scant attention to the rest of Vincent's story. He'd heard it all before. Vincent loved to talk, and the rest of the family listened with appropriate smiles and encouraging expressions, because Vincent was the heart of the De Lucas. A tall man with a lean body and stark white hair that provided a vivid contrast to his black eyes and olive skin, Vincent commanded respect. Despite his jovial manner, his word was law. The only one who had ever been able to bend his will was Angela. Vincent had always had a soft spot for his baby girl.

  Tony nudged him as Vincent went on to another story. "Have you been dating anyone lately?" he asked quietly.

  "Dating?" Michael said the word as if he didn't understand it. Actually it did sound foreign, not only the word but the thought. He hadn't gone on a date in eight years, not since he'd fallen head over heels in love with Angela.

  "You know, going out with a woman," Tony prodded.

  "No." He took a sip of his wine, wishing Tony would change the subject.

  "Why not?"

  "I don't think your parents would be happy to see me dating someone else."

  "They wouldn't want to see you alone for the rest of your life. You're still young."<
br />
  "I don't feel that young, and it's too soon."

  "It's been a year."

  "I'm busy."

  "You're making excuses."

  "I've got my hands full just getting my work done and taking care of the girls. The last thing I need is a relationship."

  "What about sex?"

  "Jesus!" Michael cast a quick glance around the table, praying no one had heard Tony's question, but Sophia and Vincent were now arguing with Linda and Frank about a movie they'd watched on television the night before. No one was paying them any attention. "There's more to life than sex," he murmured.

  "Not much more," Tony said with a grin, "You can't tell me you don't miss it."

  No, he couldn't tell him that. "My life is complicated. I've got children -- kids who won't talk to me. I can't throw a woman into the middle of this mess. And frankly I've got enough females in my life."

  "You can never have too many women in your life." Tony sent him a thoughtful look. "You sure seemed interested in -- "

  He cut him off. "Don't say it. Don't even think it."

  "You're right. It would be strange. Like dating Angela's twin sister or something."

  "What are you talking about?" Linda asked, interrupting their conversation with a curious smile.

  "Michael met a woman today," Tony said. "She looks so much like Angie, she could have been her sister.

  Vincent's fork clattered against his plate. He looked as shocked by Tony's words as Sophia had been earlier.

  "Really?" Linda echoed. "Who is she?"

  "She's a teacher at the school where the girls are going," Michael replied, noting the pale tense faces of both Sophia and Vincent. Was it just the mention of Angela that bothered them?

  "Who wants coffee?" Sophia asked, trying to change the subject, but no one went with her.

  "What a strange coincidence," Linda said. "Maybe she's a distant relative or something."

  "She could be a cousin," Tony suggested.

  "Enough," Vincent said abruptly. "No more of this talk. It upsets your mother."

  "I've been researching the family history," Linda began, "maybe --"

  Vincent stood up so abruptly, his chair fell over backward. "No more."

  "Linda, be quiet," Frank admonished, "This is none of your business." He helped his father with his chair while his wife sat back in her seat.

  "I apologize," Linda said.

  "I'll get dessert," Sophia said, rising to her feet. "Linda, why don't you help me?"

  As the women left, Vincent and Frank began to talk about the restaurant and the tension in the room eased.

  Tony looked at Michael. "What the hell was that about?"

  "I don't know," he said, wondering again why the mention of Joanna had caused such a strong reaction.

  "I guess it bothers my parents o know there's a woman walking around who looks like Angie, when she's no longer here," Tony muttered.

  "That's probably it," he said.

  "What else could it be?"

  That was a question he definitely couldn't answer.

  Chapter Six

  Just past seven the next morning, Michael entered his daughters' bedroom. The sun peeked through the lace curtains, lighting the porcelain faces of the dolls on the dresser and the colorful rainbow mural painted on the wall.

  This was his favorite time of day, when he could simply stand and stare at his two little angels in their matching nightgowns under their matching pink bedspreads. They were both still asleep. Lily, as usual, had kicked her way free of the covers. Rose still huddled like a baby in a womb, her hands tucked under her chin, her knees drawn up to her waist, covers still tightly in place.

  The love he felt for his children overwhelmed him sometimes. He felt almost guilty to admit that it was far greater than what he had felt for their mother. He just wished he could make them feel what he felt, give them what was in his heart and make them take it.

  Lily stirred and blinked. Rose also began to awaken. Michael didn't say anything to speed the process. There was plenty of time for Cheerios and teeth brushing and the mad dash to get ready for work and school. This moment was his and theirs -- together.

  Rose's eyes focused on him, and she smiled as she sat up. Rose always woke up in a good mood. She'd been that way since she was a baby. It was Lily he hated to wake up in mid-dream. When she used to talk to him, he'd get an earful of angry whining at being awakened. Now she seemed content to just glare at him. Maybe there was some benefit to silence, he thought as she directed a scowl in his direction.

  "Time to get up and have some breakfast." He pulled the curtains open. "Looks like a great day out there."

  Rose got out of bed and stood next to him at the window. He put his arm around her shoulders as they looked out at the quiet street. After a moment she slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him, her face barreling into his stomach.

  He felt his muscles tense, and his mouth actually trembled. But he didn't say anything. To comment on the behavior usually provoked a withdrawal, and right now he needed this hug a hell of a lot more than she did.

  "I'm hungry," Lily announced, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "What do you think we should have today, Rose? Waffles or cereal?"

  "I'd like a waffle," Rose said, replying to Lily as she pulled away from Michael.

  "One waffle coming up," Michael said.

  "I think I'd rather have cereal, Rose," Lily said.

  "And one bowl of cereal," Michael added, playing the game they played every morning where they talked to each other and not to him. "Slippers and robes, please. It's cold this morning." He paused, his attention drawn to the wizard on the night table. Mariah really was a beautiful creature, sculpted so carefully that she almost appeared to be real. Her smile looked knowing. In fact, she seemed to be laughing at him. "I wonder if Mariah could tell me how to get you both to talk to me," he mused.

  Lily and Rose glanced at each other. Then Lily spoke to Rose. "Grandma Sophia said Mariah probably only talks to little girls."

  "Or to people who believe in magic," Rose added.

  "That's convenient." He turned to Mariah with a scowl. "I think you're a troublemaker," Mariah's smile seemed to grow wider. Michael shook his head. He needed coffee. For a second there he could have sworn her lips moved.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Michael helped the girls out of the car and watched them run into the school building without a backward glance. They weren't crying today or dawdling or pretending to be sick. They were excited and anxious to see Joanna again.

  Joanna. His stomach turned over; his heart quickened. He was tempted to follow them inside. He'd thought of her all night. Or had he been thinking of Angela? The two women blurred in his mind, leaving him confused, restless, and ridiculously needy.

  It was stupid. His dreams had probably been a result of Tony's relentless questioning about his sex life. He'd started thinking about how alone he was, how empty the bed was, how long it had been since he'd held a woman in his arms.

  But Joanna Wingate was not Angela De Luca. He couldn't let himself think for an instant that there was any connection between the two women. Joanna was not attracted to him. Although the way she'd looked at him yesterday... No, that was just wishful thinking -- make that foolish thinking. The last thing he needed was attraction, especially to this woman.

  That's why he wasn't going inside the school. He was going to his office, where he would work hard until he forgot about her. But as he turned away he caught a glimpse of a woman standing in one of the classroom windows -- a woman with dark brown hair and a lovely profile. He could see her slender figure bend as if she was saying hello to some children, possibly his children.

  Michael's breath caught in his throat as she straightened, as she turned toward the window. He couldn't move. Silently he willed her to turn around. At the same time he prayed that she wouldn't.

  * * *

  "I dreamed about you last night, Mama," Rose said shyly. "I dr
eamt you came home, that you told us a bedtime story, and stayed with us until we went to sleep."

  "Oh, honey." Joanna tucked a strand of Rose's hair behind her ear. "You know it was just a dream."

  "But it seemed so real. You even kissed my forehead. And you smelled so good."

  "She wasn't really there, Rose," Lily interrupted. "Because I went into Daddy's room last night after he went to sleep, and he was all alone in his big bed." Lily looked up at Joanna. "Daddy never sleeps on your side, you know. He's waiting for you to come home."

  She caught her breath at the image of Michael Ashton alone, waiting for the woman he loved to come back to his bed. Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus on the girls. She was determined to convince them that she was not their mother. "Your dad didn't come in with you today?" she asked.

  "He had to go to work. He said we should call you Joanna," Lily added.

  "That's a good idea. You need to remember that even though I look like your mother, I'm not her, right?"

  "I guess we still can't talk to Daddy then," Rose said with a sigh.

  "What do you mean?" Joanna asked.

  Rose sent a questioning look in Lily's direction. Lily shook her head. "Nothing."

  She debated pushing the issue, then decided against it. She did not need to get more involved in the Ashton family. She would just treat them like any other students.

  "Why don't you two start coloring? We'll have circle time in a few minutes." Joanna glanced out the window. Michael Ashton stood on the sidewalk, staring at the school -- at her. She wanted to look away, but couldn't. Even from this distance, she felt a pull in his direction. It was so strong, it was almost frightening.

  Suddenly Michael turned and walked briskly to his car. He got in and sped down the street before she had a chance to move. She should have been glad he was gone, but a part of her wanted him to come back.

  * * *

  "I'm glad you're back," Vincent said to Tony as they walked through the main dining room of De Luca's restaurant. As his father stopped to confer with one of the waitresses, Tony took in a deep breath, assaulted by the familiar scents of garlic, onion, olive oil, rosemary, and basil. The aroma of warm focaccia bread just out of the oven, mixed with the tangy scent of tomato sauce, made him hungry, not just for the food but for the past, for the family he had missed this last year.