Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (surface ebook reader TXT) 📗

At my elbow, a waiter asked, “Wine, ma’am?” I nodded and he filled my glass. My kids know how I hate being called ‘ma’am.’ David grinned at me from across the table, and I saw a tiny movement of the tablecloth that made me think Elaine poked him.

The meal was served, chicken marsala with rice and veggies. Not the best, but at least it was hot. Papa asked Kevin what he did for a living, and was suitably impressed to find out that his PT work involved a lot of the families in the room. Score points for our side. Emma and Elaine began a side conversation about school starting and how glad they’d be to have a moment’s peace at home. I smiled, remembering Emma as a little girl, whining at me through the last weeks of summer—“I’m bored.” Emma and John have little Angela, now eight and the apple of my eye. David and Elaine have ten-year-old twin boys, Patrick (the Anglicized form of Pasquale, for my dad) and Donald (for Elaine’s dad). Those two are holy terrors. What one doesn’t come up with, the other one does. It’s only fair, though, since David ran me ragged all through high school. The parents’ curse, that you should have a child just like yourself, certainly came back to haunt him.

As we chatted about the start of school and shopping for school clothes, shoes and supplies, I caught Kevin watching me. “My grandkids,” I said, defiant.

“I figured,” he replied. Then he leaned over to reach the basket of rolls, put his lips to my ear, and whispered, “Did you get married at fifteen?”

“Bless you,” was all I could say. After all, at thirty-eight, he was closer to my kids’ age than to mine.

As coffee and dessert were served, the lights dimmed and the speeches began. First, a nationally-produced film on the work of the Muscular Dystrophy Association, with stories guaranteed to evoke a tear. Then a speaker from the local chapter, who spoke of the higher prevalence of the disease as one moves away from the equator, and among women, and among those aged twenty to fifty. Of the difficulty in diagnosing. Of the limited treatment options. And lastly, the stories of families living with the disease and not only surviving, but thriving in love. I dabbed surreptitiously at my eyes, careful not to smear my mascara. I didn’t want to look like a raccoon when the lights came up.

The band was well-known locally, a staple of the lakefront festivals and clubs. They started out with an old Sinatra tune, “I’ll See You in My Dreams.” Before Kevin had a chance to ask, Papa rose and held out his hand to me. Ever the gentleman, he extracted a clean white linen hanky from his breast pocket and draped it carefully across his right hand so that, as we danced, he wouldn’t contact my bare back. We swung into a slow rhythm. I remembered him dancing with me as a toddler, my stockinged feet perched on the tops of his wing-tips as he moved across the living room floor. I think my mama was still alive then, for I can vaguely hear her laugh, soft and melodious, as she clapped her hands.

“So, Angelina, you like this man?” Papa’s question interrupted my reverie.

“He’s a nice guy, Papa. Yes, I like him.”

“But he’s not the one for you, Angel.” Papa shook his head. “You need a man you can respect, who won’t back down and let you have your way.”

I leaned back slightly and looked Papa in the face. “Kevin and I have had no major disagreements yet. Maybe he won’t back down. And anyway, what’s wrong with a woman getting her way, sometimes?”

He just shook his head.

It’s hard for a woman born in the fifties and raised pre-Friedan to navigate the post-feminist waters. I often feel like I have a foot in both camps and no real place to rest in either one. The Eisenhower-era family standards that I was raised with betrayed me, but I wasn’t able to shake them entirely. Papa knew.

It turned into a pleasant evening, dancing with Kevin and Papa and Fausto, with David and John, with friends and acquaintances. I let myself enjoy and refused to contemplate what might happen later. When Terry headed for the ladies’ room, I grabbed my bag and followed her. In the hallway, I stopped her and asked, “So, Aunt Terry, what’s up with Fausto? Anything you want to tell me? Or ask?”

Emma rounded the corner and joined us.“Yeah, Aunt Terry, you secretive little devil. How come you never told us you were dating?”

She blushed and stammered and finally came out with, “We’ve only been out once before. For a drink.”

Blu, I thought.

“What do you think of him?” she asked.

Emma and I exchanged glances. “Well,” I started, “he seems nice. Polite. Do you like him? That’s what’s important.”

“I honestly don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t been on a date for fifty years. I don’t know how to do this.” Her voice rose and she sounded like she was starting to panic.

I took her hand and patted it, and Emma put an arm around her shoulders. “Just take it slow, Terry. At your own pace. If you feel like seeing him, good. If you don’t, tell him ‘not today.’ He needs to respect your wishes in this matter.” I was sounding like Papa, lecturing me as a teenager. “Have you known him long?”

“His wife, Maria, and I went to school together. He’s a little older. Maria died two years ago, and I think he’s lonely. But honestly, Angie, Emma, I don’t know if I want to change my life like this. I don’t know if I’m up to it.” She looked at me for reassurance.

“Any woman who can run Papa’s house and manage a teenaged rebel like me, and walk with Father Groppi in civil rights marches, and teach literacy and raise money for the retired