His pain unsettled her. Angie loved her father more than anyone or anything other than God, and it grieved her to cause him anguish. “I…don’t know.”
“If you want to go back to Minneapolis, I’ll take you.” The fact that he’d made such an offer revealed how truly desperate he was.
“I don’t want to go back,” she wept, breaking into sobs. “I can’t…” If she couldn’t teach, she’d be given some other assignment and Angie could think of nothing else that would suit her.
Her father moved closer and set the breakfast tray aside. Then he gently gathered her in his arms. “You cry. Go ahead and cry it out, and then it’s over with, okay?”
“I…don’t know.”
He sighed. “Angelina, I can’t stay home any longer.”
“Stay home?” She realized it’d been weeks since he’d spent more than an hour or two at the restaurant. In her pain and self-absorption she hadn’t recognized the sacrifice he’d made for her.
As if struck by a brilliant notion, he said, “Come to the restaurant with me.”
She stared up at him through her tears. He hadn’t left her alone in weeks. Weeks! Even when he was away, he made sure someone was in the house with her. All at once it dawned on her why. Her father was afraid she’d commit suicide if he gave her the opportunity.
Angie would never take her own life. That hadn’t even entered her mind. Yes, she was depressed and angry with the Church, but taking her own life would condemn her for eternity. And it would destroy her father. She couldn’t bear the thought of putting him through such an ordeal. Surely he knew that!
“Angie, come with me,” he said, his eyes shining with hope. “It’ll be just like when you were a little girl.” His large hands gripped her shoulders. “Get dressed now and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
For the first time since she’d come home, Angie felt the beginnings of a smile. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll go to the restaurant with you.”
37
JOANNA BAIRD
APRIL 1, 1973
Joanna had forgotten how lovely Providence could be in the springtime. The air was clear and fresh, and she marveled at the newly green trees and budding flowers. She had her own apartment now and was discovering that life as a single woman wasn’t nearly as frightening as it had first appeared.
Twice now, Joanna had been asked out on a date. Both invitations had caught her by surprise. She wasn’t looking for a relationship, but she’d felt flattered and more than a little flustered. She’d been a teenager the last time she’d gone out with a man—she didn’t include that ice cream sundae with Dr. Murray. She’d declined both invitations because technically she was still a nun.
Her job on the surgical floor was fast-paced and interesting, and she loved her work. She was learning to manage her money and remained in close contact with her family. Every Sunday she attended Mass with her parents, keeping her ties to the Church strong. Her parents and the Church were her anchors during this time of adjustment. She’d found that her high school friends were mostly married and their lives were completely unlike her own. She felt uncomfortable with them and she was sure they did with her, too.
Once she had her own apartment and a job, Greg had called her, hoping for a chance to prove himself. Joanna had been kind but firm in her rejection and she hadn’t heard from him again, which was a relief.
The phone rang on a beautiful Monday morning as Joanna stepped out of the shower. Her hair was longer now and permed. She liked this new carefree style that was so popular among her peers, although it reminded her a little of a dandelion gone to seed. Wrapping the towel around her, she answered on the third ring.
“Hello,” she said breathlessly. Since this was her day off, it was either the hospital calling her in as a substitute or her mother about to suggest they meet for lunch.
“Good morning,” her mother said cheerfully. “There’s a surprise at the house for you.”
“A surprise?”
“A man actually.” A male voice could be heard in the background. “Hold on a minute,” her mother said.
Joanna strained to identify the voice but it was too faint.
Then her mother was back on the line. “Here, you can talk to him yourself.”
“Joanna?”
It was Tim. Dr. Murray! She sank onto the edge of the bed in shock. “Tim?” All these months and she hadn’t heard a single word. Not one. Then, out of the blue, he showed up at her parents’ home? Her breath went shallow.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“What are you doing at my parents’ house?” she demanded.
“I came to see you. Why else do you think I’m here? Would it be all right if I came over?” He sounded impatient and excited at once.
“Yes, please…” Her anger melted away. “It would be very nice to see you. Do you know where I am?”
Her mother had already given him the address, he said, and he was leaving now.
In a record fifteen minutes, Joanna dressed, put on her makeup and dried her hair. Still, her nerves were frayed by the time Tim knocked on the door.
Joanna opened it and stepped back, hands clasped together in front of her, heart pounding hard.
“This, um, is a surprise,” she said. She wasn’t sure how to act or what to say. He looked wonderful, better than she remembered. It’d been almost six months since she’d seen him, but she hadn’t forgotten a thing about him. Not a day had passed in which he hadn’t been part of her thoughts.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Joanna wanted to die of mortification when she realized he was still standing in the doorway while she unabashedly stared at him. “Of course! Please.” She hurriedly stepped aside.
He walked into the one-bedroom apartment, which was only beginning to reflect her personality. Her mother had helped her add dashes of individuality here and there. For six years Joanna had lived with the barest of necessities. It took her mother’s eye to point out small things she could use—a photograph, ivy in a ceramic pot, some colorful tea towels—to turn this apartment into her home.
“You look—” He hesitated. “Different.”
Her hand went instinctively to her hair. “Yes, I imagine I do.”
He lowered his voice, as if in awe. “You’re beautiful—but then you always were.”
His compliments embarrassed her and she immediately looked around for a distraction. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked brightly.
“No, thanks.”
She poured herself one just to keep her hands occupied and then joined him in the compact living room, where he sat at one end of the sofa and she sat at the other.
“So,” she said, holding her mug with both hands. “What brings you to the East Coast?”
“I was in Boston for a symposium. I heard you were in Providence and decided to take an extra day to look you up.” He made it sound so matter-of-fact.
“How did you know I was here?”
He relaxed against the arm of the sofa and crossed his long legs, balancing his ankle on the opposite knee. “The hospital called. You gave them my name as a reference. There were six Bairds in the phone book, I hit Mark on the third try and your mother answered.”
He’d gone to a lot of trouble, she mused.
“I didn’t know what to think when you left without a word,” he said. “I thought, I hoped—hell, I don’t know, but it came as a shock.”
“I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“There wasn’t time, and I wasn’t sure it would be wise….”
“Why not? You had to know how I felt about you. That last day I saw you, I admitted I was falling in love.”
Yes, and his admission had terrified her. “As I recall, you were dating someone else…and I was, am—” she corrected “—a nun.” She sipped from the mug and noticed her hands were trembling.
Tim’s eyes softened. “You don’t look like any nun I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, an
d his words reminded her of a similar statement he’d made last fall.
“I’ve taken a leave of absence.”
“For how long?”
“A year,” she told him.
“Then what?”
“If I feel the way I do now, and I know I will, I’ll write a letter to Rome and ask to be released from my vows.”
“Are you sure you’re going to follow through with this?” He certainly had a lot of questions.
She nodded, set her coffee mug aside and sat up straighter. She had a few questions of her own. “I phoned and left a message for you,” she said, “but you never acknowledged my call.”
“Message? What message? You said goodbye. What did you want me to do? Track you down so I could say goodbye, too?”
“I don’t know. It probably wasn’t correct protocol to contact you, but…I didn’t want it to end the way it did.”
“I assumed the only reason for your call was to line me up as a reference.”
“No,” she said sharply, “that was the excuse I used. I wanted you to know…”
“Know what?”
She shrugged and called herself every kind of coward for being unwilling to confess the truth.
“More importantly, Joanna, tell me why you left.”
She raised her eyes to his. “You mean you don’t know?”
He reached out and gently grazed her cheek with his knuckles. “Tell me.” His eyes pleaded with hers.
Joanna wasn’t sure she could.
“I need to know,” he continued in a low, seductive voice.
The tenderness in his eyes mesmerized her, and she was unable to look away. “I was falling in love with you, too. I tried so hard not to—but I couldn’t discipline myself enough to prevent it.”
“That was why you transferred to the Emergency Room?”
She nodded. “I had a talk with Sister Superior, and she advised the move. Later, when we were found together in the hospital chapel, she suggested I needed time away to review my feelings.”
“Have those feelings changed?” he asked.
She swallowed tightly. While she was embarrassed about discussing her attraction to him, she was grateful for the freedom to speak honestly. “No.”
“After all these months, you’re saying you feel the same way about me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m glad, Joanna.”
He lifted her chin until her gaze met his.
“Have I made a complete fool of myself?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I came back from Nam a different man. As far as I was concerned, God was dead. Either that, or he’d never existed. Just when it felt like my life was getting back to normal and I was starting a promising practice, I ran headlong into a beautiful hospital nun. You wouldn’t let me forget about God. I remember you once told me that God hadn’t given up on me, even if I’d given up on Him.”
“I said that?”
“And more. Half the time, I came away from the hospital thinking about you, about arguments I wanted to make and hadn’t. You had me muttering to myself. I don’t know how you talked me into attending Mass again, but I’m grateful you did. I started sleeping better and my mother noticed a change in my attitude. I told her you were responsible and she assumed you were much older—a nice, friendly nun in her sixties or seventies. I didn’t correct that impression.”
She’d prayed so hard for Tim Murray and it felt as if God had smiled upon her when she saw him in church that first Sunday.
“I didn’t know what to think when I realized I was in love with you,” he said.
Joanna’s hand went to her heart.
“It troubled me, Joanna. You’d dedicated your life to Christ and I didn’t want to feel the things I did. I dated several women and was actually grateful when you got that transfer, but it didn’t help. I think you were already a part of me. I’ve missed you. Not a day goes by when you aren’t in my thoughts.”
“I miss you, too,” Joanna confessed.
“Then you were gone.” He shrugged ever so slightly. “I’ll admit that at first I was glad. You know what they say—out of sight, out of mind. But it didn’t take me long to discover I wasn’t going to forget you. Then I was annoyed because you left without a word of farewell. That one phone message only served to infuriate me more.”
She smiled.
“I was invited to speak at the symposium and I accepted because it was the perfect excuse to find you. I had to know, Joanna.”
“Know what?”
“If you feel about me the same way I feel about you.” He stretched out his hand and caressed the side of her face.
“I love you, Timothy Murray. I loved you when I left the convent and I love you even more now.” She turned her face into his hand and kissed his open palm.
He pulled her into his arms and brought his lips to hers with a tenderness that made her feel weak. “I just kissed a nun,” he whispered.
“And a nun is about to kiss you back.” Her lips found his.
Tim held her close, and his breathing was heavy when he lifted his mouth from hers. “Okay, where do we go from here?”
“I still have six months of my leave of absence.”
“That long?”
“That long,” she repeated. “But the time will fly by. Let’s get to know each other as just two people, all right?”
He nuzzled the side of her neck. “That should be interesting with you living in Rhode Island and me in Minneapolis.”
“We’ve both faced challenges before.”
“You’re going to make me wait, aren’t you?”
She sighed as she wrapped her arms more securely around his neck. “You know what they say about good things coming to those who wait. The very best is yet to be, I promise you that.” Closing her eyes, she pressed her head to his shoulder. In the depths of her heart she knew Tim Murray would be worth every moment of that wait.
38
ANGELINA MARCELLO
The first day Angie visited the restaurant, she sat on a stool and watched her father move between his chefs, tasting the sauces and correcting the herbs and spices. For weeks she simply sat and watched. Then one day, she suddenly realized how much she’d missed the pungent scent of simmering garlic. She closed her eyes and breathed it in the way someone who stands on a beach inhales the scent of salt and sea. At that moment Angie truly felt she’d come home.
Shortly afterward, for reasons she didn’t understand, her appetite returned. Every day her father had tried to entice her with his favorite dishes. She refused each one until he offered her spaghetti alla puttanesca, which had been her childhood favorite.
The sauce, made with anchovies, tomatoes and olives, was hot and spicy. Long ago she’d heard that the recipe originated in the red-light district of Rome. Women of the night would cook the sauce and set it on their windowsills, hoping to lure patrons to their establishments.
The spaghetti tasted as wonderful as she remembered. Better than she remembered. That night she had two huge plates of spaghetti, heaped high with the spicy sauce.
It was as though she’d been awarded an Olympic medal for her appetite. The entire kitchen crew applauded when she finished her second helping. Her father beamed, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He hurriedly brought her his signature zabaglione, and stood by watching as she ate every last bite.
That was the beginning. The next day it was fettuccine Alfredo. Angie hadn’t noticed how thin she’d become—and she’d forgotten how wonderful food tasted—until she started visiting the restaurant. Everything smelled so good, and once she’d sampled the familiar dishes, it seemed as if her father’s food offered her the comfort she hadn’t found anywhere else.
Then one afternoon six months after she’d left the convent, Tony Marcello insisted he had paperwork that needed his attention and asked Angie to do the daily tasting. Reluctantly she’d agreed, seeing through his ploy. He wanted her to assume his role; it had been his plan for her from the tim
e she was a child and she didn’t have the heart to refuse him.
Mario Deccio and the other cooks had been with the restaurant for years and knew the recipes as well as—or better than—Angie. Still, they respectfully stepped aside and waited for her approval, the same way they did with her father. The gift she’d once shared with him had never left her, she discovered. Her instincts for the nuances of a dish were as reliable as ever.
In the summer of 1973, Angie began working the restaurant floor, greeting their dinner guests and making recommendations when called upon. It was her job to see that the patrons were satisfied and that their dining experience was everything they had anticipated. People liked her unobtrusive manner and asked after her if she wasn’t there. By the end of the season, profits were up twenty percent.
Her father had never been happier, Mario said. That wasn’t all he told her. “Your papa was not the same after you went to the convent,” the chef confided. “For a long time we worried. He seemed to lose all interest in life. But you’re home now.”
It was good to be back. Angie felt guilty for enjoying her role in the restaurant so much. It was almost as though the last fifteen years had somehow disappeared from her memory. From her life…
She might’ve been able to continue pretending indefinitely if Mario’s granddaughter hadn’t stopped by early one afternoon. Angie saw the teenager enter the kitchen and nearly collapsed. Gina Deccio was sixteen years old and wore her hair in the same teenage style as Corinne Sullivan. They both had dark, inquisitive eyes. Gina smiled at Angie and it was as if Corinne had stepped into the room.
“Angelina, come and meet my granddaughter,” Mario said. His expression revealed his pride as he placed his arm around the girl’s shoulders.
“Hello,” Angie said, barely able to contain her panic. “If you’ll forgive me, I have an errand to run.” No one questioned her as she pulled off the apron and hung it on the peg and nearly dashed from the building. It was muggy and warm, late in the summer; Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” was playing on a nearby radio as Angie began her walk. She walked and walked for blocks on end.
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