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FRANCESCA’S GRIN SPREAD when she saw Tommy. His blue eyes were curved into the familiar smile. Even in his black cassock—the constant reminder of his religious pledge—Francesca thought Tommy looked striking.
Stopping her car in front of St. Elizabeth’s, Francesca shifted to park and watched Tommy come down the steps. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Six on the nose.” Father Matthew slid his six-foot frame into the passenger seat. “You’re punctual. If I may say, and this is in no way meant as a sexist remark, but that’s a rarity for a woman.”
Turning on Rutherford, she said, “Maybe, I’m a rare woman.”
Tommy’s smiling eyes flicked to Francesca’s. “I hope Nick’s Burgers is as good as you say. I’ve been craving a burger since I called you this afternoon.”
“Then, you’re in for a treat.” Francesca pointed out the window. “Over there is Scott’s Garden Center. The best greenhouse for miles.”
The new owners had updated the sign. It was more colorful and larger now, but it still bore the SCOTT’S GARDEN CENTER name. Francesca gauged Tommy’s reaction when he aimed eyes out the window. Nothing.
“Good to know. I enjoy gardening. I’ll go as far as tooting my own horn and saying that I have quite the green thumb.”
“I know.”
“You do?” Father Matthew’s brows drew together, and that vertical crease between them she’d seen so many times before formed.
“You, ah, gave yourself away when you named, by their Latin names no less, many of the plants in my garden.”
“Are you telling me I need to stop showing off?” Father Matthew breathed the scent of her Chanel perfume flowing in the car. Sweet, memorable, he thought. It set off that nagging sense of familiarity he’d had since arriving in the city.
“I’m a pious girl. I’d never do that.”
His grin flashing Father Matthew took in the signs rolling by. Sidewalks teemed with crowds looking for good food and entertainment. There was a lineup at the Main Street Theater for the seven o’clock showing of Road to Rio with Bob Hope. Mamma’s Pizza and The Cave brimmed with diners. Tommy watched Mel’s Cleaners and The Shoe Repair shop roll by. It triggered that familiar nagging feeling in him.
“Do you dabble in gardening?”
“I mainly puttered with a friend of mine. He was a whizz in the garden. He owned Scott’s Garden Center.” Francesca gave each word separate weight but got no reaction from him. Francesca breathed in for calm as she turned onto Steeles. Traffic was heavy, and as much as she could have gone through the side streets, she insisted on following the same route she and Tommy often took. “He’s the one who introduced me to Nick’s Burgers.”
Father Matthew saw Francesca’s eyes turn melancholy. “He sounds like someone important to you.”
It’s you, she screamed in her head, but I can’t tell you because I’m afraid of scaring you away, and I can’t deal with that. Not right now. I need you, Tommy. I need you more than ever right now. “He was.”
“Was?”
“He enlisted and went overseas, and he ... changed. Everything changed.” Was the best way she could put it. “So much changed when he did. You know, after the war, nothing’s the same anymore.”
Father Matthew heard the bitterness in her tone and vowed to smooth those rough edges causing her so much pain. “I’m sorry, Francesca.”
“My friends call me Frankie, and you have nothing to be sorry about. It’s like you say, life is full of interruptions and complications.”
“It is, and I like Francesca.”
Francesca sounds exotic, European, sexy, Tommy had told her.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Tommy.”
“You called me Tommy the first time we met.”
“You look like him. And here we are,” Francesca said before he could get another word out.
“This looks and smells interesting,” he said, taking in the cool evening air painted with the scents of grilled meat and everything that was Nick’s Burgers. Above him, the awning with the string of colorful lights looked cheerily bright under the night sky. In the background, Nick, in his thick, Greek accent, called out orders to his cooks.
“Does it remind you of anything?” Francesca asked when she thought she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes.
When he said, “Yes, it does,” Francesca’s face flushed with excitement. “It reminds me of how much I’ve missed a good hamburger.”
Disappointment reached up and grabbed Francesca by the throat, but she forged on. “You grab us a table, and I’ll go put our order in.”
Several of the diners, parishioners of St. Elizabeth’s, waved at Father Matthew. He stopped at their tables, exchange sociable words. A young couple offered him their table as they rose to leave.
“Hamburger, onion rings, and a chocolate milkshake.” Father Matthew reached for an onion ring. “All favorites of mine.”
I know. “Mine too.” Francesca spread the food before them, set the tray aside. “How’s your hamburger?”
“It’s as good as you said it would be.” Father Matthew stared at her when a soft wind fluttered through her hair. A quick, flash of recall came at him but swiftly faded.
“Is something wrong?” Francesca asked when she thought she saw the same spark of recognition in his eyes she’d seen earlier.
“May I ask you something?” Father Matthew watched Francesca set her hamburger down and focus her attention on him. “Why did you come to see me on Thursday? I can’t help but think there was an underlying reason for your visit.” Tommy watched Francesca stiffen. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”
When he rested his hand on hers, Francesca’s brain staggered under his touch, and the flashing images burned into her memory came fast. She saw them watching the stars, digging her garden. She remembered their first kiss under the pouring rain. All the stuff that made her fall in love with him, blazed thought her mind. Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he summon up those same memories that to her were as vivid as if they happened yesterday?
Why couldn’t Tommy be there for her when she needed him most?
When Father Matthew saw Francesca’s eyes drifting, he said, “Francesca, please talk to me. You know whatever you say to me remains between us.”
“I, um, think I need to get you back to the church for your eight o’clock wedding rehearsal.”
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MISSY WALKED INTO THE LIVING ROOM, stopped in her tracks when she found Francesca in the same position she’d left her two hours ago. There, stretched out on the sofa, with Bear at her feet, the book on her lap opened. Her hair was tied into a messy ponytail, and her feet clad in furry, bunny slippers. She wore a faded sweatshirt twice too big and stonewashed jeans that had seen better days. It was as if she’d stop caring about herself and everything, Missy thought.
Francesca had been drifting aimlessly for the last couple of days, and Missy believed only divine intervention was going to get her back to the Francesca she knew. Missy hoped her mother’s plan did the trick.
“Mum wants you to join us in the kitchen for lunch, Frankie.” Missy smiled at Bear, who on hearing the word “lunch” sat on his haunches and pasted a goofy smile on his face. “Yes, you’re invited too. Just don’t get under Mum’s feet, or she’ll chase you out of the kitchen with her wooden spoon.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Mum’s not taking no for an answer.” Missy set to straightening the living room. “No, buts, and I say this will love, get your butt off the sofa and into the kitchen now,” Missy said, deciding tough love was what Francesca needed.
Francesca angled a look toward Missy. “I can see going to Sunday mass is doing a wealth of good for your manners.”
Missy’s smile turned sly. “I said it with much love, and Mum’s worried about you. As am I. All you’ve been doing since you got here is mope, brood, and feel sorry for yourself. It’s not like you to give up so easily, Frankie.” Missy set the discarded coffee, and untouched croissant on the tray wiped the coffee table clean.
“I have so much going around in my head right now, and I’m...”
“You’re what, Frankie?” Missy prodded when Francesca went silent.
“I’m scared, Missy.”
“Oh, Jesus! That bastard has you running scared.” Pity and anger swam into Missy’s eyes, and she rushed to chain arms around her.
“Don’t tell anyone. Especially not your mum. I couldn’t deal with the pitiful looks.” Francesca took a moment to steady her voice. “I’m scared, Missy, of what James will one day do to me.”
Missy took Francesca’s hand, noting the way it trembled. “I won’t say a word, but you need to go to the police, Frankie.”
“I can’t. They don’t deal with probability.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but, Frankie, you need to talk this out, get it off your chest. You need to figure out how you’re going to deal with that loser, sonofabitch, fucker of a husband. Again, all said with much love.”
“I know, and you know it isn’t so much that I can’t talk to you.”
“We’ve been over this. It doesn’t matter why. You need to talk to someone, Frankie. Promise me you will,” Missy said understanding Francesca’s reason for not opening up, came down to the self-inflicted shame, blame, embarrassment, and guilt battered women inflicted on themselves.
Missy understood Francesca’s refusal to admit what was happening to her wasn’t her fault. She’d faced the same form of denial from her mother until the day she gathered the strength to do what she should have done years ago, pack up the both of them to escape her father’s abusive hand and emotional control. Even now, years later, the guilt and shame her mother lived with was so ingrained in her psyche, she couldn’t bring herself to share her story with Francesca.
“I promise.”
“And as long as you’re here with us, you’re safe. Now, come to have lunch with the help. Some food in your tummy will make everything look sunny.” Missy held hands up in the air. “Mum’s words. Well, come on.”
Arguing reaching futile level, Francesca rose to follow Missy to the kitchen. Her heart slammed into her throat when she saw Father Matthew sitting at the table.
“It’s her lounging around look,” Missy said, gripping Francesca’s arm when she swirled to make her exit.
“It’s a good look on you.” Father Matthew’s lips curved slowly when he rose.
She must have looked a fright in the rumpled clothes and untidy hair, Francesca thought and rolled eyes with just enough temper at Missy. “No one told me we had a lunch guest.”
“It’s Father Matthew. He loves everyone, no matter their pitiable appearance. Isn’t that right, Father?” Missy shoved Francesca toward the table.
Father Matthew let out a hearty laugh. “I wouldn’t put it that way, Missy, but no, I’m concerned about your soul, heart, and mind, not your appearance, Francesca.”
Father Matthew was as charming and as entertaining as Francesca knew him to be. Minutes into the lunch, Francesca stopped feeling self-conscious about her appearance—one James wouldn’t approve of—and enjoyed the great food and excellent company.
“That was a wonderful meal,” Father Matthew said, finishing off his third helping of lasagna. A man could eat canned soups and ham sandwiches for only so long. He had to get himself a cook, Father Matthew decided.
“It’s our pleasure, Father. You’re welcome at our table anytime.” Mrs. Richards gathered the dirty dishes off the table, set them in soapy water. “Frankie, you and Father Matthew head into the living room. Missy will bring in a coffee and dessert tray.”
“Would you like something stronger than coffee?” Francesca motioned Father Matthew to the sofa, as she walked to the bar. “I’m having a brandy myself. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
“Why?” Father Matthew eased himself into the buttery-soft cushions of the sofa.
“You tell me.” Francesca reached for a snifter, poured brandy.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“I saw Mrs. Richards exchange a coded eye message with you.”
“On second thought, I’ll take that drink.”
“I thought so. So, are you going to tell me what that eye exchange with Mrs. Richards in the kitchen was about?”
Reaching for the handed glass, Father Matthew drank. “Missy and Mrs. Richards are worried about you. They didn’t say why, but they want me to speak to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing to worry about.” Francesca drained her glass.
“Sit down, Francesca. Please.” Father Matthew walked the bottle of brandy to the sofa, refreshed her glass. “Drink, all of it.” He encouraged, hoping to loosen her up. No one better than him knew people talked when their reserve was down, and noticing the marks of violence on Francesca’s face, she’d tried to hide under layers of makeup he wanted to get her talking.
“I want you to tell me about the cut on your cheek.”
Francesca’s eyes flicked out the terrace doors. A bold afternoon sun shone out of a dreamy blue sky. Rust, gold, and copper leaves fluttered in the crisp fall wind laced with a touch of the incoming winter. On the terrace, chrysanthemums popped from stone planters in rioting colors.
“How did you know?”
Father Matthew refilled. “Drink more.” Francesca started to object, but changed her mind and drank deep. “Is he all right?” He kept his eyes on Bear, who sat by the terrace door, staring up as if trying to communicate his thoughts.
“He wants to be let out. To do his business.” When she started to push to her feet, Father Matthew waved her down.
“I’ll do it.” Opening the door, he watched Bear hurtle across the terrace and disappear behind an elm tree.
“Did Missy tell you about my ... injury?” Francesca studied Father Matthew over the rim of her glass.
He shook his head. “I was in the war. Gashes, cuts, and injuries were par for the course and simple to spot.” Father Matthew’s mind unexpectedly flashed back to the man in his arms, the recognizable fear of death in the eyes that stared up at him.
“You remember being in the war?” Francesca jumped in to raise the subject she hadn’t known how to broach until then.
Francesca’s words shocked Father Matthew out of his thoughts. “We’re here to talk about you. Tell me about that cut, and don’t tell me you ran into a door.”
Francesca closed her eyes. For a long while, he waited for her to brush pride aside and open up. “My husband did it.” The moment she said the words, the heavy burden of guilt, fear, and anger, weighing her down, slid off her shoulders. “Do you want to know why?”
Father Matthew shook his head.
Eyes bright with the stimulation of alcohol, Francesca snapped, “First, you want me to talk openly, and when I finally do, you have no interest to know why?”
Blue eyes steady on heated eyes, Father Matthew, sat next to her. “I don’t need to know because there’s never a good enough reason to justify anyone, particularly your husband, the man who professed to love you ‘till death do us part,’ to lay a hand on you in harm.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize—for anything.” Father Matthew handed her a tissue. “Was this the first time he’s laid a hand on you?”
Francesca shook her head. She was through denying and protecting James, through feeling small, scared, and trapped. It felt liberating.
“What are you going to do about it? And I want you to know that whatever it is, I want to help you.”
“I don’t know.” Francesca thought of her father, his plans for James, of the people at Thompson and Associates, depending on her. She thought of Noah Mulligan. “It’s complicated.”
“Situations like these often are, but I believe there’s a solution to every problem and we, you and I, will find the right one because no one is laying a hand on you again. Not on my watch.” Father Matthew firmed his lips in steely determination.
It was Father Matthew before her, but it was Tommy who spoke the words because that was precisely what he’d say to her. If anyone could help her out of the toxic relationship, Tommy could. Feeling the surge of courage, Francesca went on to tell him everything.
She told him about Bora Bora—a restrained version. She told him about the Noah Mulligan case, and the anger that spewed from James the day he found out she was going up against him. Francesca explained how she couldn’t recuse herself from the case because she feared it would trigger more anger in James. All the while, she told her story he saw the flash of fear in her eyes, heard it in her voice.
“Is Mr. Mulligan innocent?”
“Yes, he is, and only I have a critical piece of information that I can’t share with anyone that will exculpate him,” she said without consideration for the solicitor-client privilege.
Blue compelling eyes stared blindly at Francesca. “Then, you must represent him. You must save an innocent man.” A flash of a man dying in his arms flared for seconds in his mind.
“Are you all right?” Francesca said when his eyes glazed with shock.
“Yes. You’ll represent Mr. Mulligan, Francesca, and you’ll win the case for him. You can’t in good conscience let an innocent man go to jail.”
“No, I can’t, but if I win, I’ll feed the demon in James, and God only knows what he’ll do.” The impetus that had brought on her confidence faded.
“The demon is my specialty.”
“I can’t win the case. I just can’t.”
Father Matthew read the terror in her eyes, and still, he said, “You can, and you will. It’s what you’re supposed to do as Mr. Mulligan’s attorney.”
“You don’t understand.” Francesca paced the room with nervous energy. “James is capable of killing. I’ve seen it in his eyes,” Francesca said, the talons of fear clawing through her gut.
