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

room, glass of wine in hand, kibitzing. I slung my jacket and purse over a stool, kissed Papa on the cheek, and addressed the room in general. “Hi, everyone. Anything I can help with?”

Terry cast a sidelong look in my direction, and Papa snorted.

“What?” I asked.

“Ma,” said David, “Nonno isn’t too happy about the headlines.” David knows that I hate to be called “Ma.” He raised one eyebrow, lifted his glass of wine in a toast, and walked out of the room, leaving me to face the music.

Papa stopped chopping and turned to me, wiping his hands on his white chef’s apron. “Angelina, I’m a grown man and the newspapers can say what they like about me. I’ve dealt with it before. But no man wants to see his daughter’s name and picture spread across the front page like that.”

I knew I was in trouble when my full first name surfaced. If I heard ‘Angelina Sofia,’ then I was in deep disgrace. “Papa, I’m sorry that it happened, but it was out of my control.”

He shook his head. “Why do you want to do this work? You have a good degree, be a librarian, for God’s sake. That’s a proper job for a woman.” He turned his back to me and resumed chopping, with increased vigor. “Ever since you broke up with that faccia di stronzo, you’ve been acting like a crazy woman. You don’t go to Mass, you date men as young as your son, you…you…investigate!” He spat the word out. “What kind of work is that for a good woman? What kind of life? Is that how I raised you, Angelina?” He slammed the knife down on the cutting board and turned back to me.

Terry started to speak, to intervene, but I stopped her with a raised hand. I took a deep breath, angry at the personal attack and unwilling to debate about woman’s work with Papa. I decided to respond to the spirit of his words, rather than the words themselves. “Papa, I know you’re worried about me and you want the best for me. But you raised me to be a woman who would follow her own path. To think for myself. To question and judge. You raised me to care about people. That’s what I do, Papa. That’s why I can’t be a librarian, there’s no heart in that work for me anymore.” I walked over to him and put my hands on his shoulders. Looking up into his eyes, I continued. “I spent the first half of my life pleasing others, Papa. Most of the time, it made me happy, too. I’m glad I got the chance to raise a family and be a wife. I don’t regret it. But now, I need to find out who I am without those others to define me.” I squeezed his shoulders lightly. “Maybe that will include Kevin, maybe not. I just don’t know yet. Give me time, Papa.”

Behind his back, Terry gave me the thumbs-up. Papa scowled and turned to the stove, muttering under his breath. Then he turned back to me and gave me a grudging embrace. I knew I’d smell like onions and garlic all day, but I didn’t mind. “Angel,” he whispered, “it’s more important to be happy than to be strong or independent or right. I found that out just in time, when I married your mama. Don’t wait too long to be happy. I want to see you happy.”

“I know, Papa.”

As I stepped back, Aunt Terry piped up. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve been to Mass yourself, Pasquale. I wouldn’t mind a little company from either of you.”

Papa and I looked at each other, co-conspirators in the effort to avoid the dreaded nun’s pew where Terry invariably sat during Mass. I poured myself a glass of wine, escaped into the living room and sank onto the couch. Little Angela curled up by my side. “Nonna, is Bisnonno mad at you?” Her dark curly hair and big brown eyes dominated her heart-shaped face. Someday, I thought, she’ll be a boy magnet. I sighed, wishing that day would never come, and suddenly understood Papa’s feelings a little better.

Setting my glass of wine on the coffee table, I put an arm around Angela and smiled down at her. “Not exactly mad, sweetie. He’s just a little worried because your nonna is working on something that concerns him.”

“Is it grown-up stuff, or can you tell me about it?”

Her serious face brought me down to earth. What were the odds that someone at her school would know about the headlines and tease her? I hoped small, but I decided I’d better explain to all the grandkids, just in case. First, though, I sought permission from my kids and their spouses. They all agreed, with reservations, so we trooped back into the living room together.

“Angela,” I said, “please go ask your cousins to stop their video game for a minute, and come out here. I need to talk to all of you.” She walked purposefully into the den, where the boys were engaged in a competitive game of Mario Brothers. David and Elaine don’t allow them to play the violent games. I heard their protest, and Angela’s “Now, boys!” in a very motherly tone. I smiled as they all assembled in the living room and sat on the big leather couch, a row of expectant small faces waiting for Nonna to speak. The Sunday paper was lying on the coffee table in a heap. I picked through it until I found the front page and turned it to the three children’s faces before me. “Angela, Patrick, Donald,” I said, to get their attention. “Take a look at the pictures in the paper today.” It felt almost like storytime at the library.

“Nonna, that’s you,” Donny exclaimed.

“Right, that’s me.” I pointed to Papa’s picture. “And that’s Bisnonno, great-grandpa, when he was a little younger.”

“Wow,” said Patrick. “Are you famous?”

“Well, not exactly. See, Nonna’s working on an investigation