Changing Habits Read online

  “They’re beautiful,” Kathleen said.

  He stared down at the photographs. “They miss their mother.”

  “You miss her, too, don’t you?”

  He looked up as if she’d surprised him with the question. “More than words can say.” He replaced the photographs and she noticed that his hand shook slightly.

  Kathleen sprinkled vinegar over her fish.

  “Patty liked vinegar on her fish, too.”

  She wasn’t sure his comment warranted a response.

  “Is there anything you want to know about me?” he asked.

  Picking up a French fry, Kathleen paused. “This isn’t an interview, John. Why don’t we just have dinner and talk?”

  “All right,” he agreed and seemed to relax. “That would be good, except I have to leave in forty minutes. I don’t like to leave the kids at night. Anyway, the neighbor lady said she could only stay until seven-thirty.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “Would you like to meet my kids?”

  “Perhaps later,” Kathleen said. “I think it would be best if you and I got to know each other first. I wouldn’t want the children to get close to me too soon, in case the two of us decided…you know.”

  “That we aren’t compatible.”

  “Right,” she confirmed.

  “Good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Have you dated often since losing Patty?”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re the first.”

  She could’ve guessed that.

  “You like kids, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Very much.”

  “Good,” he said, sounding relieved. “You’re Catholic, right?”

  “John, you’re interviewing me. I’m not applying for any position here.”

  “Right, right. Sorry.”

  “Relax, okay? I’m about the least scary woman you’re likely to meet.”

  He grinned. “I don’t know about that.” He reached for a piece of fish, took a bite and then glanced up at her. “I like you, Kathleen. Thanks for putting me at ease.”

  She helped herself to another French fry. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

  They smiled at each other. John Lopez was a good, decent man, just as her brother had said. And even if it turned out that marriage wasn’t a possibility, friendship was.

  42

  ANGELINA MARCELLO

  Working with her father at Angelina’s, Angie discovered a sense of peace she’d thought was lost to her after Corinne’s death. She woke each morning and, instead of being overwhelmed by the crushing weight of sadness, she felt purpose and fulfillment.

  Until then, she’d never truly understood her father’s devotion to his restaurant. It didn’t take her long to catch his fervor. In serving good food, Antonio Marcello was opening his home and his culture to the country that had welcomed him and his wife. He was a natural host, and sharing his beloved family recipes was his way of expressing his thanks, as well as providing for his family.

  In the mornings, Angie worked with the kitchen crew and the head chef, Mario Deccio. When the restaurant doors opened at 5:30, she played the role of hostess, greeting each guest personally. She remembered people from previous visits and always asked about their health, their families, their businesses. Often she told the story of her parents’ flight to America and recounted her earliest memories of the restaurant. With Angie and her father working side-by-side, the restaurant’s reputation continued to soar.

  In August of 1974, just days after Richard Nixon resigned from the Presidency and Gerald Ford was sworn in as the thirty-eighth president of the United States, Angie found her father sitting in his office intently watching the television news.

  “Dad,” she said, needing to discuss a pressing problem. The truckers were out on strike and the restaurant’s daily deliveries hadn’t been made. Unless they had fresh produce, they’d be unable to open their doors that night.

  Without moving his eyes from the television screen, her father held up his hand to silence her. “In a moment.”

  “But Dad…”

  “Gerald Ford is the new president.”

  “I know.” Angie had never been interested in politics, but these days it was all her father talked about. Again and again he reminded her how crucial it was to be informed about current affairs. He feared that what had happened in Italy in the 30s and 40s could happen in his new country.

  “He is the first president in all of America’s history to become president without a national election,” he said urgently.

  “Yes, Dad, but this is important.”

  “Very important,” he agreed, obviously assuming that she was referring to the political situation. “We must keep a close eye on Gerald Ford.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.” Knowing she wasn’t going to get his full attention, she left the small office, smiling to herself.

  “What did your father say we should do?” Mario asked her, ner-vously fidgeting in the kitchen. “When I spoke to him, he didn’t even seem to be aware that there’s a truckers’ strike going on. The fruit and vegetables are sitting at the warehouse rotting. We have to do something.”

  Angie didn’t have the heart to tell their chef that her father was more concerned about politics than his own restaurant. “He said I should go after the order myself.”

  “He said that?”

  He would have if she’d asked; Angie was convinced of it. “My father has a truck. That’s the practical solution, don’t you think? I’ll drive over and pick up as much as I can haul on my own. If the strike continues, I’ll make the run again.” She didn’t stop to think that she hadn’t driven the old truck in years and while she had a driver’s license, it wasn’t a current one.

  “It’s a hundred-mile round trip!”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  The tension eased from Mario’s face, and the lines between his eyebrows relaxed. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Angelina.”

  “Nonsense.” But she smiled, aglow at his praise.

  Hurrying back into her father’s office, Angie said, “Dad, I need the keys to your truck.”

  “You’re driving the truck?” he asked, looking away from the television long enough to regard her with questioning eyes. “Why?”

  “Because there’s a truck drivers’ strike and if we don’t get our supplies, we won’t be able to open for dinner tonight.”

  “You’re going to drive it all that way by yourself?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You can do this?”

  She nodded impatiently.

  Standing, he slipped his hand into his pocket for the keys. When he placed them in her open palm, his fingers folded around hers and the tears sprang to his eyes. “You came home just in time, Angelina. I always dreamed of this day.” Then, as if he’d embarrassed himself, he reached inside his back hip pocket for his handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. Sitting down again, he returned his attention to the TV.

  Angelina felt a little misty-eyed herself as she walked out the back door. After all these years, her father’s dream of having her work by his side had become a reality. Someday soon—when she’d sufficiently proved her devotion to the restaurant—he would hand over Angelina’s to her. In most ways he already had.

  It took Angie the better part of three hours to pick up their supplies and drive back. The moment she pulled up to the rear entrance, the entire kitchen crew was there to unload the boxes of fresh produce. Getting everything finished before the doors opened that night would be difficult, but Angie knew that if any staff could manage such a feat it would be hers.

  “Where’s my father?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” Mario sounded surprised. “Last time I saw him, he was in his office.”

  For three hours? While the staff rushed about their duties, Angie searched for her father. He wasn’t in the office, which was something of a relief. A lot of people
were interested in what was happening politically, but his interest was becoming an obsession.

  No one answered the phone at the house.

  “Mario,” she said, interrupting the chef. “Where could he be?”

  “I don’t know,” Mario said again, growing a little flustered. “Do you want me to cook or do you want me to look for Antonio?”

  Angie left him to get on with his work and decided to drive around until she found her father. He sometimes went for a walk or played boccie with friends at a nearby park, but those occasions were increasingly rare. His life was the restaurant and his outside interests were few. She sometimes wondered if he had lady friends. He’d been a relatively young man when her mother died, but if there’d been some romantic interest, Angie had never been aware of it.

  When she didn’t find him at any of the usual places, she drove home. Although she was outwardly calm, her fears mounted. This wasn’t like him. Never, ever, had he disappeared without a word.

  Entering the house, she looked around. “Dad!” she called.

  No answer.

  “Dad, where are you?” Oh, dear God, where is he? It was a prayer, as fervent as any she’d ever uttered. She hadn’t prayed much since leaving the convent. Some mornings when the alarm rang, she automatically threw back the covers, got out of bed and went to her knees. Reality would assert itself in a moment or two, and she’d remember that this ritual of prayer was no longer part of her life.

  On Sundays she’d fallen out of the habit of attending Mass. Then a few weeks ago, she’d gone back to the Protestant church she’d visited during the deepest part of her depression. That was where Angie had found peace, so she’d returned there. Not every week, just once or twice so far, but she liked the sermons and the change from the formal rites she’d always known. For some reason, Angie thought Corinne would approve of her seeking other answers.

  Taking the stairs to the second floor, Angie checked in her father’s bedroom. To her shock, she found him lying on the bed sound asleep.

  “Dad, you’ve had me worried to death,” she cried. Napping in the middle of the day was one thing, but refusing to answer the phone was another.

  He didn’t respond. Looking more closely, she saw that he was pressing the photo of her mother, which he usually kept on the nightstand, to his heart.

  Then she knew. Her beloved father was gone.

  Just that morning he’d said Angie had come home just in time.

  She couldn’t possibly have realized how true those words were.

  43

  KATHLEEN O’SHAUGHNESSY

  “Here’s your newspaper, Mrs. Mastel,” Kathleen said, dropping by the widow’s apartment on her way out. It was a bright, sunny August afternoon.

  “Oh, thank you, dear.” The old woman sat in her over-stuffed chair in front of the television, petting her imaginary Seymour. Even after his death the cat gave her comfort. “Are you off to summer school?” she asked.

  “Actually I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”

  “That widower?”

  Mrs. Mastel might be eighty years old, but she had the memory of a woman half her age. The moment she’d learned Kathleen was dating John Lopez, she hadn’t let up with the questions.

  “Not this time. Just a friend.”

  “Male or female?”

  Kathleen laughed. She didn’t really mind her neighbor’s interest, but she needed to leave if she was going to be on time. “Male. He’s a priest, though.”

  “Oh, well, God bless you both.”

  “God already has,” Kathleen said and hurried out before the widow could waylay her with more questions.

  As she walked out of the apartment building, Kathleen hummed a recent hit “Please, Mr. Postman,” which was an appropriate song for seeing Father Doyle. They’d exchanged letters—brief on his part—for the last two years, and talked intermittently over the phone. He was her spiritual advisor and just as importantly, her closest and dearest friend.

  His trip to Seattle had come about unexpectedly, and she was delighted. She hadn’t seen him face-to-face since before she’d left the convent, back in the days when they’d struggled over Father Sanders’s drinking. When Father Doyle had phoned to say he’d be in Seattle for a conference, they made arrangements to meet at a popular coffeehouse near Seattle University.

  Kathleen arrived ten minutes early, just to make sure they had a table. To her surprise, Father Doyle was already there. The minute he saw her, he stood. Kathleen maneuvered her way across the crowded space and held out both hands to him. He looked exactly the same—as though time had stood still. She noticed that he wasn’t wearing his Roman collar, though, which surprised her; he was dressed casually in jeans and a dark sweater.

  The priest’s face broke into a wide smile when he recognized her, and while he looked no different, Kathleen knew she did.

  “Hello, Father.”

  “Kathleen,” he said, his eyes glowing with warmth as he smiled, studying her after a long hug. “You look wonderful!”

  She flushed with his praise. Outwardly she’d changed, and inwardly too. The woman he’d known as a nun had been unsure of herself. But two years out of the convent, Kathleen had learned some valuable lessons. She now moved freely and confidently in the world she’d once feared.

  “How are you?” she asked, wanting to hear about him for a change. It seemed so many of their conversations centered on what was happening to her.

  “I’m doing well,” he said. “And you?”

  The waitress came just then, before Kathleen could question his answer. She sensed that his conventional response was far from accurate.

  “What would you like?” Father Doyle asked.

  Kathleen closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of freshly brewed coffee. It was little things like this that she loved about her life now—sitting with friends and spending time with them, eating in front of them and talking openly. “I’ll have a cappuccino,” she told the waitress.

  “I will, too,” Father Doyle said.

  The woman left, and Kathleen leaned across the table, eager to return to their conversation. She wasn’t about to let him sidetrack her, either, as he did all too often. “We’ve been friends too long for you to fool me, Brian Doyle. What’s wrong?”

  Her honesty appeared to surprise him. Before her eyes, he closed up, sitting back and crossing his arms. He might as well have raised a sign that said Keep Out. “Nothing. Can’t we just have a pleasant conversation after I came all this way?”

  “And here you are. So friend to friend, tell me what’s wrong.”

  His refusal to confide in her was upsetting. Hurtful. Particularly because, over the last two years, she’d confided in him frequently. He was the only person who knew about Pete. He’d advised her, counseled her and supported her in making her own decisions dozens of times. She loved him for being her priest and her friend.

  “You can’t tell me?” she asked, frowning.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s…personal,” he murmured an uncomfortable moment later.

  “Okay,” she said, struggling to disguise her disappointment. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “This widower you’re dating…”

  “Yes. John.” They’d discussed the relationship countless times. This was old news.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, I guess.” She couldn’t understand why he’d asked her about this, of all things. “John’s a very nice man.”

  “You haven’t mentioned him in a while. I was just wondering.”

  Kathleen was doing some wondering of her own. Had she been wrong in her assumptions about Father Doyle? Apparently they weren’t the kind of friends she’d thought they were. Not if he couldn’t share his deepest concerns, yet expected Kathleen to confide hers.

  “Are you going to marry him?” Father Doyle asked.

  John hadn’t asked Kathleen to be his wife but she realized he was thinking along those
lines and frankly so was she. “I don’t know. Probably.” Their relationship seemed to be headed in that direction. It wasn’t a passionate romance; mostly they were friends. They were emotionally compatible and the children loved Kathleen. It was more for their sake that John was interested in her, and in all honesty, Kathleen in him.

  “Do I sense hesitation?” Father Doyle murmured.

  She watched the waitress set their coffees down before she glanced at Father Doyle. He seemed to be waiting for her answer. But for the first time, she didn’t feel comfortable sharing her life with him.

  “I don’t know,” she said again. She got along well with John. At almost thirty, she was eager to start a family. After her one unfortunate experience, dating terrified her, but John was comfortable and safe and he seemed genuinely fond of her. Women had married for less.

  “How’s Minneapolis?” she asked, thinking that would distract him. It was her way of letting him know that certain parts of her life were closed off to him, too.

  “The same as always. Oh, before I forget, I brought you some wild rice,” he said. Leaning down, he reached for a small bag on the floor by his chair.

  “Thank you.” She sipped her cappuccino. Father Doyle had always been thoughtful.

  They talked for a little longer. The discussion revolved around her and her teaching position and her family, but there was nothing more about her future. Not once did Father Doyle mention his parish or anything other than the most mundane facts about his life. After twenty minutes, they’d run out of things to say.

  “I guess I’d better go,” she said. All these years she’d considered Father Doyle someone special in her life, but the relationship obviously hadn’t been reciprocal. Disheartened, she stood, collecting her purse and the small bag of wild rice. “It was good to see you,” she said formally. “Thank you for keeping in touch. Goodbye, Father Doyle.”

  He stood, too.

  Making her way out of the coffeehouse, Kathleen felt weighed down by disappointment. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from this meeting, what she’d hoped for—but not this awkward, almost painful exchange. She’d made a mistake, assumed things about their relationship that weren’t true.