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Chrissy tried again to reach Jessica, but the call went to voice mail. Her lips pursed in concern. Generally, Jessica never let her messages go to voice mail unless she was asleep. It was already noon in London, so something important must have come up.
“Siri,” she said. “Call New York office.
“New York Office called.”
Marta Grayles, the office assistant who manned the New York office, wouldn't be in yet. The phone rang several times before the call shuttled to voice mail.
“Marta, this is Chrissy. Call me ASAP.”
She had another hour before Marta returned the call, which added to her aggravation of dealing with snarled traffic on the interstate that rolled toward the hospital. Her worry over her absent grandfather incited a bubbling simmer on her inflamed nerves. But the biggest thing on her mind was the subject she needed to broach with her family: that of one Anthony Parks and his marriage proposal.
How would they take this? Grandpa Serafini didn’t want the marriage now, after he’d insisted on it and then warned her away from Saks. Papa generally supported what Grandpa said, and her mother was always the good little Italian wife who kept her mouth shut.
Gloria would be ecstatic. She’d love any distraction from her goal of seeing Mario on the sly.
Chrissy’s phone rang. Because she had the phone propped on a dashboard phone holder, she spotted that the call came from the New York office.
“Can I speak to Christina Serafini?” said Marta. Ultra-efficient and her mannerisms frosty, Chrissy thought she could be a robot.
“Hi, Marta. This is Chrissy.”
“What can I do for you, Miss Serafini?”
“I’m trying to reach Jessica.”
“Pardon?”
“Jessica Saunders, my personal assistant. She’s filling in for me with Mr. Pearson while I take a few days off.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Serafini. I haven’t heard from Jessica Saunders.”
“What about Mr. Pearson?”
“It is not Mr. Pearson’s habit to call me personally, Miss Serafini,” she said crisply.
“Where does the schedule say Mr. Pearson is?”
Chrissy listened to the clicks of Marta’s keyboard, aching anxiety pulling at her gut while she waited.
“It says he’s in Milan with Turner Trower.”
Chrissy scrunched her nose. Trower canceled that meeting.
“Remind me. What’s Mr. Pearson’s next stop?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Serafini. The shared schedule does not have that information.”
Now Chrissy’s anxiety spiked. Pearson insisted she update the shared schedule daily. No way that information wasn’t on the schedule. “That’s unusual.”
“Do you want me to forward this call to Mr. Pearson’s private line? Perhaps there is something you should help him with.” Marta’s voice sounded snottier than usual.
“Please do,” Chrissy replied. What the hell? Marta apparently forgot who was her direct boss. Pearson had employed her before Chrissy, but Chrissy wouldn’t let Marta get away with disrespecting her.
But today wasn’t the day to take on the rigid Marta Grayles.
The dial tone cut off almost immediately.
“This is Pearson. Leave a message.”
Damn.
“Hi, Mr. Pearson. This is Chrissy checking in. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know how things are going.”
She hung up, frustrated and now extremely concerned. Somehow, some way, things weren’t right. Why couldn't she reach either Pearson or Jessica? That shouldn't be possible, not in the scheme of James Pearson’s rigid world.
Chrissy came to the junction of the two interstates that met in New Haven, and veered right. This was the least labyrinthine way to Yale Hospital, where her father was now resting. She navigated the heavy traffic on the off-ramp and the side streets to the hospital proper before pulling into the concierge line to have someone else find a place to park her car.
Someone else can park the damn car for me.
Her gut continued to roil uneasily as Chrissy clomped through the marble-floored halls until she pulled herself up short and huffed.
This was no way to greet her father.
She popped into the cafeteria and bought three cups of coffee and three breakfast sandwiches, and then added a few donuts. Whoever sat at her father’s bedside would be hungry.
What a good little Italian girl I am, making sure there’s food for everyone.
That was the problem, wasn't it? All her life other people had expected her to act in a certain way. And for just as long she’d struggled not to. Just like her reaction to Saks' proposal earlier, she went too far to declare and assert her rights. Too stubborn and independent, and insisted on paying for her own school, or a career, and running away with James Pearson instead of facing up to Saks and her parents... Instead of facing up to it herself.
No. It was difficult growing up the daughter of a crime boss. You can't cover that shit with frosting and call it a cake. She’d grown up in a house full of secrets and lies. Her father disappeared for strange stretches of time. People came at all hours of the night. Men brought in the injured or bleeding, who stayed mysteriously in the always-unoccupied maid's room off the kitchen. Her father's gun in the desk. The whispers of the other girls in the Catholic school.
“Don't be her friend. She's a Serafini.”
Who was she fooling? That's exactly who she was. All the college degrees and high-end jobs in the world wouldn't change that.
It wouldn't change her family.
Where the hell did she get the idea that she was too good for Saks? Maybe he didn’t have her education or her résumé, but at least he was honest about who he was. Unlike her.
He was so much more mature than her in all the ways that counted. It was immature and dishonest to keep secrets. It was time she grew up and told them about the truth of her and Saks, damn the consequences.
She ended up at her father’s room almost automatically. Chrissy was glad to see him awake and on the phone. He’d always been a huge talker, so it wasn’t much of a surprise.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said roughly. “Keep me up to date.”
Chrissy glanced at her mother, who had her head buried in a book, pretending not to listen to her husband’s obvious business call.
“Hi, Dad!” she said brightly.
“Chrissy,” he said with a wan smile. “How are you?”
“Fine, Dad. How are you doing?”
“Good. They had me up walking today. I’ll go home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’ll be fine. I’ll have all my girls around to help, won’t I?”
“Yes, of course, Dad. Have you talked to Grandpa?”
Her father scrunched up his face. “No. But I don’t expect to for a while.”
“Seriously, Dad? You’re in the hospital and your father isn’t here to see you?”
“Chrissy!” her mother said sharply.
“I don’t have a problem with it, young lady, so you shouldn’t either,” her father said. “Now, why don’t you see if the nurse will bring me a ginger ale, eh? My throat is a little dry.”
Chrissy held back her scoff. Her father always did this, sent her off on a little errand to derail a conversation.
“Sure, Dad. I’ll be right back.”
A nurse showed her the refrigerator with the drinks, and she brought one back to her father’s room. Chrissy slowed when she heard her mother speaking.
“She should know,” her mother said.
“No,” her father replied.
“Your father is out there—”
“Rose,” her father snapped. “It’s not up for discussion. She’s here and safe, isn’t she?”
“But for how long, Vince, huh?”
“Here you go, Daddy,” Chrissy sing-songed. She covered her embarrassment from eavesdropping with a too-cheery voice. She handed him the drink, but he waved her off.
“Mother,” he said to his wife, “help me with this bed. I need to sit up.”
“Of course.”
Chrissie watched, getting choked up as she watched her mother fuss over her father. Thirty years the two had been together, and they were always like this. They were interdependent, like the sun wouldn’t rise or set if they didn’t stand or sit next to each other. He waved for Chrissy to bring the soda.
“Thanks, Princess,” he said.
Chrissie bit her lip. He must have been hurting to fall back on his old nickname for her. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Anything for you, Dad.”
He took a sip of the ginger ale with a shaky hand, and gave it back to her. “Put it on the table.”
She did as he asked.
It shook Chrissy to see her father in this condition. She glanced at her mother’s eyes, and saw she was just as shaken. Oh, Rose Serafini kept that impassive mask that Italian women wore through adversity, but her fear was there in her eyes.
Questions loomed in her mother's eyes. Will he be okay? Get back his strength? Or will he be betrayed by his aging body?
There was nothing worse than watching your strong, capable parents laid low by the slow march of time and the inevitable problems of aging.
It was awful to contemplate that they wouldn’t always be there, that their lives would one day come to an end, just like hers would. It was difficult to imagine there could ever be a world without her parents in it.
How could she make this better for them? Aside from being a good daughter and not making trouble, there was nothing she could do. And she certainly couldn’t tell them about her and Saks.
“So, Chrissy,” her father said, jolting her from her thoughts, “tell me about this job of yours.”
