When Truth Takes Flight

by Sandra McGregor

  “Hey, boy,” Leo greeted. “Yeah, yeah, he’s doing okay. He’ll be fine. Near miss this time. He’s already barking orders and grouchy ’cause Doc says to stay in bed for at least a few days.” The bodyguard’s chuckle ended on a wheeze that spoke of too many cigarettes.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Tell him I called, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that. You be careful, you hear?”

  “Thanks.”

  He hung up the phone, wondering if there was a reason to be concerned. Why had Leo told him to be careful? Did they think someone was after Vince and his family? If so, they’d blown a good chance to take him out when they’d only hit the don in the shoulder.

  Was there reason to think they knew about Hannah? He’d need to be a little more alert to their surroundings and anyone who might be hanging around.

  With a heavy sigh, he pushed away from the wall and took a step toward her apartment. He stopped at her door, his hand already rising to knock when he remembered the time. Still, concern left him tempted to knock just to check if she was all right, but common sense made him hesitate. Even if she answered, she’d probably slam the door in his face. She’d need time to come to terms with life from this new perspective before she could consider giving him—giving them—another chance.

  Resigned, John turned toward his apartment. At least he could try helping the healing process by explaining his side—something he hadn’t been given a chance to do before being told to leave.

  Back in his apartment, he sat down at the small desk in the corner and took out a pen and paper.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah was up before dawn, sitting at the table with a half-cup of lukewarm coffee and a headache pounding like a base drum in a John Philip Sousa marching band.

  She closed her eyes and massaged a throbbing forehead, then ran her fingers up into her matted hair and pulled it taunt for a few seconds before releasing it. The aspirins were finally beginning to help but had a long way to go.

  “I’ve got to get to the market for Mr. Nolan,” she murmured, yawning as she rose with coffee cup in hand.

  A piece of folded white paper on the floor just inside the door caught her attention. Normally, she got excited at receiving mail, but this morning, she stared at it with foreboding. Her mother had lied to her. Strike one. Her real father was a mafia don. Strike two. Someone had slid a note under her door. Strike three? She didn’t feel up to handling another crisis.

  With trembling fingers, she stooped to pick up the paper and sent up a silent prayer that there wasn’t another catastrophe to deal with.

  Tentatively, she eased onto a dinette chair and read.

  Hannah,

  I’m probably the last person you want anything to do with at the moment, but I hope you’ll read this with an open mind.

  As I told you, I was young when my mother married Vince. For the first time in my life, I had a father—or at least a father figure. For the first time, there was someone to teach me to play baseball, to ride a horse, and even a few bad things like how to play poker and keep secrets from my mother about the money he slipped me occasionally. Suffice it to say, I revered the man. He could do no wrong.

  Also, as I told you, a few years later, my mother moved the two of us back to Mobile. I didn’t know why at the time, and I was hurt that Vince never came to visit me. I didn’t hear from him for five or six years—until I graduated high school.

  To shorten this story, let’s just say I was over the moon to get that call. He said I was an adult now and could make my own decisions. That also sounded good to me, so, of course, I agreed when he offered me college. My dream of designing planes was within my reach.

  I heard from him occasionally during those years, but only a note of encouragement and a little cash to help out with any extra expenses.

  Then I graduated. I don’t know if you can imagine how I wanted to please the only man to pay any attention to me, encourage me, and offer me a chance to fly. There aren’t enough words to explain, but all he ever asked in exchange was help to be sure his daughter was okay. I was never to tell you about him, only let him know if things became unsafe or unstable in your life.

  That seemed innocent enough at the time.

  You see, even though I didn’t like the idea—and despite my mother telling me I’d sold my soul to the devil—I wasn’t taking money from Vince, so I saw it as a favor, not a job.

  I arrived at the boardinghouse and, well, there’s an Italian phrase for the first time I saw you. “Un colpo di fulmine.” It means, love at first sight, like a bolt of lightning striking. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I wanted more time with you than once a week when you collect the rent. (Speaking of rent, Vince waived my rent, but to me, that was the same as being an employee and receiving pay, so I put a stop to it immediately, and I pay rent to you each week, as you know.) I really don’t know how to cook, and sharing a meal was also a good way to spend that extra time with you.

  You’ve been hurt. On the heels of losing your mother, I tell you that she lied to you all your life about your father. That must be hard to hear and even harder to believe. I suggest that you not take anyone’s word, but check it out for yourself. There must be official records you can look at.

  If I can help in any way, please allow me the opportunity, since I hate having kept the truth from you for as long as I did. I’d like to make it up to you.

  Regardless, know I’ll always be here for you and be holding out hope that someday you’ll forgive me.

  John

  Hannah’s hands shook as she skimmed the letter a second time. John was the first man to give her butterflies in her stomach—the first to make her feel cared about and special. But, like Cinderella in her mother’s book of fables, how quickly her carriage had turned back into a pumpkin.

  She folded the paper and stood. Now was not the time to ponder the letter or worry about what he thought or felt. Her tenant needed his groceries early.

  Within thirty minutes, she was dressed, had brushed her hair, and done what she could to cover the ravages of a night spent crying. After a piece of toast for breakfast, she glanced in the mirror and then started out the door. Her gaze was immediately drawn downward to newspaper-wrapped flowers leaning up against the door frame. A sigh slipped out. Not just any flowers, but three red roses surrounded by delicate, white Baby’s Breath.

  “Oh my,” she whispered, stooping to pick up the flowers as if lifting an infant from a cradle.

  She allowed her eyelids to close slowly as she took a slow, deep breath. Her heart drummed, but a quick glance across the hall assured her that no one watched her discovery—and unexpected pleasure. She’d never had a man give her flowers before John—and he gave her roses. Her body tingled, excitement welling up inside like effervescent champagne pushing against a cork.

  But, he had spied on her for the mafia—and lied about it.

  Her lips pressed into a thin line even as she spun around and reentered her apartment. Regardless, the flowers were beautiful and smelled heavenly. With her bottom lip curled between her teeth, she unwrapped the newspaper and gently added the blooms to the vase with the single rose he’d given her last night.

  “I’ll arrange them later,” she murmured, grabbing her purse before rushing out the door.

  On the way to the market, she replayed the events leading up to telling John to leave her apartment. She stopped watching the few people out walking so early on a weekend and allowed her thoughts to focus inward to debate her current situation.

  She’d watched actors and actresses for years and knew how to read their expressions when the director told them to portray a specific emotion. The previous evening, John’s face had displayed a wide range of feelings. Hurt and anguish were easy to discern, but he’d hid them quickly. Others were a bit more difficult to detect once he’d raised his guard. But an upset person’s voice told the true state of his or her feelings. And his had been concerned and sincere. He’d spoken the truth—even
though it put him in a bad position with her.

  She was almost to the market when she finally admitted she still trusted him—despite him being sent by Vince Giovanni, her…father.

  Did she believe that? John had asked her to have an open mind and check it out for herself. He had thrown down a gauntlet.

  “There’s no choice but to answer his challenge,” she mumbled, no longer sure which way she hoped this would end.

  If John was right, her father was mafia, but alive. If wrong, then her real father was either dead, as her mother told her over the years, or still out in the world somewhere, and she had no way of knowing how to find him. Did she even want to find him?

  Yes—and no. There would be no rest for her soul until she found the answers—until she knew for sure. But if investigation proved her father was a mafia don, she didn’t want to ever see him.

  She decided she’d call and ask her boss for Monday off work. He’d understand if she told him there were a couple family issues to attend to related to the death of her mother.

  Well, that’s certainly true.

  After doing Mr. Nolan’s shopping and delivering the groceries to him, Hannah returned to her apartment. The atmosphere had changed. John had filled the emptiness left after the loss of her mother, but the emptiness had returned.

  She picked up the letter from the table and reread what he’d written. Only then did it hit home what he’d said about his feelings for her.

  “ ‘There’s an Italian word for the first time I saw you,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘Un colpo di fulmine. It means, love at first sight, like a bolt of lightning striking.’ ” She sank down to perch on the edge of the sofa, stunned. “How could I have missed his declaration of love?”

  Hannah lifted a hand to cover her mouth and shook her head. Could this be happening? Before the previous evening, she would have been excited beyond her wildest dreams, but now… Could she believe this declaration of love—or was he just trying to get back into her good graces so she’d keep allowing him to come over for dinner, and therefore give him the opportunity to keep an eye on her?

  Her mind in turmoil, she was unable to sit still, choosing to wander the apartment, touching a memento, picking up a treasured book, but always returning it and moving on.

  “This has got to stop.”

  After making a cup of hot tea, she sat down at the table and unfolded the previous day’s newspaper. The headlines shouted the death of two gangsters in New Jersey, giving details about their respective family businesses and detailing the lives of each man. The reporter suggested that a similar mob hit in New York the previous night was related—a hit where Vince Giovanni had been wounded.

  Never interested in the lives or activities of the mafia in the past, she was surprised to find herself fascinated, following the article when it continued on page six. There was a brief mention of Vince previously being married to Sarah Beth Montgomery, though no mention of children.

  One more confirmation—one more nail in the coffin.

  Do I have relatives?

  She’d always wondered about aunts, uncles, or cousins, but her mother and father had been only children—or so she’d been told all her life. Was that also a lie?

  Whether it was the truth or not didn’t matter. If her father was this Vince person, she wanted nothing to do with his side of the family. As far as she was concerned, he’d been dead all her life, and he’d remain that way.

  The phone rang in the hallway outside her door, but she didn’t move to answer it. Nothing seemed important anymore. It soon stopped ringing, and she was alone again with her thoughts.

  The city continued to live and breathe outside the walls that rose up to keep her protected. Horns honked and people came and went, but inside her safe haven, Hannah huddled in the corner of the sofa and stared at the table where her mother’s picture had been displayed for almost five years.

  Who had that woman been? Who could fall in love with a mobster?

  Then she thought of John. Easy. She had, hadn’t she?

  Like mother, like daughter.

  Tears dampened her cheeks. For all she knew, he was right in the middle of this mess—a mafia member sent to watch over her like an avenging angel.

  Someone knocking on her apartment door jerked her out of the melancholy pit where she hid. She shifted her gaze in the direction of the disturbance, but remained inert.

  “Hannah, answer the door. I know you’re in there.”

  John. She put both hands over her ears.

  “Hannah, you’re frightening me. Please open the door. We need to talk.”

  If she had the energy, she might have moved, but standing would require too much effort. She closed her eyes and willed him to go away and leave her alone. She needed time to think, to come to terms with the loss of her mother—at least the mother she’d once trusted and believed in with every fiber of her being. Her mind envisioned ripping a cloth into long strips—shredding it with her bare hands until it lay in a heap at her feet. That heap was her heart, her memories, her life.

  ****

  John gave up trying to get Hannah to open the door. He’d yelled and then, after a deep breath and with determination, he’d cajoled. All without success. He could only imagine what she was thinking or feeling.

  Actually, I have no clue.

  He turned away, reentered his apartment, and slammed the door. The loud bang helped a bit but didn’t solve a thing. The flowers were no longer at her door, so at least he could presume she’d read his letter. More than likely, it hadn’t made a difference. She probably didn’t believe him—and he didn’t blame her.

  “Why should she trust me?” The words were mumbled into the silent room.

  He stood just inside the door, staring at the sparse furnishings. This wasn’t living—only existing. Dinner with Hannah and discussing their daily lives was what life was all about.

  Sharing. Loving. Giving.

  The apartment appeared smaller than usual and as faded as the aging sofa. His breathing even seemed loud in the silent tomb he called home.

  No, not home.

  Love lived in homes, and this apartment held none.

  John left the empty tomb, tromped down the stairs, and out the front door without a backward glance. With food at the top of the list, he turned right and headed for the diner down the street. A good meal and then—and then maybe he’d go to a bar and forget his troubles.

  ****

  Several hours later, John shuffled home, sick to his stomach and wishing he’d never gone to the pub. The sour taste of the beer on top of his breakfast of eggs and toast had not only been a challenge to swallow, at first, but had then churned his stomach into a frenzy.

  The seven-step climb to the front door took every bit of strength and stamina he had left. With his head pounding like jungle drums, he silently prayed to make it to his room before starting to wretch.

  Just inside the front door, he stopped when Mr. Nolan stepped out of his apartment with a bag of garbage in his hand. “Lord almighty, son, you look like death warmed over.”

  He didn’t feel like being neighborly. “Yes, sir. It was a rough night.” And morning. He sidestepped the older man and continued toward the stairs.

  “You been seeing our little landlady,” he stated. “Hope this doesn’t mean you two are fighting or anything.”

  At least the man was polite while being nosy.

  He drew in a slow, deep breath. “Not exactly,” he tossed over his shoulder as he started up the steps, hanging onto the railing for all he was worth.

  “Good, good, ’cause I’d hate to see her upset. That little ray of sunshine’s been through too much already. Yep, too much,” he mumbled, forcing his awkward gait to slowly carry him down the hall toward the door leading out to the garbage cans.

  John hesitated, glanced down at Hannah’s champion, then turned around and made his way back down. “Mr. Nolan, here,” he said, taking the bag of garbage from the arthritic-hands. “I’ll take t
his out for you.”

  “Why, thank you kindly, son.”

  John unlocked the back door and stepped outside to put the trash in the can. Half-expecting the old gentleman to be waiting to talk, he was thankful to find the lobby empty upon his return. He started up the stairs while considering what to do next. He definitely needed to do something about the girl, but he was in no condition to knock on her door now, not to mention not wanting her to see him in this condition.

  He unlocked his door, slammed it behind him, and stumbled into the bedroom before he eased down on the bed, toed off his shoes, and gently lay back on the rumbled sheets.

  Tomorrow was soon enough.

  Sometime later, John woke in a sweat-drenched panic, breaths coming in short pants as he recalled the dream where he and Hannah ran as hard as they could, but were unable to reach the tunnel where Vince stood calling out for him to take care of his little girl.

  A glance at the clock told him it was still early afternoon, but the likelihood of getting back to sleep was slim, if not impossible. Besides, if he slept anymore now, he’d be up half the night.

  He kicked at the twisted sheets until his legs were free, then sat on the side of the bed and flexed his toes in the furry rug under his feet.

  Hannah.

  Was she okay? He wanted to go pound on her door again, but didn’t want to draw the attention of all the neighbors, and besides, she probably still wouldn’t open to him.

  After a visit to the bathroom and a splash of cold water on his face, he wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. While it brewed, he sat at the tiny dinette table and rested his head in his hands. At work, the current plane being designed and tested was at a critical stage. He needed to spend a little time on the project to be ready for Monday, but that would require being alert and able to concentrate. If that was going to happen, he’d soon have to confront Hannah and…and what?

  John ran a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. His deception—withholding the truth for so long—had been a mistake. No—agreeing to keep an eye on Hannah had been his first mistake. Withholding the truth after she told him about her fantasy father had been the mistake of all mistakes. No wonder she didn’t trust him—didn’t want to be around him anymore.