Echoes (9 page)
They were called in, and he watched with Sofie as the baby was weighed and measured, ears, eyes, and reflexes checked. When the doctor ran his finger inside the baby's mouth, Matt said, "Anything wrong with the palate?"
"Bones and tissues are where they need to be. Why?"
"There was some concern of a cleft."
He felt again. "Formation's normal. Hint of a microform here on the lip. That's where the tissues come together just enough but leave this line. This one's fairly insubstantial."
"Any possibility it closed after birth?"
He frowned. "No. The development is early on—six to eight weeks gestation, when the tissues of the head and cheeks join. I'll note this microform, but I'm not concerned."
"So in your opinion, there was no cleft palate at birth."
"If there had been, it would be here still. They don't close on their own."
He didn't look at Sofie. His questions were part of the job, but if she was caught up in the miracle thing, she might not take his persistence kindly.
When the exam was finished, they bundled the baby, and Sofie carried him out to the car under overcast skies. The nip in the air made Matt glad he'd worn the T-shirt as well as an undershirt beneath his chambray shirt. After Boston, though, he would never feel cold anywhere else.
As they settled in to drive back, Sofie said, "You think we're making it up?"
"I just wanted a medical opinion."
"To support your doubt."
"It's a little over the top." He glanced back. "I know he's your brother—"
"I understand your skepticism. What you deal with every day tarnishes the possibility of miracles."
He couldn't have put it better himself. Life was not a magic act. And he didn't get how someone of Sofie's intelligence had bought in. Obviously a lot of things he didn't know. "Has he worked others?"
"He brought Nonna back to life."
He jerked his head around. "What?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"Not really."
"And therefore you don't believe in miracles. But Lance has an intense faith."
"So he's a prophet or something?"
The smile reached her eyes. "He'd say he's a screw-up."
She was baiting him. He turned the wheel and accelerated through the intersection. "So which is he? Saint or sinner?"
"Both."
"You lost me."
"My brother's failings work in him like yeast, imbuing his thoughts and actions with compassion and decency and a deep desire to bring glory to God. Supposing there is a God, if He wanted to heal, He'd find Lance's hands and heart ready."
Matt parked outside the house but couldn't resist one more question. "What did you mean, he raised your grandmother from the dead?"
Sofie unbuckled and for the next ten minutes told him a story he found hard to swallow—a generational feud, hit men, escapes, and secrets uncovered. The asceticism her brother had practiced in preparation for ending the family's "curse" explained his gaunt condition. And he'd been right about the grandmother's stroke. Her resurrection was actually a recovery, unexpected and surprisingly complete, but not supernatural. Sofie had intended to provoke him.
He shook his head. "I can't say I buy it."
"You don't have to."
"It can all be explained in human terms. Most things people attribute to God can."
She merely smiled.
The whole thing was bizarre, but he'd heard nothing that raised a flag against the baby's remaining with them. Michelli might have a messiah complex, but he seemed to direct it in humanitarian ways. And Sofie showed a tender care toward the infant that he didn't always find in foster situations.
"I need at least one primary caregiver to attend a foster-parenting class. It addresses the challenges in caring for someone else's child." Did he imagine the shadow that passed over her face? "Here's the schedule." He handed her the folded paper from the dashboard, noted the scars again, and wished instead of Lance's story he'd gotten hers.
"Is that all?" Her voice had thickened.
No. Tell me what happened
. "Yeah. For now."
She climbed out and expertly removed the baby from the car seat. He watched her all the way to the house, her bearing poised and graceful, all hint of damage erased.
C
arly came around the corner from the bus stop and saw Drew hunched down on the curb of his driveway. As she got close, she noted the red patches around his eyes. He hadn't been in school, but that wasn't unusual since he got sick a lot. Except if he was sick he wouldn't be outside, would he? In the cold?
She sat down on the curb beside him. "What's wrong?"
He sniffed but didn't answer.
"Drew?"
He slowly turned his head. "Someone poisoned my dog."
She gasped. "No." Drew's wiry little dog was hilariously homely and highly energized, and it could be annoying, but who would ever hurt it? "Is he okay?"
"He's dead."
Her breath made a slow escape. Tears stung her eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
Drew nodded, accepting the condolence but not really consoled.
She knew how he felt. "My kitten got distemper." Or that's what Daddy had said when she came home and found it gone. "The vet couldn't save it." She had no reason to doubt, and no reason to think Drew's dog had anything to do with her using his name to explain herself to Daddy. It was a stupid thought, a wrong thought. Daddy would never hurt something.
But when she went home and told him, he had that pointed look, the one that said, there's a lesson here. "It probably messed around in someone's stuff. Wouldn't mind its own business. That's dangerous, Carly. But animals aren't smart enough to see that."
She swallowed the baseball-sized lump in her throat, knowing he just wanted her to get the point. The other thoughts were crazy.
"Come here," he said. "I've got something for you." He reached into his desk drawer and took out a shiny pink cell phone. "Your very own." He held it out.
"Really?"
He nodded. "I got to thinking you'd be safer with a way to reach me all the time."
A way for him to reach
her
all the time. But maybe she could get Sofie's number from his phone. Then she wouldn't have to worry about getting caught. She could hear Sofie's voice anytime she needed to. She might even talk to her. Why not?
She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thanks, Daddy." She'd been so wrong. If he wasn't mad about the phone, why would he hurt Drew's dog?
————
As Star poured water over the ice in the last two glasses, Lance set the steaming tray of lasagna on the table. Rese's comfort food. The dish that had broken through her indifference and forced a response when the last thing she'd wanted was to care about him or anything he did.
They'd come a long way since then, but it had been a bumpy road—with ruts, potholes, construction zones. He was repairing bridges he'd blown sky-high, but in the meantime, she'd found a few side roads that seemed to work just fine. The main one being Brad.
Wearing a white T-shirt and khaki construction vest, the man now sat opposite Rese. Her partner. Her dad's confidant. The one she spent the bulk of her day with. Now, the only night she'd come home for dinner, she'd brought Brad home as a buffer.
Lance sat down and bowed his head, blocking dark thoughts as Nonna raised her thready voice in blessing. "O God, every day you give us br . . . ead, wine, and oil, satisfying us with your generosity. Bless our being together at this table and give us gr . . . atitude toward you and toward all of creation."
A beautiful sentiment. After the soul-searching he'd done, the forgiveness he'd accomplished, he should be able to manage civility. What would it take to completely purge himself of wrong thoughts?
Star passed the endive, arugula, and hearts of palm salad, then the crusty, warm-from-the-oven peasant bread. Lance scooped chunks of pasta, oozing sauce and cheese and spicy sliced sausage, onto the passed plates.
Elaine eyed her serving with covetous glee. "Royal jelly."
Star giggled. "No drones here."
Brad dug in with gusto, but it was Rese's response Lance wanted to see. The first times he'd cooked for her, she'd eaten like an automaton. He'd had to teach her to savor—until he'd made Nonna's special recipe lasagna. Then something inside her had awakened, and he ached to see it again, to know she valued his skill just as she valued Brad's and her own.
Fork poised, Rese announced, "We won the bid."
"What bid?" Star drew it out, while the forkful hung there untouched.
"A turn-of-the-century hotel on Nob Hill."
"A whole hotel?" Star looked from her to Brad.
"It's only fourteen guest rooms, but the lobby's a piece of work." He dug his fork in again.
"It's an architectural gem, except for the staircase," Rese added.
"Which we're replacing." Brad tore off a hunk of bread. "Since a certain scale model had the owners falling over themselves."
Lance stopped waiting for Rese to take her bite. Foolish to think he could work the same magic twice, even though he and Nonna had customers in the Bronx who'd come for dinner every week for years and ordered the same meal each time and raved as though it were the first.
Rese might appreciate the food, but her mind and heart were elsewhere. He had thought nothing could be worse than losing Tony in one shocking instant, but losing Rese day by day, growing apart as she shared her enthusiasm with Brad and came home weary and spent, was taking more from him than he had.
There were moments, as when she'd met him in the garden and taken his hand, when she'd held the baby, then looked into his face, that he'd sensed a connection. But it was probably no more than peacemaking. He needed to surrender his expectations. God had not promised him a life with Rese, not the way he wanted it, with the passion that had crackled between them and the love he felt so keenly returned in kind. God had only promised to be sufficient.
Okay, then
. His heart ached. Every swallow fought him.
Lord
. He bit into the bread, chewed slowly as Rese described an architectural element of their new restoration project.
Restoration. He forced the bread down his throat. He could tell Rese he loved her every day for the rest of her life, but she'd seen him walk away. After a mother who'd tried to kill her and a dad who'd lied about it, with her fears of schizophrenia and feelings of rejection, no wonder she'd rather fix buildings 24-7 than attempt to restore a damaged relationship.
He sipped the wine he'd paired with the entrèe. What was he supposed to do? Stop trying? Stop wanting? He closed his eyes.
Lord
. The connection was tight and immediate, the holy presence of God.
"Lance. Lance?"
He opened his eyes and found the faces around the table fixed on him. "What?"
Rese frowned. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." He got up and carried the bread basket to the kitchen for a refill but set it on the counter and walked out the door instead.
Rese followed. "Lance, tell me what's happening."
"What are you talking about?"
"Are you sick?"
"I don't think so." He turned. "What did I do?"
"You whispered 'Lord,' then closed your eyes and zoned out."
Great. Was the thought enough to carry him away? "I can't explain it, Rese. I get . . . caught up."
"When you're not even trying?"
"Apparently."
"I thought I'd be the one losing it."
He sighed. "Neither of us is losing it. I just . . ."
"What?"
He drew a slow breath. "I don't want to be in your way, Rese. I don't want you working long hours to avoid coming home."
Her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"If you and Brad have something going—"
"Me and Brad?" Her hands clamped her hips.
"I thought—"
"No you didn't." She came up nose to nose with him. "If you thought, instead of letting yourself get carried away by your emotions, you'd realize Brad is my business partner. I work long hours because . . . that's what I do. Unlike you, he is perfectly able to keep a professional distance, and besides, he's in love with his wife."
"His wife?"
"Ex . . . wife."
His jaw fell slack. "Then you asked him to dinner . . ."
"To celebrate our success. In case you didn't notice, I'm excited about this project."
"I noticed. But I thought the excitement was . . ."
"Brad?" Her hands clenched. "Lance Michelli—"
He grabbed her fists. "Why won't you tell me you love me?"
"I did." Her jaw tightened.
"You know how long ago that was?"
"You know whose fault that is?"
He groaned. "You think I don't?"
"Lance. You know how I feel, but it's . . . I'm . . ."
"Marry me."
"What?"
He drew her calloused hands to his chest, kissed her knuckles. "Marry me, Rese."
"Lance, be serious."
"I'm dead serious." This was the third time he'd asked. If she said no, he'd have his answer. He wouldn't test the Spirit again.
Tears welled in her eyes.
He cupped her face and kissed her.
"Ti amo."
She sniffed. "I love you too."
"Then marry me."
"You know what could happen. I might be like Mom."
He held her teary gaze. "For better or worse—no matter what."
"And even if I'm not," she said, her voice tightening, "I'll still be taking care of her."
"Say yes." What would he do if she didn't? But he felt the grip of God.
She drew a jagged breath. "Okay."
Joy anointed him from his scalp to his toes, a warm seeping happiness. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He brought his mouth to hers, sealing the promise, transmitting his joy, his desire and passion. He tossed back his head and sang, "'When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that's amore.' "
She rolled her eyes. "Lance."
"'When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's amore.' " He'd teased her before with that song, but he wasn't teasing now. She'd said yes! He captured her hands, brought them to his chest. "I only ask one thing."
