Christmas and Cannolis

by Peggy Jaeger

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. A half hour ago? She texted me to swing by and get you, so go get ready. I’m hungry, and traffic is a bitch.”

  Typical. I’d sent my mother a text, and she’d chosen to ignore it. There was no doubt in my mind she’d seen what I’d sent and simply decided to disregard it. Unless I was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery or kidnapped by aliens, I had no valid reason in her eyes to skip the festivities. Ignoring my request to stay home was her subliminal and manipulative mother’s way of forcing me to suck it up and move on.

  I wanted to be angry with her but couldn’t summon up any acrimony. She was simply being what she always was: a good, caring, and loving mother.

  Resigned, I shook my head and told them to come up and wait for me while I got ready. Since it was just family tonight, I didn’t need to get made up and fixed, as Aunt Gracie would say.

  After donning a bright red knee-length pullover over a plain white Henley and black leggings, I tugged my hair up into a high ponytail, brushed my teeth, and was set to go.

  “You got any cookies or pies you can bring?” my brother asked when I told him I was ready.

  “In the walk-in in the shop. Which do you want?”

  “Both.”

  God bless my brother and his love of sweet things. From the displeased look Trixie tossed him, I knew ’Carlo’s eating habits had been discussed many times over.

  “Give me a minute.”

  Traffic was, as ’Carlo’d said, a bitch. It took twice as long as it usually did to make it to my parents’ brownstone.

  The minute I walked into the house, the noise level and the familiar warmth and comfort of my childhood home overtook me and made me glad I’d changed my mind about staying home alone.

  I found my mother and Aunt Frankie in the kitchen—no surprise there—kneading dough for pasta. My mother looked up from the butcher-block table, one eyebrow raised almost to her hairline as she ran her gaze across my face. That eyebrow proved she’d read my text. It was her silent way of saying what were you thinking, not being with your family on a holiday?

  “Hey, Ma. Aunt Frankie.” I kissed both their cheeks and got a big whiff of flour and fresh eggs. “Buon Natale.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too, Reggie,” Frankie said.

  “You brought cookies?” my mother asked, chinning the box in my hand.

  I nodded. “ ’Carlo begged. And then Trixie yelled at him the whole way here about his blood sugar levels.”

  “He went to the doctor last week for a checkup,” Ma said as she rolled and pulled the dough, never messing up her rhythm. Just like I could bake in my sleep, she could make pasta for fifty in hers. “Told him he’s skirtin’ the line of being a diabetic. Don’t know where he gets that from. No one in our family has trouble with sugar.”

  I kept silent on that one, knowing what a sweet tooth my brother had always had and how my mother had indulged it when he was growing up.

  “Joey and Sonny’s father had diabetes, remember, Urs?”

  Ma nodded. “Yeah, but he never paid any attention to it.” She looked over at me again. “Ate a whole cheesecake by himself every Easter before he”—she lowered her voice—“went away.”

  I kept silent on that one too, because family legend had it that Pop’s dad had been an enforcer for the Tricano crime mob and had died in prison—the definition of went away—doing a life stretch for a murder his boss, Alphonse Tricano, had ordered.

  Like I said, it was mostly legend since he died before I was born. But in every legend, a little truth prevails.

  “I’m sure Trixie will keep an eye on what he eats for dessert tonight,” I said as I put the box on top of the refrigerator. “Can I help?”

  For the next half hour, we pulled the dough into thin sheets with my mother’s pasta roller and then cut the sheets into linguine for her scrumptious shrimp Fra Diavolo. The name, Brother Devil, comes from the spiciness of the red pepper flakes in the dish. My mother’s recipe was a family favorite, and the moment the red sauce started to simmer, the kitchen smelled like Heaven on Earth. Or in this instance, Heaven on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

  I hadn’t gone into the house proper yet, so I was surprised when I did to find my father absent.

  “Where’s Pop?” I asked Petey who was lounging in Ma’s recliner, watching a football game with my other brothers and nephews scattered across the room. Uncle Joey was asleep, his mouth wide open, in Pop’s lazy chair. My sisters-in-law were all in the den watching the same Housewives marathon I’d abandoned and drinking wine.

  “He had to run out. Said he’d be back before the first course.”

  “When’s that gonna be, Reg? I’m starving,” ’Carlo said.

  “You want some cheese with that whine?” I asked.

  “Provolone,” he said back with a grin.

  I just shook my head at him and went back into the kitchen. “The natives are getting restless,” I told my mother.

  “They can hold their water for a few more minutes. Your father isn’t back yet.” She darted a look at Frankie that I couldn’t decipher.

  “Where’d he need to go on Christmas Eve?” I asked. “One of his friends”—I put air quotes around the word—“need something so important it couldn’t wait until after the holiday?”

  “Oh, he just had to go pick…something up. Last minute.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see. Here.” She handed me two loaves of garlic bread she’d taken out of the oven. “Cut these, and put them on the tables.”

  It dawned on me she’d just used a diversionary tactic.

  While I went to table the bread, I heard the back door open and then Pop ask, “Where’s Regina?”

  “Here I am.” I came into the kitchen, and my heart stopped. Really. Full stop; no beating; no blood going anywhere inside me.

  I was able to blink, though, so I did to convince myself what I was seeing wasn’t an hallucination or a mirage.

  It wasn’t.

  Connor Gilhooly stood with his coat tossed over his arm next to my father.

  Chapter 10

  Regina’s tips for surviving in a big Italian family: 10. Don’t ever be late for dinner, and don’t make anyone else late, either.

  “Connor.” I wasn’t sure if I said it or thought it at first, but when his gorgeous mouth lifted in one corner I knew I had.

  “Merry Christmas, Regina.”

  “What are you doing here?” I turned my attention to my father before he could answer me. “Pop. What’s going on?”

  For the first time in my entire life, my father wore an expression of pure embarrassment. His entire face went boiled-tomato red, and I knew it wasn’t from the cold air outside smarting his skin. He ran his hand around the side of his neck to the back of his collar, cupped his nape, glanced down at the floor for a moment and then, taking a breath, back up at me.

  “Regina. Bellissima figlia.” He stopped and bit down on his bottom lip.

  “Pop?”

  Now I was worried. Salvatore San Valentino didn’t possess the embarrassment gene. Not once in all my thirty-two years and through all the wacky things he’d done, like renting a fleet of white stretch limousines for Petey’s wedding from a guy who was arrested for grand theft auto the next day. And by renting, I don’t mean he actually paid any fees for them. Or the time he got a steal-deal on six jumbo flat-screen televisions to find out after he’d gifted them to some of the family they didn’t work and had been factory rejects, the real reason they’d fallen off a truck in Hoboken. Not once had he ever looked abashed, red-faced, or tongue-tied. Until this very moment.

  “Let me talk to Regina, Sonny,” Connor said, laying a hand on Pop’s shoulder. “I’ll explain everything to her.”

  Okay, Sonny? Really? What the—?

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. You two go into the den. Have some privacy.”

  “The girls are in the den,” Ma said, her lips turning downward in disapproval as she shook her hea
d. “They’re watchin’ some program about rich puttanas. Stupido.”

  “Why don’t we go for a walk, Regina?” Connor said. “It’s not too cold out.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Pop said. “Get outta the house for a few minutes. Go get your coat, little girl.”

  When I didn’t immediately move, he flapped his hands in a get going wave at me.

  “Um.” I looked over at my mother and Frankie, whose eyes were glued to Connor. “Ma?”

  “Go,” she said, tossing me the identical wave my father had. “We can manage without you.”

  Connor, who’d been standing next to my father this whole time moved toward me and said, “Come on, Regina. Walk with me.” He held out his hand.

  I looked at his face, down at the outstretched hand, and then back up. His eyes were calm and warm and without any hint of the anger and hurt they’d been filled with in my apartment.

  “I-I’ll get my coat. Just…just give me a minute.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  Madonna. That was a loaded statement if ever I’d heard one.

  In record time, I shrugged into my coat, scarf, and hat.

  Connor held the door open for me.

  For a few moments, we were silent as we walked down the stoop steps. At street level, he said, “Have a preference?”

  I shook my head, and he cocked his to the right.

  “Let’s go this way then.”

  Slowly, we started.

  Every emotion I’d been feeling, every thought I’d been thinking for the past few days jumped to the front of my mind. I wanted to ask how he’d been? Why was he with my father? Why wasn’t he with his family tonight? Then I wanted to apologize for what my father had done, for how I’d acted. So many questions and statements I wanted to make. The words in my mind wouldn’t jump to my mouth, though. Nerves, anxiety, shame all pinged through me, so I stayed silent as I walked beside him.

  Connor had been correct that it wasn’t too cold, but I still felt chilled down to my bones as concern rushed through me. After a few steps, I gasped from the chill, and he stopped and turned to me. Without a word, he stepped close and wrapped me in his arms.

  “You’re cold,” he said against my temple. “I’m sorry about that, but I wanted to talk with you away from, well, everyone else.”

  A cold spasm shivered through me, and Connor tightened his grip.

  “There’s…there’s a coffee shop on the corner that stays open late. Even on Christmas Eve,” I managed to say.

  “Come on then.” He pulled me with him, his arm slung around my shoulders keeping my body against his.

  Once we were seated across from one another in a booth and Connor had ordered us both tea, I asked the one question I needed an answer to like I needed my next breath.

  “Why did you come to the house with my father?”

  In a move that was so gentle and endearing, he reached across the aged Formica table and took both my cold hands in his. As he rubbed his thumbs across my knuckles to share his warmth, he said, with a lopsided grin, “Your father is quite the character.”

  “That’s one word for it,” I said without thinking. “A nice one. I can think of others that aren’t so kind.”

  His grin spread. “We don’t have to talk about them.” He let out a little sigh. “Your father came to my office this morning to see me. Demanded to see me, actually. Put the fear of God into one of the agency temps subbing for my assistant if she didn’t let him.”

  I winced and looked down at the table. Connor squeezed my hands, forcing me to look back at him.

  “Don’t be embarrassed about that, Regina.”

  “Too late.”

  His eyes softened, the gray lightening to pewter. “He loves you very much. Very much. You’re his bellissima figlia. Suo cuore. That’s what he called you. His heart.”

  I shook my head.

  “And, because he loves you so much and doesn’t want to see you hurt again, he did what he did.”

  “Had you investigated.”

  “Yeah. I’ll admit, at the time I was pissed. More because he’d found out about my company than my biological mother. That news was supposed to be a secret, but like your father explained”—the corner of his mouth tipped up—“he knows a guy who knows a guy who works at the SEC and owed him a favor.”

  “Of course he does.” I closed my eyes.

  “Again, don’t be embarrassed by that.”

  “Is this why he came to see you? To tell you that?”

  “No. He came to apologize.”

  What? “Get out. My father doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Believe me, he does.” Our tea arrived. Connor let go of my hands, and while the waitress served us, we didn’t speak. As soon as she left, he continued.

  “He said he was sorry about how he’d handled the situation. He should have come to me, man to man he said, to confront me with what he’d discovered. His loyalty was to you, though, so he’d gone to tell you first. Finding me with you was a bonus.”

  I sipped my tea and let its heat steep through me.

  “He admitted he should have confirmed who Lisa is. He trusted his guy, though, with the basic info, never delving into it any deeper. If he had, he would have found out she was my biological mother and not my side piece.”

  I choked a little on my tea and put my cup down. “Gesu,” I mumbled.

  Connor’s grin shot from one side of his face to the other. “Being around your father is like watching an actor in a mob movie noir.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  He reached over and took my hand again.

  “Anyway. He apologized and then told me what happened after I’d left. Which, by the way, I’m sorry about. The mature thing to do would have been to stick around and explain, talk it out.”

  “I need to apologize for myself, too, you know. You were right when you said I didn’t trust you.”

  He nodded.

  “It wasn’t because of what Pop said, though, although that was some of the reason.”

  “What, then? Because I don’t remember doing anything that would make you not trust me.”

  “It wasn’t something you did. It was something your mother, your adoptive mother—although at the time I didn’t know she was—said to me at the fundraiser that sent a little alarm bell off in my head.”

  His brows pinched together. “My mom? What did she say?”

  “We were talking about chocolate, of all things. She said you’d always been a chocoholic even as a kid. I asked if her other son, your brother, had been one, too.”

  “My brother?” Confusion spilled over his features.

  “Yeah. You told me you’d had a brother who died of leukemia. But she said you were her only child. She didn’t have another son.”

  Just as quick as the confusion came, it flew, replaced by sadness and a spark of understanding. “She was right. I am their only kid. My brother Luca wasn’t Molly’s son. He was Lisa’s.”

  Dumbfounded, I stared at him.

  After a long sip of his tea, Connor put the cup back down on the table. “Lisa had me when she was fifteen. She’d been a rebellious teenager, and her parents were ultra conservative. Wouldn’t let her date or hang out with friends.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Anyway, she found out she was pregnant, and her parents wouldn’t allow her to keep her baby, so she put me up for adoption. The Gilhoolys took me into their home and their lives.”

  “And their hearts.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Thanks for saying that. Anyway. She grew up a lot after that. Started walking the straight and narrow as she calls it. Went to college, and when she was twenty-eight, she got married and had a baby girl.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Since she was married and much older, she of course, kept her. Molly and Angus had always been open about the fact I was adopted. They always gave me the option of gett
ing in contact with Lisa if I wanted to. The adoption was an open one on both sides. As a kid I didn’t want to. Too much anger, I guess, about being given away. But when I turned thirty, I thought it might be a good idea to find out why she’d let me go, so I wrote her a letter. It was to her parents’ address, the only one my folks had, but her mother forwarded it to her. She wrote back immediately and we met. It was…interesting.”

  It was my turn to put some pressure on his hand. “And I bet as scary as Hell.”

  “Yeah. She told me the reason she’d placed me, how she’d thought about me every single day since she’d kissed me goodbye in the hospital. Every birthday she’d light a candle in church for me. Worry when she heard about outbreaks of chicken pox, stuff like that. Then she told me about Juliana and the little boy she’d had, Luca.”

  “So, a half brother and sister.”

  He nodded. “I went from being an only child to the oldest of three in a heartbeat. Four years ago, Lisa called me to tell me she was in the process of getting a divorce after she caught her husband cheating and that Luca was sick.”

  He stopped and blew out a breath. His eyes had gone misty, and my heart broke a little for him as Angelina’s face crossed in front of me.

  “The leukemia was widespread. All his lymph nodes were involved. They’d removed his spleen, given him chemo. He needed a bone-marrow transplant, and I got tested as a donor. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a match. No one in the family was, but they got lucky and found a donor through the registry. The transplant looked like it was taking, but then it reversed and the leukemia took over again. The doctors gave him two or three months to live. Lisa was a wreck. They admitted him to Pearl’s Place on a recommendation, and a few weeks later he died.”

  Tears fell silently down my cheeks. “I hate cancer.”

  “You have company,” he said with a nod. “The staff had been so wonderful, I wanted to do something to give back. Nothing would bring Luca back to us, but I wanted other families with a sick kid to have the opportunity to be free from worry about bills, expenses, and care, like Lisa and her family had been, so I came up with the idea for the fundraiser.”

  “Mary and Sharla called you a saint. I think they’re right.”