Hope's Angel

by Fifield, Rosemary

  Emily offered her a stemmed wine glass and told her to help herself to the bottle of Chardonnay, then picked up the platter of finger sandwiches and followed Georgianne out of the kitchen. Mrs. Fairchild was removing the frilly organza apron protecting her green silk dress when Connie asked what she could do to help.

  “Well, I suppose you could bring the wine, dear. And don’t forget your own glass. You do drink wine?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Good. This is white wine, of course. Is that all right?”

  “White wine is fine.” Connie picked up the bottle and the glass and followed the woman to the front room where the men stood drinking and conversing.

  “So, Connie, tell us a little about yourself,” Mr. Fairchild said as she set the bottle of wine on the low table in front of him.

  Connie gave him a nervous smile. “I’m a science major at UVM. Biology and chemistry. Born and raised in Stoneham. Not that much to tell.”

  “And what do you plan to do with your science major? Teach?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve considered teaching and nursing, but I haven’t really made up my mind.”

  Mr. Fairchild sipped his martini. “I suspect you’ll need to do so soon. You’re a junior, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Fairchild held the plate of hot hors d’oeuvres in front of Connie. “Is your father a stonecutter?”

  “No. He owns a grocery store.”

  “Oh, really?” The woman’s eyes brightened. “Which one?”

  “It’s just a little neighborhood one in the north end.”

  “I see. Well, that sounds very nice.” She set the plate on the table beside the bottle of wine.

  Connie glanced at Greg, who was standing behind his father’s chair, talking with Glenn. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

  The conversation moved on to Garrett and Emily’s new house in Northampton, Massachusetts, where both held jobs at colleges, and Connie gratefully stepped out of the spotlight. Politics soon made its entrance, and Connie learned that Garrett was the political black sheep of the family, the only liberal in the group. Good-natured ribbing among the siblings about that took Connie by surprise. From Greg’s description of his family, she had never expected them to be as congenial as they were.

  The aunt and uncle arrived, and, after introductions, the conversation went to their recent trip to Italy.

  “Connie’s family is Italian,” Greg’s mother said. “You speak the language, don’t you, dear? I believe Gregory told me that.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s such a beautiful language,” Aunt Margaret said, “but they talk so fast, I could never understand a word they said.”

  “Say something in Italian,” Uncle Edward said to Connie.

  “Edward, that’s so ridiculous,” Mrs. Fairchild answered before Connie could respond. “What is the poor girl supposed to say? The word for ‘something?’”

  Everyone laughed, and Mrs. Fairchild gave Connie a we-girls-need-to-stick-together smile, then reached out and squeezed her arm in a gesture of solidarity. Aunt Margaret went on to tell everyone about the magnificence of the Duomo in Florence and the unconscionably forward behavior of Italian men on the street, and Connie was spared the need to think of something to say.

  They moved into the elegant dining room and settled at predetermined places along the table. Dinner was an extravaganza of New England bounty, from the brilliant orange squash sweetened with maple syrup to the roasted parsnips, fresh cranberry sauce, creamed onions, and succotash that accompanied the mashed potatoes and turkey with oyster stuffing. Connie had never tasted anything as delicious as the lobster bisque that started the meal; she would have been happy with nothing but that.

  “What does your family eat on Thanksgiving?” Georgianne asked. She was seated to Connie’s immediate right.

  “It depends on who’s cooking,” Connie said with a smile. “This year, my parents are going to my grandmother’s house, and she doesn’t like turkey, so I suspect they’ll just eat Italian. When my sisters and I are there, we do the traditional dinner, although not quite this fancy.”

  “I’m surprised to hear your grandmother doesn’t like turkey,” Uncle Edward said from his position near the head of the table. “I trust you’ve read The Unprejudiced Palate by Angelo Pellegrino?”

  “Well, anyone can not like turkey, Edward,” Mrs. Fairchild said.

  “My point is, the Italians eat songbirds. He writes about coming to this country from his native Italy and getting in trouble with an American hostess when he brings her some songbirds to cook.”

  Emily, seated directly across from Connie, looked horrified. “Songbirds?” Her green eyes, wide with alarm, focused on Connie’s face. “Is that true?”

  Connie chuckled and shook her head. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. No one I know eats songbirds.”

  Emily was indignant. “Well, I don’t think it’s funny. That’s terrible.”

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “I find it somewhat amusing myself. I can’t imagine finding anything to eat on a songbird. It sounds like an exercise in futility.”

  “That’s how I feel about squab,” Garrett said without a smile.

  Glenn peered down the table at him. “I think you mean Cornish hens. Squab is pigeon.”

  “Pigeon?” Emily looked as though she were about to pass out.

  “I think we need to change the subject,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “Gregory, tell us about your foray to the opera. I’m so glad that Constance is helping you become more cultured. It is Constance, isn’t it, dear?” she asked, looking down the table at Connie.

  “Actually, it’s Concetta.”

  “Oh my. Isn’t that pretty? You’re right, Margaret. Italian is a beautiful language. So, Gregory?”

  The table conversation went from La Boheme to the Broadway productions of Promises, Promises which Garrett and Emily had recently seen. Connie was mildly overwhelmed, being used to silence at the table. When dinner was over, she rose to help clear the food and place settings along with the other women, but Mrs. Fairchild waved her back into her seat. “You are our guest, dear. This is family work. Please. Stay seated.”

  Connie settled awkwardly into her seat. The men around her were talking to each other. Greg and his brother Garrett were comparing their father’s Lincoln Continental to the Cadillac owned by Emily’s father. Without missing a beat, Greg slid his hand across Connie’s left leg and found her hand lying in her lap. As he continued talking across the table to his brother, he squeezed her hand beneath it to let her know he hadn’t forgotten her, and she squeezed back gratefully.

  Cups of coffee and tea accompanied an array of homemade pies for dessert.

  “Why pumpkin, I wonder?” Georgianne said as they ate. “Isn’t a pumpkin a vegetable?”

  “It’s a squash,” Emily answered. “The Indians brought it to the Pilgrims.”

  “It’s one of the three sisters,” Steve said.

  Connie looked up at him, unsure of what he meant. His attention was on Georgianne.

  “You know, squash, corn, and beans,” he continued. “The food of indigenous people. They always grew them together. The corn grew tall and provided something for the beans to hold onto as they grew. The beans fixed nitrogen in the soil for the corn. And the squash covered the ground at their feet to keep the soil cool and moist and weed-free.”

  “You make it sound like the Indians knew what they were doing,” Georgianne said with an air of contempt in her voice.

  “What makes you think they didn’t?” Steve asked.

  Georgianne raised her eyebrows. “They knew the beans fixed nitrogen? Come on.”

  “They knew things grew well together. They may not have known why. Nobody did.” Steve said.

  “Mexicans did the same thing when they used lime to treat the corn and get the hulls off so they could make masa,” Glenn said. “The process released niacin, which made the corn a more complet
e food. They didn’t know they were doing it, but it’s why they could survive on a lot of corn while the Italians got pellagra. They didn’t treat it with lime.”

  “Ugh, polenta,” Aunt Margaret said. “One of several things I couldn’t tolerate in Italy.” She rolled her eyes. “No offense to our guest. The art is wonderful, but the food really isn’t all it’s reported to be.”

  “Can anyone name the three fruits native to North America?” Glenn asked.

  Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes traveled to Connie. “He’s our chef-in-training,” she said with an affectionate smile.

  “Apples, ” Georgianne answered.

  “Nope.”

  She frowned at her brother. “’As American as apple pie?’ Johnny Appleseed?”

  Glenn shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. They originated in Asia.”

  “Cranberries,” Greg volunteered.

  “That’s one. What else? Anybody? They grow wild in Maine.”

  “Blueberries,” Mr. Fairchild answered.

  “Yup. One more.” Glenn’s brown eyes focused on Connie. “Americans use it to make a poor imitation of your country’s favorite beverage.”

  Connie gave him a tight smile. “America is my country.”

  “Of course it is,” he answered, returning her smile. “I meant that of your ancestors.”

  “Grapes!” Emily said with a proud grin.

  “Concord grapes.” Glenn’s gaze was still on Connie, but his smile was gone. “My apologies if I offended you.”

  “One should never be offended by references to one’s ancestry,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “We certainly appreciate our roots in American history, don’t we? Now, everyone, let’s finish our pie and retire to the sitting room.”

  Connie and Greg lagged behind while the others filed into the front room. His hand gripped hers as he looked into her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Connie gave him a smile for reassurance. “Of course.”

  “I know they’re kind of intense.” He leaned forward and gently kissed the bridge of her nose.

  “They’re a little intimidating.”

  “Just don’t let them get to you. It’s not deliberate.”

  Connie wasn’t sure she believed that, but she kept the thought to herself. “We’d better go before they wonder what we’re doing.”

  They entered the room where the others were seated.

  “Gregory,” Mrs. Fairchild said, looking up at him, “I was just saying that we saw the Wellbournes when we were at the fundraiser for Mount Holyoke last week.”

  Connie sensed a slight tightening of Greg’s hand around hers.

  “Cynthia was in the class before mine, if you remember,” his mother continued with a smile. “She told me that Candy’s going abroad next semester. France, I believe. You never told me that.”

  “I didn’t know.” His words were clipped, his voice disinterested.

  “She is such an amazing girl,” Georgianne said, her back to Greg and Connie as she sat beside Steve on the sofa. “So talented.”

  Emily, seated in an armchair across from her, looked confused. “Do I know her?”

  “The pretty redhead? The budding actress? She was at your wedding… remember?” Georgianne emphasized the last word just a tad too much, and Connie stiffened.

  Greg tightened his grip on her perceptibly this time. “I think we’re going to head out,” he said, looking from his mother to his father. “I hope you don’t mind, but we promised some friends we would drop in for an after-dinner drink, so I think we should probably go.”

  Mr. Fairchild rose to his feet, as did the other men in the room. “Well, Connie, it was a pleasure. I hope you enjoyed yourself,” he said, offering her his hand once more.

  “Yes, dear, we enjoyed meeting you,” Mrs. Fairchild said, rising from her chair, as well. “I’m sorry you have to leave early, but I understand how social obligations go.”

  The others murmured their good-byes, and Connie and Greg left the room. They slipped on their coats and were outdoors in the early November dark, holding hands as they headed down the stone stairs when Connie asked, “Which friends are waiting to offer us an after-dinner drink?”

  “I’m not sure.” Greg grinned as he glanced at her. “There must be somebody.” He guided her into his car, then hurried around it to slip in behind the steering wheel. His gaze settled on her face, his expression serious. “Are we still okay?”

  Connie smiled into his eyes. “Of course. Why?”

  “Because now you know where I come from.”

  Connie frowned at him in confusion. “I should be asking you that question. I was so out of place in there. And you already know where I come from. I will never fit in.”

  “You don’t need to fit in. We don’t need to fit in.”

  “They’re your family. No matter what, family is important. They’re the people who are always there for you.”

  “A man shall leave his mother and father and cleave onto his wife,” Greg said, his eyes searching her face. “Or however it goes.”

  Connie stared at him, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m not your wife.”

  “I want you to be.”

  Her heart thumped uncomfortably. “Greg, you don’t know that. We haven’t been going out that long.”

  His eyes held hers. “How long do we have to go out? Are there rules? I love you. You know that.”

  “And I love you. But that doesn’t mean we’re ready to get married.”

  “Why not? We’ve been riding together for months, five days a week. That’s the equivalent of lots of going out. It’s better than going out. I’ve seen you as you really are, not just on a date where people always act like somebody else. I’ve seen you cranky and tired, and I love you no matter what. I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with you.“

  Connie couldn’t believe her ears. They had never approached this subject before. “Is this because of your family’s reaction to me?”

  Greg frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you trying to get back at them for something by choosing the girl they obviously don’t see as a permanent fixture in their lives?”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  Connie glanced toward the illuminated front windows of the house. “Can we leave? They’re going to think we’re sitting here arguing or that I’m crying or something.”

  Greg started the car and drove out of the driveway onto the street, then turned the first corner and drove another block to park in front of a darkened, unfamiliar house on a dead end road. He turned off the Mustang’s motor and lights, and they sat side by side, staring out into blackness.

  His voice was quiet. “What’s this all about?”

  Connie twisted in her seat to face him. “Did you hear anyone in your family say ‘We hope to see you again’ or ‘See you soon’ or whatever it is people say when they’re expecting you to come back?”

  Greg didn’t answer.

  “I don’t fit, Greg.”

  “You’re reading too much into one visit.”

  “Am I?” Connie fought to keep her voice under control. He needed to see she wasn’t angry, she was simply facing the truth. “Why do you think your mother and sister brought up Candy? That wasn’t just coincidence.”

  Greg sighed. “I admit, sometimes they’re thoughtless. And my sister will never win any prizes for tact. But I don’t think they meant you any harm. They’re just slow to accept change. They need time to get to know you.”

  The cold night air was penetrating her coat, and she gave a little shiver. “Can we go? I’m beginning to freeze.”

  Greg started the motor and turned on the heater, but instead of putting the car in gear, he twisted toward her once more. “Come here. I’ll warm you up,” he said softly.

  Connie slid into his arms as best she could, fighting the gap between the bucket seats and the protruding floor shift at her knees. Necking was much easier when they were in her Plymouth with its bench seat and automatic transmission, but soon she was obliv
ious to anything but the feel of his mouth on hers. Too soon, however, he pulled back and looked at her. “We need to go somewhere more comfortable. This sucks.”

  “My parents are probably still at my grandma’s.”

  “What about your sisters?”

  “Angie’s in Swanton, and Gianna went to Boston with David. She won’t be back until late.”

  He nodded, then turned on the headlights, put the car in gear, and drove away from the curb. “What’s Angie doing in Swanton?”

  “She’s with her other family.”

  “That’s where they live? We weren’t that far from Swanton when we were at Brad and Bunny’s. That’s pretty close to that cemetery with the angel that freaked you out.” He turned to look at her. “That could explain why you knew that place.”

  Connie glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know how adoptions work, but assuming she was, like, born to an unmarried teenager or something, maybe you went to Swanton to pick her up, and that’s when you saw the angel.”

  Connie nodded, hoping he would drop the subject if she didn’t prolong the conversation.

  He turned the car onto a main road heading toward the north end of town. “You were looking for information about the Abenaki,” he said. “There are a lot of Abenaki around Swanton.”

  Connie was beginning to regret mentioning where Angie had gone. “I thought you said the Abenaki were pretty much non-existent in the state.”

  “Actually, that’s one of the places where they do live. I think that’s one of the bands that even has a chief.”

  “Really.”

  Greg glanced at her as he drove. “You don’t sound very interested. I take it Angie found all the information she needs?”

  “I think so.”

  Greg looked back at the road without answering. His face had gone rigid, and he looked angry.

  “Angie’s part Abenaki,” Connie said, knowing he suspected as much but wouldn’t ask again.