Francesca reached into the box and extracted a donut heavily dusted with cinnamon. “You know, I read somewhere that donuts have some kind of fat in them that is supposed to cause cancer.” She took a big bite. “But I don’t worry about things like that anymore. Not since doctors reported that dark chocolate and red wine are good for us.”
Candy giggled. She had quickly polished off her first donut and was working on her second.
“So what are your plans for the future?” Francesca settled back in the chair.
With her mouth still full, Candy replied, “You know, at first I thought I’d go to beauty school in Atlanta. I’ve always wanted to do hair, but now I’m not sure. Dad didn’t leave me that much money really, but it’s enough so I can probably just hang out for a few months and do absolutely nothing.”
“Do you think you’d enjoy that?” Francesca was mentally trying to talk herself out of a second donut.
Candy looked startled. Evidently it had never crossed her mind that anyone might doubt that doing nothing would be the epitome of a happy life.
“Oh, you know, I don’t mean nothing. I’d go to the mall and the movies. And there’s always TV.”
Francesca didn’t reply. If Candy’s dream of a good life wasn’t a scathing indictment of the younger generation, she didn’t know what was. Oh, quit being so judgmental, one of her voices chided her. When you were in your twenties, wasn’t your idea of happiness bumming around on the beach and smoking an occasional joint? Guilty as charged, she admitted.
“It must have been difficult growing up without your father,” she said, changing the subject.
Candy poked idly around in the box and extracted a third donut. “Oh, not really. You see, he and my mom didn’t get along. They divorced before I really knew him that well.”
Candy dabbed at her chocolate-stained lips with a napkin.
“He’s – he was – a very talented musician, you know, and mom told me how important his career was to him.” There was a loud sniff. “Sometimes family can just get in the way, you know. My mom always told me how proud I should be to have such a great father.”
“Yes, he certainly was talented.” Francesca now decided to put an end to her mental debate over whether or not to allow herself a second donut. It’s probably psychologically harmful to always be denying oneself. She reached into the box.
“There were times I wished they’d stayed together.” Candy licked a bit of chocolate from her fingers. “But my mom said it was for the best. Mom used to get so mad at him when they were married. I think they just had very different personalities. She told me once she was mad enough to kill him.”
That’s an interesting tidbit of information, Francesca mused. I wonder if Candy’s mom was angry at Randall for two-timing her.
“And where is your mother now?”
Candy studied a small tattoo of a frog on her left arm as if noticing it for the first time.
“My mom? Oh, she lives in Decatur too.”
Suddenly the girl’s expression changed. She let out another loud sniff, and her lips trembled a bit. She looked so sad that Francesca felt a surge of maternal tenderness sweep over her.
“I always hoped they’d get back together, my mom and dad, but now…” A dark mascara-stained tear trickled down her cheek.
“Oh, excuse me, please.” She grabbed a paper napkin and swiped at her eyes. “It’s just that all this is so hard to get used to.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Candy. I know how difficult this must be for you.”
Something about all this just doesn’t add up, Francesca thought, as Candy continued to sniff and dab at her eyes. I hate to pry, but how else can I find out what I need to know?
“Candy, did your dad seem depressed when you last spoke with him?”
“Huh?” Candy seemed startled by the question. “Dad, depressed? No, not really. He was always a little moody, you know, but I think he was getting better. He told me when I talked to him on the phone the day that he…that he died…that things were looking up for him.”
“Was he specific?”
“He said he had an idea about how to get a new organ for the church. He also said something about finally ending a friendship that had been bothering him. And there was some new relationship, I think, someone he thought a lot of…”
Francesca avoided Candy’s eyes. Could that have been me?
She drank the last bit of coffee and put the mug down on the table. She tried to act as nonchalant as possible. “Any names?”
Candy pulled another donut from the box, tore it into little pieces, and began rolling the dough between her fingers as if it were clay. “No, he never really confided in me that much. But he knew a lot of people.”
Yes, and it seems that one of them penned those fiery letters. I wonder if that was the “friendship” he was trying to end.
Suddenly Candy jumped up from her chair. The donut crumbs hit the floor.
“Oh, gosh, look at the time! I’m supposed to get my hair done at Lenox Square in 20 minutes.”
Now the girl looked at Francesca as if seeing her for the first time. “Oh, I forgot to ask you about the box of stuff from my dad’s office!”
Francesca took a deep breath. “Oh, yes, the box…I’ve just started going through it.”
“Anything in there I might want to have?” Candy asked. “I don’t have many photos of him…”
“Uh, I think it’s…it’s too early to tell. There was so much in there, you see….”
“Oh, yeah, Dad never threw anything away. Well, you let me know, OK?”
“Yes, I will. And thanks for the coffee and donuts.” Once in her car, Francesca uttered a prayer to St. Joseph. Help me to know what to do about the letters.
*
When Francesca got home, the first thing she noticed was Tubs’ absence from his usual spot on the couch. She walked down the hall toward her study and heard the distinct sounds of gnawing, combined with enthusiastic purring. What trouble is that cat getting himself into? In the study she found Tubs sitting on top of one of the piles of papers that had been in the box. He was chewing on the book marked “R’s recipes.”
“Tubs, give me that!” She gently removed the slightly tattered book from the cat’s mouth. He continued purring and began batting at a laundry receipt, chasing it around the room.
Curious, Francesca opened the book. It was a handwritten journal of some kind, she realized, and definitely not a collection of recipes. Do I read it or not? I hate to pry, but if I don’t read it, how will I know if it is something I should give to Candy or not?
An hour later, Francesca was curled up on her living room couch with Tubs nestled in a space between her knees. Randall had started the journal a year ago and had written in it about once a week. A lot of the entries were simply ideas about musical pieces he wanted the choir to play. There were also notes on performances he’d attended with his own critical comments on the singers.
“A real dog but with a stunning voice” he had written about one local opera singer. “Sounded like wolves baying at the moon” read another entry about a choral group performance. And there was one that particularly made her smile: “I kept expecting the choral group to start singing ‘We are Many Parts’ at any moment.”
There were journal entries mentioning some of the people he had dated, but no real details. Two people with the initials of “L” and “P” were becoming real pains. Must be Lily and Patricia wanting those solos, Francesca postulated. During the last few months, Randall had written in the journal about an increasing sense of hopelessness and gloom. He evidently had hated the job at the CPA firm, which he described as “soul numbing.” He yearned to be a full-time musician but didn’t see much chance of that.
He was beginning to dread choir performances because something always seemed to go wrong. There seemed to be something else troubling him, but his references were so mysterious, she couldn’t tell what was wrong. Was he addicted to something, or worried about
alcoholism? One entry read plaintively: “I’m sinking lower and lower. I’ve got to stop this and get help.”
“Doc has prescribed antidepressants and something for insomnia,” Randall had written a few months ago, but a more recent entry said, “The medicine isn’t doing much good.” After the blow-up over the organ with Father John, he had written: “This can’t go on. I’m wasting my life.”
So that’s it, she thought. He really was depressed, and evidently he was feeling overwhelmed by his problems. What a shame that he didn’t confide in anyone. Maybe he was going to confide in me. Hot tears stung her eyes.
I’m still not over Dean’s death, and now I’m mourning the loss of Randall too. Who knows what might have been?
*
The next morning she was back at her desk in St. Rita’s rectory. It was an unusually warm fall day with the temperature in the sixties. She loved her mornings at the rectory. They were very peaceful, a nice time to catch up on letter writing when the phones weren’t too busy. Her older sister lived in Oklahoma and had three grown children, who had become Francesca’s pen pals. Today she began writing to the youngest niece, wondering how much to tell her about Randall’s death.
As she picked up her pen to start a letter, the blaring noise of an electrical contraption assailed her ears. Oh, no, a leaf blower. She went to the front door and peered out. Sure enough, there was a yardman with a leaf blower strapped to his body, spewing smoke everywhere.
It was one invention she deplored. No wonder heart disease and obesity are on the rise, she thought darkly. A rake provides aerobic exercise, and it doesn’t pollute. Especially in a city so near Atlanta, with the air growing filthier by the day, you’d think people would avoid leaf blowers like the plague. And then there are sports utility vehicles-—another blight on humanity. Asthma among kids is increasing because of air pollution, but people still drive around in cars the size of barns. She suddenly smiled. There I go again. I’m on my mental soapbox. Didn’t Jesus say, “Judge not lest ye be judged?”
Maybe I should run for political office, she mused. “If elected, I promise to outlaw leaf blowers and SUVs,” she envisioned herself proclaiming to the crowds. Then she pictured the crowds hurling rotten fruit at her.
The phone rang. “St. Rita’s — Mrs. Bibbo speaking.”
Even though many women of her generation had assumed the title of “Ms.,” she enjoyed the more old-fashioned approach. Francesca had been delighted to take Dean’s last name upon marriage and to place the lovely title of “Mrs.” in front of it. She was actually relieved to be rid of her maiden name, which had been largely unpronounceable: Andriuolo. Some of her feminist friends had been horrified that she had not hyphenated her last name with his, but she had replied: “Francesca Bibbo-Andriuolo? Are you serious?”
The voice on the other end was a very nice one. Rather deep.
“Hello, Mrs. Bibbo, I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Tony Viscardi from the Decatur Police Department.”
A pleasing image of the handsome officer flashed through her mind. “Yes, I remember. And please call me Francesca.”
“Well, Francesca, this isn’t a professional call, and I hope it’s OK to call you at work.”
“Oh, it’s not actually work. No pay involved.” She glanced down at the pin on her shirt that read: “Don’t yell at me. I’m just a volunteer.”
“And personal calls are allowed,” she added. Her curiosity was definitely piqued. What could the handsome investigator want that was personal?
“Well, I won’t keep you long. I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me tomorrow night. We could go to that new Italian restaurant downtown.”
That’s the same place I went with Randall. Still, if that’s where the cute police guy wants to go, I think I can make the sacrifice and eat more Italian food.
“That would be lovely.” She began mentally surveying her closet and wondering what she would wear.
“I’ll come by at seven. I have your address. You live very close to St. Rita’s, I noticed. Do you, by any chance, bike over to the church?”
She cringed. It was one of those promises she kept making to herself. She knew biking would be better for her health and better for the environment than using the car. I plead laziness, she thought, probably just like the guy with the leaf blower.
“Sometimes, yes.” Well, it’s a white lie. She envisioned her bike in the basement with its two flat tires.
“Be careful. Decatur’s roads aren’t very biker friendly.”
After the phone call, she sat at her desk staring at the calendar while her mind spun out a few fantasies. He’s Italian and he is definitely good-looking. He has an interesting job. Watch out, another voice said bluntly, he may be too good to be true. Besides, how do you know he’s not married? The bubble burst.
Just then, Margaret Hennessy stepped into the foyer. “Good morning, dear, it’s so nice to see you today. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Francesca beamed. Margaret was one of those people who had a gift for making others feel important. In her early sixties, she was a tall woman who nearly always had a little smile playing on her lips as if she were savoring a private joke. Her brown eyes always had a merry glint. She was listed as the director of education in the church bulletin, but some of the parishioners jokingly referred to her as “Father Margaret” behind her back because she did so much for the congregation.
Now Margaret grew serious. “I was just watering the plant in Randall’s office. What a shame. I still can’t quite believe he’s gone. The last time I spoke with him, he was really looking forward to the Christmas Masses. And he seemed hopeful about raising money for a new organ. I told him I’d do everything in my power to persuade Father John to match any donations Randall was able to get. He really seemed pleased.”
“Do you recall when that was?”
“Oh, yes, it was the morning of the choir party, I mean get-together. The same day he committed suicide.”
Outside, the leaf blower shut off. The rectory momentarily was bathed in an ocean of silence, at least until someone down the block revved up a chain saw.
“It’s hard to tell with some people,” Margaret continued. “Sometimes they have their own personal demons that no one knows about. There was probably something quite serious bothering him. I just wish he’d shared it with one of us, so we might have helped him.”
“We never know when our time will come, do we?” she added. “I was just reading the New Testament passage about the wise and foolish virgins, and how some weren’t ready when the bridegroom arrived.”
The words “bridegroom” and “virgin” stirred up a few decidedly romantic images in Francesca’s mind. She saw herself and the handsome police officer toasting each other with champagne at their wedding reception. Oh, where did that come from? She felt a tide of hot blood rush into her face. It’s been two years since Dean’s death, and sometimes the loneliness is just too much. Thank God Margaret can’t read minds.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Margaret smiled. “You’re awfully quiet today.”
Francesca was sure her face was now bright red. “I was just reflecting on the passage you mentioned, that’s all. And wondering if I’ll be ready when the, uh, bridegroom arrives in the night.”
“I’m sure you will be, dear.”
Chapter 6
Francesca had never seen this particular waitress before in the Italian restaurant. She definitely wasn’t working the night I was here with Randall. The girl, who looked about 18, sported a shaved head with her one remaining lock of hair dyed chartreuse. She also wore a silver ring in one nostril, and had an array of colorful tattoos snaking up her bare arms and encircling her neck.
Francesca noticed Tony looking at the girl quizzically. How will the next generation outdo this one? she wondered. Maybe, 20 years from now, kids will be nailing spikes through their heads. Of course, in my youth, I was prancing around in teeny-weeny bikinis and miniskirts an
d smoking cigarettes, and I turned out fine – I think.
“What’ll ya’ll have?” the girl drawled dully.
“Why don’t you tell us about your specials?” Tony asked politely.
While the waitress glumly recited the list, Francesca took a sidelong look at Tony. He was every bit as handsome as she had remembered. Her eyes rested briefly on the ring finger of his left hand. His hands were well-tanned, but there was no telltale white mark like you might expect on the finger of a man who’d removed his wedding band for the evening. But maybe he doesn’t wear a ring at all.
The waitress, yawning widely, took their orders and disappeared into the kitchen. Suddenly, Tony reached across the table and took Francesca’s hand. “You look lovely tonight.”
When he touched her hand, a shock of surprising energy jolted through her. She wondered if he’d felt it too. What’s happening to me, if even a simple touch is enough to make me melt? It’s been a long time since you’ve had a really romantic evening, one of her mental voices warned, so be careful.
Then he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and her heart began racing. The nagging little voice whispered: He’s handsome, sexy, and he’s employed, which means he’s too good to be true.
She wondered if he could feel her pulse pounding in her hand. “Tony, do you have…family in the area? I mean, are you from Decatur originally?”
He gently released her hand. “I was born in Elmhurst, New York, but my parents moved down to Decatur when I was seven. So I guess I’m almost a native.”
What lovely eyes he has. And good strong eyebrows. Very masculine.
He paused as the waitress arrived with a bottle of Chianti and two glasses. After a short struggle, the girl managed to uncork the bottle and pour them each a glass. She’d added a large wad of gum to her mouth, giving the impression of a cow chewing its cud, nose ring and all.
After they toasted, Tony continued. “My parents passed away about ten years ago, but I have two sisters in Florida, plus some nieces and nephews.” He took a sip of wine.
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