Chapter Nine

Francis walked slowly along the cracked stone path that led to the Fiorellis’ modest white home. He couldn’t help noticing the weeds and grass that furred the walkway and crept stubbornly through the autumn flowers.

Last summer this garden had been elegant and tended; now it ran wild, the rosebushes clinging to their dead and dying blossoms, the ground stained with multicolored petals, their edges curled and brown and split.

He reached the front door and paused. A small overhang blocked the midday sun from his eyes and cast him in the welcoming cool of shadow. In a niche on the right side of the door stood an old, weathered statue of Christ, His mildew-stained palms outstretched in greeting.

For a second, Francis was reluctant to go in. He felt the statue’s painted eyes on him, silently condemning his cowardice. The Fiorellis had been friends for as long as he could remember. Back when he and Angel were kids, they had played in this yard, thrown a thousand baseballs back and forth with the Fiorellis’ grandsons.

But those days were gone, and he was back for another reason. He took a long, last breath of the rose-scented air and finally knocked.

There was a rustle of sound from within, and then the plain white door swung open, revealing a thin, stoop-shouldered old man in the entryway. His creased face split in a wide, toothy grin. “Hello, Father Francis. Come in, come in.” The old man stepped aside.

Francis plunged into the cool, dark interior. The first thing he noticed was the smell—the vague, musty scent of a house in disrepair, a house in which the roof needed tending as badly as the rose garden. The tiny entry gave way immediately to a small, oval front room, defined on three sides by once-elegant plaster arches. Dozens of family pictures hung, cockeyed and dusty, from sagging nails, school photographs of children who now had children of their own. An old RCA television was tucked in the corner, its sound a dull, muted hush in the otherwise silent room.

Just last year, a beautiful Victorian settee and table had graced this room; they were gone now. In their place a hospital bed stood stark and threatening in the tiny space. A wheelchair huddled in the corner, waiting for use.

Ah, but even the time for that had passed.

Francis felt it again, the reluctance to intrude on their grief. “Hello.” It was all he could say past the lump in his throat

The old man looked up, his face pinched and pale. For a split second Francis remembered the man who’d once lived behind those dark eyes. He used to laugh all the time, even had difficulty keeping a smile off his face when he took Communion. And he’d always had a joke for Francis in the confessional, a “sin” that could be counted on to cause a young priest to grin behind the safety of the wooden shield. Bless me, Father, for I put tuna in the chicken salad.

“Can I get you something to drink, Father?” Mr. Fiorelli asked in a respectful voice. No smile now.

Francis shook his head, pressing a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, noticing how rail-thin he’d become. “No, thanks, Edward. How is she today?”

Edward looked up again, and in the pale light his face seemed to cave in on itself, collapse in a morass of folds. “Not good.”

Francis came up to the side of the bed and sat down on the creaky wooden stool, scooting close. His knees hit the metal frame with a dull clang.

The woman in the bed, Ilya Fiorelli, blinked slowly awake. At the sight of him, she smiled. “Father Francis.”

Edward moved to the other side of the bed and sat down, curling his age-spotted, big-knuckled hand around his wife’s.

“I knew you would come today,” she whispered, starting to say more, but then a rattling, phlegmy cough shuddered through her chest.

Francis stared down at the pale, withered old woman. Her white hair, brushed and combed to salon perfection, curled against the grayed pillow like wisps of goose down. He took hold of her other hand, so slim and fragile, and squeezed gently.

Dull, watery blue eyes blinked at him, the corners tucked into folds of wrinkled flesh. Even now, in the last, pain-riddled days of her life, she exuded a calm gentleness that touched his heart.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

She spoke so softly, he had to lean forward to hear the words.

“It has been two weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of—”

Francis squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump that lodged like old dust in his throat. When was the last time you truly sinned, Ilya? When?

How could a benevolent God heap such misery on a woman like this? A loving, caring woman who’d never harmed a soul. All her life she’d helped people, and now here she lay, cancer eating through her bones, hopelessness spreading like a virus through her blood.

And what of Edward, her husband of fifty-seven years? What would he do after her death, how would he go on in this home that she had created for them?

“Edward,” she said softly, “get Father Francis a cup of tea.”

Edward let go of his wife’s hand and left the bedside, disappearing into the kitchen.

She waited for the quiet click of the kitchen door before she spoke. “Father …” She paused, drew in a deep, shaking breath, her hand curling within his grasp into a tight fist. “I am afraid for him, Father. The look in his eyes lately … He isn’t ready for me to die.”

Francis touched her face, gently stroked the velvety wrinkles. “I’ll help him, Ilya. I’ll be here for him.”

“I can’t stay much longer. The pain …” Tears slid down her temples. She squeezed his hand. “Take care of him, Father. Please …”

Francis brushed the moist trail from her skin and tried to smile. “God will watch out for Edward, and He is infinitely more capable than I. God always has a—”

Plan.

He couldn’t finish. He’d said the same thing a million times, but now he couldn’t speak. He needed to say something that mattered, something that would ease this gentle woman’s pain, and there was nothing. Nothing.

“Of course He has a plan,” she whispered, making it painfully easy on him. “It’s just … my Edward …”

Tears blurred Francis’s vision. He tried to think of something meaningful to say, but in the end, he found nothing, so he lapsed into the ordinary, the rote, absolving her of her sins—although he knew there were none, not really—and blessing her soul for the thousandth time.

“Thank you, Father.”

He stared into Ilya’s blue eyes, seeing the sharpness of life in all its wondrous, pain-filled beauty reflected in her gaze. He saw all the things he’d denied himself, all the roads he hadn’t taken. And suddenly he was thinking things he shouldn’t.…

For thirty-five years Francis had slept alone, crawled into his narrow wooden bed on sheets that smelled of his own aftershave. Just once, he wanted to sleep on pillows that smelled of perfume.

It used to be enough to watch the world go by, loving other people’s children, talking to other men’s wives. But now, sitting here beside Mrs. Fiorelli, holding her withered hand, he knew how much he’d given up. He could baptize a million children, and not one of them would ever call him daddy.

He’d been a bystander to life. He still loved God, but sometimes, in the middle of a cold, dark night, he positively ached for human contact. For Madelaine. A hundred times in the past few years, he’d hauled himself out of bed, kneeled on the hard floor, and prayed for guidance and strength.

Courage. That’s what he needed, for Mrs. Fiorelli right now, and for himself. It was what he’d needed all his life and never really had. Angel had gotten all the courage in their family, and Francis had gotten all the faith.

If he’d had courage, just a little bit of it a long time ago, maybe he would have made different choices, taken a different turn.

But he’d taken the easy road many years ago. Back when Madelaine was pregnant and alone, Francis had offered to marry her. Only, he hadn’t wanted to marry her, not really, and she’d known that, just as she’d always known everything about him. She knew that his love for God was the defining passion of his life and always would be.

No, Francis, she’d said quietly, crying. Be my best friend, be my baby’s best friend. Please …

And they’d never spoken of it again.

There were so many things they’d never spoken of.…

He closed his eyes and prayed aloud, as much for himself as for Ilya. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.” The words spilled through his mind like water from a bucket, one after another, soothing, cleansing, and he lost himself in them.

Ilya’s voice joined his. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. Amen.”

The forgiveness of sins.

The shame came back, left Francis no place to hide. He should have encouraged Madelaine to tell Lina the truth about her father, or he should have told Lina the truth.

He knew there could be no true forgiveness until he made things right.

“Father?” Mrs. Fiorelli’s voice jerked him back to the present.

He shook the thoughts away and smiled down at the old woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fiorelli.”

“You looked sad for a second, Father,” Ilya said. “What could a handsome young priest like yourself have to be sad about?”

He should lie to her, should don the mantle of distant perfection that was required of him, but he had no stomach for it. “Regrets, maybe,” he answered quietly.

She reached out a withered, shaking hand and touched his chin in a flitting gesture of affection. “Take it from me, Father. Life is over quickly, and you only regret what you didn’t do.”

“Sometimes it’s too late.”

“Never,” she breathed. “It’s never too late.”

Angel lay in his uncomfortable hospital bed, staring up at the acoustical tile ceiling.

God, he felt bad. Worse than bad. He hurt almost everywhere, and in the few places he didn’t hurt, he was weak. Breathing had become a painful, unsatisfying chore. His fingers had started to turn cold. At first he’d thought it was nothing, then his toes had become blue.

Diminishing blood circulation.

Those were the words the nurses used, but Angel could hear past the words to the meaning. It was ending. His life was leaking away. Even yesterday he’d been ready to fight for it, but today he was too tired.

He wondered what he had to live for, and even as he had the thought it pissed him off. He’d lived a life that left no real mark, had no real meaning. He saw that now, saw it with a clarity he should have possessed all along.

Yesterday he’d been visited by the man in the room next door. Tom Grant.

“It’s damned terrifying,” Tom had said. Just like that, he’d thrown the, fear and uncertainty on the bed between them, as if it were nothing to be ashamed of, as if a man didn’t have to be strong.

Angel had been his asshole self at first. He hadn’t wanted to see himself reflected in Tom Grant’s eyes, hadn’t wanted to admit he was as sick as Tom. “Ah,” he’d said meanly, “so you’re the heart transplant patient twice removed.”

Tom had laughed, weakly.

It was the laughter that defused Angel’s anger, and the honesty that pierced his armor.

“The worst part,” Tom said, “is waiting for a donor. It makes you feel ghoulish and sick and perverted. And damned.”

Angel had finally looked at the man, his puffy, medicated face, his flimsy hospital gown that covered a multitude of bloody, oozing, intubated atrocities, his tired, tired eyes, and felt as if he were looking into the future.

To his horror, Angel found himself starting to cry. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so humiliated. “Christ,” he muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“I’ve cried more tears than a baby. Don’t worry about it.” Tom leaned close. “You gotta focus on how much better you’re going to feel when it’s over. I know it’s scary to think about, but once it’s over, it’s like … a gift.”

Angel sighed, wishing he could have such simple faith. “It isn’t going to happen for me, man. God isn’t going to give me another chance.” He forced a cocky smile. “I can’t even blame the Old Man. I’ve been pretty much of an asshole.”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Tom said. “Don’t make this about morality or goodness or redemption. It’s about medicine. Pure and simple. Good people are murdered as often as bad people. And everyone deserves a second chance.”

Angel wanted to believe it, but it was too late in life to change that radically. He was selfish and reactionary. He had the devil’s own temper and he always had. And becoming famous had made it even worse.

He’d accepted the truth about himself a long time ago—he sure as hell wasn’t going to change now. What was the point?

He was dying. He understood that now, and after Tom left, Angel had lain there, waiting for his next breath, and the next, and the next, waiting for each feeble beat of his heart. A surge of loneliness had come over him then, settling deep and heavy in his ragged heart. He’d wanted someone—anyone—to sit with him, hold his hand, and tell him it was all right.

He’s not like you, Angel. He hurts easily.

Her words had come back to him, stinging his conscience. He’d only ever loved two people in his life—Francis and Madelaine—and he’d hurt both of them.

The crazy part was, he’d never really meant to, never wanted to, at least. Suddenly he was thinking of the past, of the times his big brother—no more than eight years old himself—had hidden Angel from their drunken mother, the times Francis had tried futilely to turn her wrath on himself instead … times they’d sat in that old weedy lot beside the trailer park and spun their shaky dreams together.

How had he forgotten all that—how had he walked away from it?

Slowly he reached out and picked up the phone, dialing the number Madelaine had left him. An answering machine picked up on the third ring.

Angel left a message and hung up.

Angel was more than half asleep when he heard his door open. Quiet footsteps moved into the room.

Ah, he thought with relief, Attila the Nurse with his fix.

He opened his eyes and saw a tall man standing in the door. He had wheat-blond hair and pale skin and blue eyes, and he was wearing a gray UW sweatshirt and faded Levi’s. For a second, Angel had no idea who it was, then he realized.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Is that you, Franco?”

“Hi, Angel.” It was the same voice after all these years.

Angel’s first emotion was pure elation, a quick Thank God that someone cared, that someone had come. Then he thought of Madelaine, of Francis and Madelaine together, and jealousy started, sudden as a dart, piercing through the joy, ripping a little piece of it away. Then there was guilt, acrid and sour, the memories of Angel’s betrayal and Francis’s hurt. He forced a cocky grin. “It’s good to see you, bro. Glad you had time to stop by.”

Francis flinched. Angel immediately felt like a jerk. But wasn’t that always the way of it? Why couldn’t he ever do or say the right thing around Francis?

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” Angel said at last. “I had another heart attack in Oregon and they flew me up here.”

“Another one?”

He shrugged. “Technically it’s an ‘episode of heart failure,’ but it sure as hell feels like an attack.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m always okay—you should know that.” He faked a smile. “They’ll pump me full of drugs and send me home. Nothing to it.”

Francis pulled out a chair and sat down. He looked older than his thirty-five years, and there was a sadness in his blue eyes that made Angel uncomfortable. Francis had always been such an optimist.

“How’ve you been, Franco?”

Francis didn’t smile. “That’s a hell of a question after all these years. What am I supposed to say, Angel? ‘I’ve been fine. How about yourself?’ ”

Again Angel had said the wrong thing. He wanted to save this moment, make something of it, but he didn’t know how. He and Franco had been fighting for all their lives—at least, Angel had been fighting with Francis, and Francis had taken it. He didn’t know how to stop the cycle, how to break out of the mold and say, Let’s start over.

“Have you seen her?” Francis asked.

No coyness there, not from Franco. No beating around the bush about who she was. Angel felt a sudden, undeniable friction settle into the room. “Yeah, I’ve seen her.”

“And?”

Angel studied his brother, noticing that he was still blond and still had the lean body of a long-distance runner. Yeah, he was the same old Francis, nearly perfect in every way—good-looking and decent and moral. The kind of man a woman would feel safe with, loved by. The ideal guy to step in and mend a sixteen-year-old girl’s broken heart.

The thought made Angel mad.

“Well?” Francis said.

“What do you want to know, Franco? Did I screw her? No, I didn’t. It’s a little tough hooked up to a heart monitor.”

He saw the distaste in his brother’s eyes, the disappointment. Francis sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I know you didn’t … sleep with her. That’s not what I was asking.”

Angel felt like an insect before his brother’s penetrating gaze. And the worst of it was, Angel knew it was all in his own mind, knew that Francis felt none of this tension, none of this childish competition. But, as always, Francis brought out the worst in Angel.

“Are you screwing her?” Angel asked, sickened and shamed by his own question, but unable to hold it back.

Francis eyed him, saying nothing for a long time. Each second of silence felt like an hour. “I’m a priest,” Francis said finally.

Angel felt a rush of relief, then a surprising pride. He remembered all the times he had sat on the front stoop with his big brother, listening to ten-year-old Francis’s dreams of becoming a priest. “You did it, huh? Good for you.”

“All in all, it’s been good. It made Ma think God would overlook everything about her.”

Angel found himself smiling. For a second, it felt as if they were kids again. “If she made it to Heaven, you’ve been screwed.”

Francis laughed. “That’s for sure.”

“What’s it like, being a priest?”

“Good. A little … lonely sometimes.”

Angel saw unhappiness in his brother’s blue eyes, and a vague shadow of dissatisfaction. He knew suddenly, the way he used to just “know” things about Francis, that his brother was talking about Madelaine again. “You love her.”

Francis flinched, then gave a feeble laugh. “You always could read my mind. Yeah, I do.”

It hurt, that sad, quiet statement of fact. It irritated the hell out of him that it should hurt so much, after all these years. “And she loves you,” Angel shot back. “Probably one of those sordid, heart-wrenching Thorn Birds kind of things. What do you do, lock eyes over the Communion wafer?”

“She’s not a Catholic.”

Angel frowned. It wasn’t an answer at all. He felt the anger coming back, prickling him. Now, he thought. Shut up now and you’ll be okay. But on the tide of the anger came the words, unstoppable, unchangeable. “What’d you do, help her through the rough times after I left?”

Francis’s face turned surprisingly hard. “After you left, she was all alone. Alex cut her off and kicked her out of the house. She needed somebody.”

“And there you were,” Angel said in a bitter, sarcastic voice.

“And there you weren’t.”

Angel winced. “Touché, big brother.”

Francis moved his chair closer. “What in God’s name did you expect her to do?”

Angel squeezed his eyes shut He refused to feel shame now, all these years later. It was a useless waste of time. She’d obviously done all right for herself.

“She believed in you, Angel,” Francis said quietly. “We both did.”

Shame tightened his stomach. “Yeah, well, life sucks. People let you down.”

“They also change and apologize and seek redemption.”

“Don’t give me that saintly crap. It’s too late for me to apologize or change, and redemption is way out of my reach. I think I’ll just stumble along as I always have.”

“You aren’t going to see Madelaine anymore, then?”

“She’s my doctor.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Angel’s gaze snapped up. “Quit beating around the bush, Franco. You don’t want me screwing her—that’s what you’re trying to say in that holier-than-thou way of yours, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want her hurt again. Madelaine is … fragile.”

Angel thought of the ball-buster who’d read him the riot act about his heart and laughed out loud. “Yeah, a real magnolia petal.”

“I mean it, Angel. It took her years to get over you last time. Don’t break her heart again.”

Angel laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry, pal. If anyone’s got a broken heart, it’s me.”

With a weary sigh, Francis pushed to his feet. “I’ve got a couples’ retreat in Oregon for the rest of the month. I could cancel if—”

“If I’m gonna die tomorrow? Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come back and see you when I get home. Unless you’re going to disappear again …”

Angel sighed. Already the anger was gone, faded back into insignificance next to the power of his love for his brother. Again he wished that he’d held back, that just once in his life, he’d had some self-control. “I’ll be here, Franco.”

“Good.”

Angel forced a pathetic smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, man. Thanks for coming.”

Francis looked down at him for a long, long time. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You’re always sorry.”

“Yeah,” Angel said softly, stung by the truth of it.