The door opened.
“May I help you?” a puckered voice inquired.
Grace gathered all of her courage and met the middle-aged woman’s vigilant eyes. “Please, ma’am,” she panted, “I need to see Doctor Giorgi!”
“I am Doctor Giorgi’s housekeeper. I regret to say that the doctor is in his study and cannot be disturbed.”
The door threatened to close, but Grace, desperate, stepped forward, gripping the doorpost so that the woman would have to shut the door on her hand. “Please, ma’am! It’s my papa who’s hurt. If you’ll just tell Doctor Giorgi that Grace Picoletti is here…”
The housekeeper shook her head. “I don’t care who you are, young lady. Doctor Giorgi gave explicit orders-”
“Grace, is that you?” The familiar boyish tone brought a blush to her cheeks, and she found herself glad for the dark night and the shadows in which she stood.
Sure enough, Paulie peered over the housekeeper’s shoulder. Mrs. McCusker pursed her lips but made way for her master’s son. “Grace! Thought I heard your voice.” He grinned in his old way, dimples showing. “Boy, am I glad to see you!” He seemed to really mean it, too.
“Hello, Paulie,” Grace managed. She let him catch her eyes at first but found herself unable to maintain the connection. What must he think of her, despite that smile, when their last words had been so sharp on her part?
“So… why did you come here? I mean, so late at night?” Paulie asked. Mrs. McCusker lingered in the background, pretending to inspect the hall mirror for dust.
“I need your papa – I mean, your dad,” Grace blurted out, realizing the minutes were ticking away. How long had it been since she’d left Mama with Papa lying in her lap? Twenty minutes? Even longer? “He’s a doctor, right?”
She saw that her words took him aback for a second. “Why?” he questioned.
It was a strange request, she knew. “My papa. He got burned. Bad, I think. Doctor Philips isn’t home. I tried…” The words tumbled over each other, but somehow Paulie seemed to make some sense of it.
“Well, hey, come in, Grace. I’ll get Dad. No problem there.” He swung the door open wide for her to enter and rushed off, down a long brightly lit hallway. As Paulie called for his father, his voice fairly echoed in the vast house.
Mrs. McCusker stood to the side, chin raised, allowing Grace to step into the house. Clutching the hole in her waistband, Grace hurried inside, head ducked. The door shut decisively behind her.
She glanced up. Mrs. McCusker stood guard parallel to her, the housekeeper’s droopy eyes pinning Grace to the square of tile upon which she stood.
The woman needn’t have worried. Grace had no plans to move farther into the rooms filled with domed antiques. The silent yellow lights above her head glinted off the crystal vases and, in the room just off the entryway, gleamed on chandeliers. Like a palace. Grace dropped her widened eyes to her smeared shoes again. My socks are filthy, she mused, glumly staring at her besmirched, formerly-white stockings.
In just a few moments, hurrying feet sounded on a staircase somewhere nearby, and then came nearer. Finally, Doctor Giorgi strode into the entryway, followed by Paulie tagging along right at his elbow. Dressed in casual but well-tailored trousers, the doctor rolled his sleeves down as he walked.
“Grace, what brings you here?”
She glanced up to see a warm smile stretching across Doctor Giorgi’s face, lighting up his tanned olive countenance and crinkling the corners of his eyes. That smile emboldened her to ask what she must. “Will you come? My papa’s hurt bad – got burned – Doctor Philips ain’t home,” she explained, realizing too late that she’d slipped back into low-class speech in her nervousness.
Doctor Giorgi’s eyebrows knit together. “If he’s hurt badly, why not call the ambulance?” He cocked his head.
Shame colored Grace’s face, and the richness of her surroundings pummeled her. “Ain’t no money for that,” she forced herself to mumble, scrunching her toes inside her shoes and feeling the place where the soggy cardboard edge met the sole.
The housekeeper sniffed. “Well, if that isn’t nice, Doctor!” She folded her arms across her shriveled bosom and stared at Grace with smirking eyes. “She expects you to work for nothing, I guess. Those n’er-do-wells—”
“Mrs. McCusker, have the goodness to be silent, please,” Doctor Giorgi interrupted, and Grace wondered at the soft authority his voice held. He kept his gaze on Grace, and she knew he took his housekeeper’s words into small account. “I’ll be right back with my bag,” he stated. “Son, wait here with Grace, please.”
“Sure, Dad,” Paulie agreed, a study in seriousness.
Doctor Giorgi could not return soon enough for Grace’s comfort. As the loud hall clock ticked the slow seconds, Paulie sought to catch Grace’s eyes while she kept them locked on the freshly-vacuumed carpet. Whenever she lifted them, she found Mrs. McCusker staring at the hole in her skirt, chin tucked deep into the fold of flesh at the housekeeper’s throat.
“All set,” Doctor Giorgi announced as he reentered the hallway at last. One hand grasped his black leather medical bag, and the other held his coat. “We’ll drive,” he said.
“Can I come, too, Dad?” Paulie spoke up.
Grace’s heart skipped a beat before she heard his father’s answer. “Yes, son. I may need you. Let’s go; we’ve wasted enough time.”
Conflicting emotions swirled in her chest as Grace followed Doctor Giorgi out to his intimidating car. Silver-gray with shining mirrors, it waited in the driveway; a man – Grace guessed that he must be an employee – had driven it from its place in the garage. He stood holding the driver’s side door open for the doctor.
“Thank you, Taylor,” Doctor Giorgi said to the stocky man before hurrying over to the passenger side. With the courtesy due to royalty, Paulie’s father opened that door and gestured. “Grace,” he invited.
Awed and pleased in an uncomfortable-sort-of-way, Grace slid past Doctor Giorgi and into the front seat. Seeing the smooth leather interior, feeling its soft give beneath her light weight, Grace regretted that her filthy dress would surely dirty it. Well, she would try to keep her muddy shoes from soiling the floor too much, at least, by holding them slightly above the mat. It might be difficult to keep her balance thus, but Grace had her pride, too.
Paulie jumped into the backseat, and Doctor Giorgi placed his black bag beside his son before going over to the driver’s side and entering the car himself. “Alright,” he said, “and where do you live, Grace?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The short ride across town passed in a blur. Doctor Giorgi attempted no conversation. He seemed to understand how tense Grace felt. Paulie sat silent, too, fidgeting a little in the backseat and clearing his throat a few times. The car moved smoothly through the inky darkness; there was no moon tonight.
“Turn here,” Grace directed the doctor. Her voice sounded loud in her own ears. She squeezed her lips shut, anticipating the meeting of her parents and Paulie’s papa.
Nodding, Doctor Giorgi maneuvered the massive car around the back road’s bend and down the stony driveway that led to the house’s back door. Grace saw that Mama had turned on the kitchen light, but the rest of the house loomed dark above them. I wonder where Cliff has got to? The thought moved fleetly through her mind, but Grace shrugged it away. Far more important matters than Cliff’s absence occupied her.
Doctor Giorgi switched off the engine and hopped from the car with one fluid movement, slamming the door. He immediately strode toward the house. “Paulie, bring my bag, please,” he called out behind him.
“Yes, Dad,” Paulie replied, grabbing the soft leather satchel and bounding into the yard.
Grace scrambled out. Her hand clutched her waistband together as her numb legs carried her up the pathway behind Paulie and his father. Humiliation crashed over her in waves as she saw Doctor Giorgi mount the broken-down steps. I’m so embarrassed for them to know where I come from!
<
br /> Grace knew that she should be worrying about Papa, not caring about what a virtual stranger thought of the Picolettis’ lifestyle. But she couldn’t help it; he was Paulie’s daddy, and she had never wished harder that they lived in a nicer neighborhood… that her parents were better people … that her daddy didn’t burn garbage in a barrel in his backyard and keep a mistress in a cottage way out back. The tears pressed against her eyes, but she fought them back
Upon reaching the back door, Doctor Giorgi gave only a short rap with his knuckles, and without waiting for an answer, he turned the knob. The scent of bacon grease and soap wafted out as he pushed open the door. The doctor stepped inside the dimly-lit house, ducking his head a bit because of the low doorway.
Grace scuttled in right behind the doctor, her eyes slowly adjusting to the light of the single lamp. Mama must have helped Papa to get up onto the long, ratty horsehair couch that leaned against one of the kitchen walls; the couch had occupied that spot for as long as Grace could remember, perfect for any ill family members. Moaning low, Papa lay there, one leg lolling off the couch. His pants had rumpled up, displaying his mismatched, much-darned socks and a healthy swath of dark Italian leg hair. Grace ground her teeth in embarrassment. She couldn’t imagine Mr. Kinner or Doctor Giorgi lying there like that. Anxiously, she risked a glance at Doctor Giorgi, but he seemed unfazed by his patient’s uncouth display.
Mama looked up then from her place sitting beside Papa. “Who’s this?” she barked, squinting into the shadowy entryway. Her unkempt, graying hair snarled around her worried spherical face, accenting the thin, tight line of her mouth.
Grace sucked in a deep breath. “I brought Doctor Giorgi, Mama. He says he’ll look at Papa.”
“Doctor who? Where’s Doctor Philips?” Mama halted in her nearly-continual administration of wet cloths to Papa’s face and head. As soon as she paused, Papa’s groaning grew louder, though, so she quickly dunked the cloth down deeply into the cold water and applied it.
Grace hadn’t counted on Mama disliking that she’d gone elsewhere for a doctor. But what choice was there, other than bringing Papa to the hospital? “Doctor Philips ain’t home, Mama,” she said.
Doctor Giorgi stepped out of the entryway toward Mama. His feet took him from the shadows and into the circle of soft lamplight. “I’m Doctor Samuel Giorgi, ma’am. I’d be glad to see to your husband, if you would like.” In his quiet, kind way, Paulie’s papa crouched down so that he could be at the same level with Mama, sitting there on that stool. Mama turned from sponging Papa’s face to look the doctor square in the eyes, her usual tough manner displayed.
And then Grace saw it – the shock suffusing across Mama’s countenance. The line of Mama’s lips broke as her mouth fell open a tad, and she stared at Doctor Giorgi with unblinking eyes.
Mama knows him.
Curious, Grace flashed a glance, lightning-quick, at Doctor Giorgi. For a split second, he appeared confused at the surprise dawning plain-as-day on Mama’s face. Then, recognition emerged. He knows her, too, Grace realized, looking from one to the other.
“Sarah?” The name stumbled out of Doctor Giorgi’s mouth, sounding as if he found himself using a second language he’d not known he could speak. “Sarah… Antonelli?”
Grace saw a red flush rise to Mama’s cheeks. Her mother swallowed hard, the sinews in her neck straining. “Sam Giorgi,” she acknowledged in a voice as quiet as a dying cricket. “Didn’t know you’d come back.”
Doctor Giorgi nodded. “Yes,” he said, low and controlled. An expression rose in his eyes that Grace could not read as he peered at Mama. Certainly, it could not be any tenderness, for Mama sat, a crumpled mess, shiny with sweat and big with the baby that should be coming any day now. But for several seconds, Grace watched as Doctor Giorgi held Mama’s gaze gentle as he might cup a butterfly. Mama broke the silent grip first, turning her face to look at Papa.
“I understand your husband burned himself badly,” Doctor Giorgi straightened up and turned his attention to Papa, too.
“Yeah, he did,” Mama replied, swabbing at Papa’s face with her wrung-out dish rag. “Burning trash out back, I think. Don’t know what happened. Came in like this, face nearly on fire.”
Doctor Giorgi leaned forward, and Grace crept forward a little, too, hardly aware of Paulie’s presence behind her at all. Mama lifted her dish rag off Papa’s face so that the doctor could see the extent of the injury.
A chill prickled through Grace’s limbs as she gaped at Papa’s burns. The crimson skin, extending from Papa’s singed hairline to his lips, appeared glossy and bubbly like soda-water. His mouth open in a guttural groan, Papa seemed hardly aware that anyone but Mama was in the room. His eyes remained closed against what Grace knew must be searing pain. Papa was a strong man; it took significant agony to debilitate him.
“What’s your husband’s name, Sarah?” Doctor Giorgi asked.
“Charlie,” Mama managed to reply, fluttering away from the couch now that professional hands had come to do their job. She rose from her seat and went to stand behind Grace. Almost as if I was a shielding wall.
Doctor Giorgi sat down next to the couch. His hand grasped Papa’s shoulder with great gentleness. “Charlie, I’m Doctor Giorgi,” he spoke near Papa’s ear. “Your wife has asked me to look at your burns. I’ll be as gentle as I can, alright?”
Grace watched as Papa gave a slight nod, and Doctor Giorgi began his examination.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sarah’s nails bit into her palms as her eyes followed the brilliant headlights of the doctor’s car. The beams cut through the dark night as the man and his son pulled out of the driveway and onto the dirt back road.
Her shoulders relaxed into their usual rounded posture, and she released the breath which she felt like she’d been holding since meeting Sam Giorgi’s gaze earlier this evening.
Sam Giorgi. Sarah could hardly get over it. No, she really couldn’t. In a dull, detached way, her heart thudded like she was sixteen again and he’d pulled up in front of her papa’s front stoop. Many years had passed since then, and they’d sure been kinder to Sam than to her. With a glance over her shoulder at Charlie lying prone on the couch, eyes bandaged shut, Sarah tiptoed to her and Charlie’s bedroom – well, hers, really, ‘cause Charlie hadn’t slept there in months – and waddled her pregnant self over to the little mirror drooping against the yellowed wallpaper.
Half-fearful, half-bold as brass, Sarah forced herself to look into that mirror. And as she gazed, the red rose to her cheeks as if she’d spent all day ironing clean laundry.
I’m an old woman. The thought made her mouth sag deeper into its already-grooved wrinkles. An old, fat woman with bare feet, too many kids, and a good-for-nothing husband.
And she couldn’t even pay Sam. Perhaps that was the most humiliating part of this night. As he finished cleaning and bandaging the burns, Sarah had fished around in her old butter crock, hopelessly wishing she could draw out enough money from the makeshift piggy bank to compensate the doctor for his services. But her chubby fingers had managed to scrape out only a dime and a few pennies. Sarah felt her own face burning as she remembered how she’d turned to Sam – that is, Doctor Giorgi – and sucked in her breath before mumbling, “Doctor Philips usually takes a down payment… Don’t know if you’d be willing to do the same?” She’d held out the grimy coins, putting steel in her eyes to show him she wasn’t ashamed.
He’d given her that reserved, sweet-as-red-licorice smile and pressed the money back into her palm. “No payment is necessary, Sarah. My reward came from seeing you again tonight.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe it. “I never expected this. Not in a hundred years, Sarah.”
Surprised at the tenderness – there was no other word for it than that – in his voice, Sarah hadn’t said a word. Just stared at him and then back at the boy standing behind him. A handsome boy, just like Sam had been two decades ago.
A few more moments passed, just the t
wo of them looking at each other, Sarah growing more and more awkward and Sam seeming as if he wanted to say something. Then Charlie had groaned, and Sam shook himself. “Paulie,” he’d turned to his son, “are you ready?”
Paulie – whose attraction to Grace was unmistakable, though the girl didn’t seem to realize it – finished packing up his papa’s satchel. “Yes, Dad,” he replied, fastening the buckle. Sarah heard the boy murmur something to Grace, who stood nearby with that embarrassed stance she would adopt, no matter how many times Sarah told her to pick up her head!
“I’m leaving some ointment for the burns,” Sam explained, more guarded now. “Change the bandaging every day and clean the wounds. Let me know if there’s any sign of infection. I’ll return to check on him, but those burns should heal nicely within a few weeks. Not much scarring, either, I should think. As I said, it’s a second-degree burn. Extensive, but not disfiguring or life-threatening.”
Suddenly, desperation to keep Sam there had overtaken Sarah. “You want some coffee?” she asked, wishing she could offer him some cake to go with it but knowing that her cupboard was empty.
Sam shook his head. “No, we must be getting home,” he’d answered.
Heart sinking, Sarah kept her expression emotionless. “Your wife’ll be waiting up for you, I guess,” she’d managed.
But a sad smile found its way to Sam’s lips. “No, only a housekeeper. My wife – Paulie’s mother – died six years ago this April.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah automatically answered, but wasn’t she glad that a beautiful wife didn’t lie awake for him?
“Thank you,” Sam replied, “but the memory doesn’t come with such a painful twinge now as with the reminder of the mercies of God to me.”
The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) Page 23
