“So?”
“I thought it was a little over the top.”
Greg shrugged and pursed his lips to show he didn’t care. “I’ll stop in and meet them today, if you want.”
Connie raised her eyebrows and gave him a smile. “Really?”
“Yeah. Why not?” He leaned forward and switched on the radio. Gary Puckett and the Union Gap were half-way through “Young Girl.”
“Oh, wow, I love that song,” Connie said.
Greg snorted. “Girly stuff. Steppenwolf ‘Magic Carpet Ride.’ That’s a great song.”
“No argument. They’re not as good as Creedence Clearwater, though.”
They talked music for the rest of the trip, arguing good-naturedly about everything from folk to rock to country. They learned they both liked Joan Baez but couldn’t agree on Bob Dylan.
“He writes great songs, but he shouldn’t sing,” Connie said. “He sounds like a duck with a stomach ache.”
“He is the new King,” Greg countered while Connie made gagging noises, and they finally had to agree to disagree.
When they reached the Park and Ride, Greg got into his car and followed Connie home. Two empty spaces waited at the curb in front of the store, and he parked directly behind her. Connie glanced at the bouquet on the seat. If he wasn’t there, she would have left it behind, but now he was waiting for her to leave her car. She tucked her books and three-ring-binder into her left arm, then grabbed the bouquet and slid out of the driver’s seat.
No customers were in sight, and Papa was loading the last of his produce into cardboard boxes to carry it inside.
“Papa, I’d like you to meet a friend from college,” Connie said as she and Greg approached him. Papa, his arms around a box of cucumbers and squash, straightened up to his full height and raised his chin to meet the taller man eye to eye. The stance made Connie smile. “This is Greg Fairchild. He lives here in Stoneham. Greg, my father, Pietro Balestra.”
Greg nodded to Papa. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. I’d shake your hand, but …” He glanced at the box of vegetables.
Papa didn’t smile as he nodded in return. His gaze traveled over Greg’s face then shifted to Connie’s. “You go out?”
Connie let out a short, self-conscious laugh. “No, no. We just ride together, but Greg wanted to meet you.”
Papa gazed intently into Greg’s eyes, as though trying to read his mind—or, perhaps, send him a message.
“Well.” Greg cleared his throat as he glanced at Connie, then lifted his hand in a good-bye wave, and turned away. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time, same station.” He hurried to his car.
A frown creased Papa’s forehead as he watched him leave. “This means?”
“It’s like on the radio—same time, same place tomorrow.” Connie’s textbooks and binders slid in her one-armed grip, and she brought her right hand up to readjust them. Papa’s gaze rested on the bouquet of flowers she had been holding out of sight.
“They’re a thank-you,” Connie said. “For giving him a ride.”
Papa said nothing. He carried his vegetables inside the store’s front door, and Connie climbed the stairs to the second floor, cursing Greg’s flowers as she went. Angie waited at the kitchen door, an impish grin on her face, her eyes dancing with fun. “Who’s the hunky guy? With flowers and everything!”
“Cool your jets. He’s just a friend. What were you doing—spying out the window?” Connie crossed the room to lay the flowers in the sink. As she had suspected, they were going to be more trouble than they were worth.
Angie followed close behind her. “You’re darn right! What’s his name?”
“Oscar Himmelshmitt.”
Angie hooted. “You liar! Plus he drives a red Mustang! I mean, really, Connie, could it get any better?”
Gianna came into the room with a white bath towel wrapped around her head and a frown on her face. “What’s she talking about?”
“Nothing.” Connie looked around the kitchen, then peered into the dining room. “Where’s Mamma?”
“Downstairs, closing up the store. Who drives a red Mustang?”
Connie put her hands over her ears and let out a wail. “Stop! He’s the guy I ride to school with! He’s nobody!”
“That’s the guy? What took you so long?” Angie wasn’t ready to stop. “He’s really cute—no, handsome. He’s handsome. Better than cute.”
Connie rolled her eyes. “He’s taken. So, let it go, okay? I’m starving. What’s for supper?” She bent to rummage through the collection of glass jars below the sink, looking for one deep enough to hold the flowers.
“Coniglio e funghi,” Gianna answered, her voice indicating her disgust. She was no fan of rabbit.
Connie reached to the back of the storage space, her eye on a half-gallon Ball jar. “Mr. LaCroix was here again?”
“Unfortunately. He brought the mushrooms, too.”
Connie straightened up with the jar in her hands in time to see Angie turn away from Gianna. A look of anger darkened the girl’s previously jovial expression, but, in typical Angie style, she kept her thoughts to herself.
Connie was about to speak up in support of Mr. LaCroix’s generosity when Mamma called from outside for someone to open the kitchen door. Angie went to help her mother bring in the laundry, and Gianna went down the hall to finish drying her hair. Connie filled the glass jar with water and dropped the flowers into it, taking a moment to fluff them out before carrying them into the dining room and setting them on the sideboard for everyone to enjoy.
Chapter Eight
Thursday, September 19
Connie arrived at the Park and Ride the following morning to find Greg’s red Mustang already there. He stood outside, leaning against his car’s passenger door, waiting to open it and let her in.
She sank down onto the low, cushy bucket seat with a satisfied grin and looked around the interior with delight. But when he settled next to her in the driver’s seat, their shoulders were practically touching, making the car feel disturbingly small and intimate compared to the vastness of her Plymouth station wagon. An uncomfortable tightness gripped her insides when he turned toward her, his face so close, she felt compelled to look away.
“Are you okay?” His hand was poised at the ignition as he watched her.
“I’m fine.” She gave him a glancing smile, then concentrated on straightening the pile of books and notebooks on her lap. Her red miniskirt had ridden well up her thighs, but the books helped to cover what suddenly felt like an inappropriate amount of exposed skin.
His gaze shifted from her face to her thighs to her white knee-high go-gos. “Cool boots.”
“Thanks.”
He started the car, then paused with his hand on the floor shift beside her leg. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
Connie forced herself to look into his eyes just inches from her own. Striations of dark blue marked the light gray irises, and the blackness of his pupils drew her in as their eyes met.
“I’m sure.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
He put the car in gear and backed out of the parking space, and Connie turned to look out the side window.
“Tomorrow I won’t be riding with you,” he said. “I’m staying over with friends.”
Connie kept her face to the window as the tightness of her insides increased. The sensation surprised her. Why should she care what he did? “Okay.”
“You doing anything special this weekend?”
She turned toward the windshield to watch the traffic on Forest Avenue, focusing on the line of cars ahead of them. “Two of my friends are going into the marines, so there’s a going-away party.”
“Bummer.” He glanced at her. “Good friends?”
“Uh-huh. We went to school together since kindergarten. Our families are friends.” Connie bit her lower lip at the reminder of how imminent Nino’s departure was.
“Boyfriend?”
“Sort of. For a while. Not
anymore.”
They rode in silence for several minutes until Connie said, “Do you worry about getting drafted? After you graduate?”
Greg’s voice was brusque. “I’m 4-F.”
“Oh. How come?” She realized the impropriety of her words the moment she uttered them and immediately put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.” Even so, she was surprised to find herself concerned, as well as curious, about the state of his health.
“Heart murmur.”
A rush of relief replaced her concern. “Ah. Well, maybe that’s not so bad compared to being drafted.”
“It’s not going to feel that way if my friends go.”
Somehow, she doubted that his friends would be at risk. All they had to do was remain in college. “What are the chances of that?”
“I don’t know. A couple of them might go to grad school just to keep their deferments, but one’s ROTC. He’ll go on active duty for sure.”
Connie cleared her throat and kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Your girlfriend must be relieved.”
Greg didn’t answer. When she turned to look at him, his face was without expression. “I’m sorry. That’s really none of my business either.” Would she ever figure out when to keep her mouth shut?
“We’ve actually never talked about it.” He sounded annoyed, as though he were admitting a lack of concern on his girlfriend’s part.
“Well, she knows you have a student deferment.”
Greg glanced at her. “Not like your friends, huh?”
Connie didn’t resent him for his status, if that’s what he meant. But she did resent his inference that Nino and Frankie were victims to be pitied. “They chose their path,” she said.
“Did they? Some people might say they never had a choice.”
“Why? Because they’re not rich?” Connie frowned at him. “My family’s not rich—obviously. But I’m the second one going to college.”
“I’m just saying that not everybody has the means, whether it’s financial or something else.”
“Like brains?” She knew she was being defensive, but she didn’t care.
“No, more like circumstances. My mother says a lot of families believe the kids should go to work and help out as soon as possible. Going to college isn’t even an option. Some don’t even let the kids finish high school.”
“My friends finished high school.”
Greg glanced at her, then looked away, pursing his lips in irritation. “My mistake. Let’s talk about something else.”
Connie sighed and turned toward the passenger side window. Why did they always seem to be at odds with each other? She felt as though they had a natural tendency to push each other’s buttons without even trying. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a little uptight about the whole thing.”
“No problem.” His words came out clipped and angry.
Connie watched the browning foliage go by. The leaves were beginning to thin, exposing more and more of the stark tree skeletons that would be the norm for months to come. Before long, the rawness of November would be upon them, and another long Vermont winter would begin. The thought of navigating snow storms alone depressed her, and she realized the last thing she wanted to do was alienate Greg. “No, it is a problem, and I’m sorry. You were just trying to be sympathetic, and I took it in a different direction. I didn’t mean to do that.” Connie sighed in frustration with herself. “Actually, I do that a lot. To lots of people, not just you.”
“At least you’re real.”
Connie turned to look at him. He was staring out at the road ahead of them, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning you say what’s on your mind. You don’t mess around.”
She let out a derisive laugh. “Ha! That’s not always a plus.”
“Maybe not. But at least a person knows where they stand with you. You’re upfront about it.”
“I guess.”
“Candy’s not like that.”
That made no sense to her. “Say what?”
“Candy Wellbourne. My girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Connie smiled to herself. She couldn’t imagine being called Candy.
“You can count on her to say the right thing,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean she means it.”
“I see. Maybe she’s just more well-bred than I am.”
Greg glanced at her, a small smile playing about his lips. “Or maybe she’s got a stick up her butt.”
Connie widened her eyes in feigned shock. “What a mean thing to say about your girlfriend.”
Greg’s eyes moved from her face to her legs before he turned back to watch the road. Connie glanced down at her bare thighs. A wave of intense heat traveled up from her chest to her cheeks. She’d have to be more careful around him.
A Nixon for President sign stabbed into the ground beside the road started them talking about the upcoming presidential election. To neither one’s surprise, they occupied opposite ends of the political spectrum, he being an ardent Republican while she was a faithful Democrat, and they soon dropped the subject.
They were almost to the outskirts of Burlington when he said, “What night is your friends’ going-away party?”
“Saturday. Why?”
“Oh… a couple I know like to have different people over on Saturday nights and…” He shrugged dismissively. “If you were free, I was going to ask if you wanted to go. I think you’d like them. They’re a little out there. But cool.”
Connie smiled. “Out there?”
“Sort of hippy. You know, psychedelic posters and black lights and—“
“Pot?”
“Maybe.”
Just as she had suspected. “And how do I fit in? I mean, with Candy and all?”
“Well, these parties aren’t exactly her thing. Plus, it’s just.. you know… kind of a big open deal. People bring people.”
“Not a date, you mean.”
Greg glanced at her. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”
Connie nodded. “I see. Well, I wish I could say yes. But not this time. Maybe another time?”
“Yeah, maybe another time.”
Connie stared out the side window. Was that testosterone talking to her bare thighs, or was he actually interested in being with her? Did he see her as someone he might care about, or did he think a pot party with Connie might gain him a little action he couldn’t get from his stick-up-her-butt girlfriend? If it was the latter, he was underestimating Connie’s Catholic upbringing. And overestimating her interest in him.
***
The basement of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church was alive with balloons, banners, and decorations in honor of Nino and Frankie. Long church tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths sat end to end in multiple rows, each laden with sturdy white china, mismatched glasses, and carefully laid out silverware and cloth napkins. Three generations of women from the Scarpa and Fiorello families moved from table to table, setting down baskets of Italian bread and rolls, bowls of grated Romano cheese, and large containers of tossed salad to be served family-style.
Familiar faces dominated the noisy crowd already gathered in small groups around the hall when Connie and her family arrived; most of the invitees were families from Stoneham’s Italian north end. Cousin Tony’s band was setting up on the small stage at the far end of the room, testing their mikes and tuning up their instruments.
Connie followed her parents and sisters to a table near the middle of the room. Nonna and The Aunts, plus their next-door neighbors, Gaetano and Nina Cefalu, were already seated and had saved five chairs for them.
Connie draped her coat over the back of a chair and leaned toward Gianna who was claiming the chair beside hers. “You should have invited David.”
Gianna gave her a prim smile. “You should have invited Red Mustang.”
“I don’t go out with Red Mustang.”
“So? Aren’t you all about women’s lib and stuff? Ask him first.�
��
“What makes you think I want to?”
“Gimme a break.”
Connie smiled at her. “You do go out with David. So why didn’t you invite him?”
“Because he wouldn’t know anybody.”
“And how is that going to change by leaving him out?”
Gianna cocked her head to one side, and Connie noted with satisfaction how the flattering swing of her sister’s new haircut softened her otherwise stern expression. Now, if she would only ditch the horn-rimmed glasses for something more becoming.
Gianna’s dark eyes drilled into hers. “You know why he’s not here.”
“Concetta! Cara mia!” Maria Elena Scarpa set a basket of bread on the end of their table, then hurried up to Connie with her bony hands outstretched and a smile on her small brown face. Arthritic fingers came up to pinch Connie’s cheeks in a traditional greeting that only members of Nonna’s generation used anymore. “I haven’t seen you for so long!” the old woman said in Italian. “Ah, if only you were here as the sweetheart. But then, my Nino wouldn’t be going away.”
Angie stood behind Signora Scarpa, rolling her eyes.
Connie shifted her attention back to Nino’s grandmother before Angie could make her laugh. “It’s nice to see you, Nonna. You look good. How’s your health?”
It was the perfect question to get the old woman off the topic of Connie’s failed relationship with her grandson. She had just begun enumerating her litany of ailments when Nino’s sister Carmen approached, summoning her grandmother to solve a problem in the kitchen. Signora Scarpa disappeared into the ever-increasing crowd of well-wishers as quickly as she had come.
“You’re such a pro,” Angie said as she pulled out the chair across from Connie and flopped into it.
Connie remained standing to survey the crowd. Frankie was near the stage, talking with members of the band. He looked sharper than usual, his dark hair neatly combed back and his clothes appropriate to the occasion. Frankie’s brother Carl must have loaned him the sport coat..
She continued to search for Nino, finally spotting him in the far corner, laughing with his cousins. He was standing tall and straight, handsome in a pale blue shirt and crisply creased trousers, his dark curls full the way she liked them. A small, sharp pang of regret shot through her. But she couldn’t take Signora Scarpa’s words to heart. She wasn’t responsible for Nino’s decision to join the marines.
Hope's Angel Page 8
